The sun glared at everything but the narrow patches of shade cast by the rowhouses. He coughed as the sweet dust of Mik-Mik clung to his throat, the sachet now empty. His father appeared, grinning so broadly he nearly skipped, trailed by a roving vendor hauling rooftop antennas.
His mother sensed the disturbance at once. She stepped outside, rolled her eyes (with such force that a few light objects followed), then slammed the front door. His father dashed inside to plead his case.
In their conservative Southeast Asian household, every luxury purchase sparked a lengthy debate. Fortunately, there was no furniture smashing or china-ware break-fest this time.
Excitement washed over him as his father reappeared—clearly exhausted but satisfied. New channels meant more people on screen, not just the two fuzzy figures he’d barely recognized.
His father went straight to the vendor to haggle, standard protocol when the product lacked a barcode. It got ugly fast. Voices rose in a battle between the vendor’s vanishing profit margin and his father’s legendary cheapness, all to preserve the fragile tranquility beneath his mother’s looming wrath. His father crawled to the finish line, refusing to budge even though he knew the opposition held something that could easily be swung at someone.
The vendor finally conceded (maybe from sheer vocal exhaustion), and they settled on a discounted price. His father grabbed a box, shoved it into his hands, and ordered him to install it before even paying. He was surprised but took it anyway, thinking this might be his only contribution to the new channel crusade.
It took his father thirty minutes to convince him he wouldn’t fall, and another thirty to promise there’d be no electricity involved as long as it didn’t rain. He only wished the whole discussion hadn’t happened out front, where the neighbors could hear every word.
Hoping it was worth it, he climbed barefoot using the grills on the side of their house. No ladders, ropes, nets, prayers, good-luck taps, or signed insurance forms. Just his uneven balls and the drive to claim the digital entertainment he deserved. Anything but playing with snot or aimlessly shouting outside with the other unfortunate kids who had nothing better to do.
Climbing up was easy until he looked down. It felt like entering a pitch-dark tunnel. With every step forward, the way back narrowed behind him. When he reached the edge of the roof, he realized it was his first time that high and instantly added falling to his terror list. Leaving his slippers behind wasn’t smart either. The heat made it feel as if his soles were melting into the roof, and there was no butter to keep them from sticking.
His father climbed up to hand him the slippers (having seen his agony), the antenna (already wired to a long cable from the TV), plus some rolled metal wires and pliers. Then he climbed back down and walked a few meters away to get a better angle for shouting instructions.
He remembered his father once saying he was ecstatic to have a son. Now he understood why. He wore the wire around his neck, gripped the antenna in one hand and the pliers in the other. They weren’t heavy, but he knew one wrong move could turn him into a six o’clock news story.
He moved slowly away from the edge. Sweat blurred his vision and slicked his palms and feet, making each step harder. The rust helped with traction, along with the thrill of possibly needing a tetanus shot. His father shouted for him to step only where there were nails, to make sure he was walking on beams and not triggering some hidden Mario World tunnel that would drop him into the boss level, their living room, where his vicious mother awaited. He was pretty sure his father cared more about roof damage than his neck, especially since he kept yelling how hard and expensive it would be to fix a broken roof.
He felt safer when he reached the middle, where a metal rod protruded from the structure, installed when the house was built. It was an old architectural feature anticipating a technology regression, the belief that people could survive a few more decades without cable. He slotted the antenna in and tied it to four metal wires anchored to nails to keep it upright.
He adjusted its position based on the TV quality his father called out. It took him another hour, because he wasn’t exactly skilled with pliers, wires, heights, or following instructions.
By the time his father was satisfied with the channel reception, it was nearly dark. Halfway down, he realized it was harder than going up. Still two meters high, he couldn’t reach one of the ledges he’d used earlier. He hung there for a moment, thinking. He could hear the new programs already playing inside, so he chose the fastest way down. By jumping. Ignoring gravity, inertia, common sense, and the Republic Act of Childhood Care.
He landed on his feet, curled on the ground, and hissed every curse word his young mind could summon while clutching his toes. After a few seconds, he gritted his teeth and limped inside, only to find his father already lounging with his feet up on the center table, laughing at the new people on the TV.