Bad Reception

"My arms are getting tired," Bill called out.
"Another two hours and our shift will be over. Hang in there." I'm tired of yelling encouragement to this crybaby.
I wasn't sure of the two hour estimate. It could be longer. Each homeowner makes his own rules. My guy, Wally, is a compassionate sort. Limits me to six hour shifts. Then Eunice climbs up and takes the second shift. I don't know who comes on after her, but Angelo has the fourth segment. He's usually half asleep when he greets me at 6AM., which is dangerous since we're perched on this slanted roof thirty feet above ground.
Bill is sobbing. Third day in a row. "Why me?" he keeps asking. I've given up trying to offer him solace. At least he's single. I've got a wife and three kids waiting for me to take them to games and shopping, all sorts of trips. My legs are killing me, but I have my responsibilities. Forty-two years old, an MBA, and look at me. Hours standing on this stupid roof holding an aerial so the lucky employed fellow below can get good reception. Praying we don't get a lightning storm. Damn recession, damn layoffs. I had my own office and a secretary, a six figure salary and stock options. Now I get two ten minute breaks and complaints from Wally that I'm not tilting this thing at the correct angle and his picture is flipping.
I scan the area, see the others, maybe twenty, all pointing their aerials at different angles, looking ridiculous. You can't keep saying you have to put food on the table. Nine-fifty an hour doesn't get you fillet of anything. At some point you have to stand up and be a man, display some pride, tell them where to stick their aerial. Maybe tomorrow. Oh boy. Bill just slid off and landed in some bushes. You break it, you pay for it. There goes a week's salary.