The Cord

I’d like to tell you all a story, a story I like to call “The Cord.”  Our story begins months ago, innocently enough, when I decided to start having movie nights in the municipality’s auditorium.  The auditorium is a lovely space—stage at the front, twelve rows of tiered seating sloping up towards the door.  Each seat is cushioned in pleather, and each seat folds up and is accompanied by its own small table that conveniently folds up into the armrest.  It is space that was built using community funds, and by god, it should be used by the community.  So I submitted a solicitude for the use of the auditorium, kindly received permission from my health post to use their projector, and bada-bing bada-boom, I was in business. 

On the day of the first movie night, I arrived early, in order to smooth out whatever kinks were sure to appear.  My laptop connected to the projector, both power cords worked, and my little external computer speakers just managed to bring the words, music, and laughter of the movie in question to all the corners of the auditorium. 

That is, until the children arrived.

You see, the largeness of the space and the smallness of my speakers requires near absolute silence in order for the sounds of the film to not turn into unintelligible mush. And absolute silence is literally impossible for a large group of children under the age of ten to maintain.  I spent a good part of the movie night walking through the aisles, shushing as I stepped.  I had to pause the movie several times in order to get the decibel level to a mildly human level.  I left the auditorium that night dismayed.  Did the children not understand that the point of a movie night was not in fact to bother your neighbors, play on your parents borrowed cell phone, and otherwise disturb the peace?  To add insult to injury, the movie I had shown was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—a film that to many of my generation is damn nearly holy.  Sacrilege, that is what I had witnessed that evening in the auditorium.  Nothing but blatant disrespect for the story of the boy who had lost everything, except his ability to love. And magic thrown in to boot!

Much as I wanted to end movie night then and there, I knew I couldn’t.  Too many children had been thrilled by the prospect.  They were not turned off by the progressively deafening voices—Huantar at long last had a movie theater, an activity to do in the evenings, a way to wile away the hours.  Who was I to now take that away?

I should now mention that the auditorium comes equipped with four large, professional quality speakers.  The problem was that they were not connected to anything.  A rather complicated soundboard could also be found on the premises, but it too connected to nothing but air (and a direct line to my fantasies).  Nonetheless, there was a light at the end of this hellish tunnel.  I just needed to find someone who knew how to fit all the pieces together.

So as the next week rolled around, I put my determination cap on (much more useful than a thinking cap for these situations) and marched into the municipality. I started with the Gerente de Servicios Sociales.

“Elida, do you know how to connect the speakers in the auditorium,” I asked politely

“Ay, no Keisi, you should ask the Gerente Municipal,” she replied.

The Gerente Municipal. The man in charge of the actual running of the municipality (excepting the mayor’s secretary of course, who actually runs the municipality).  I knocked on his door.

“Excuse me, sir? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

He graciously invited me in and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Well sir, it’s a simple matter really.  I’ve recently started showing movies for the youth of Huantar and I was wondering if someone could connect the speakers for me?”

Relief played across his face as he realized I wasn’t asking for money.  “But of course!  Hugo’s your man.  Talk to Hugo.”

My next step was clear.  I needed to figure out who was Hugo and then find him.

I found Hugo by the next afternoon.  We happened to cross paths and I asked him if he knew where Hugo was.  I presented my dilemma and he set off to find Yan.  Yan apparently is the guy who actually knew how to connect the necessary cords.  Yan was twining them together in a jiffy and that is when I realized we faced yet another dilemma.  Enter the cord.

“Yan, do you know if there is a cord to connect my laptop to the soundboard?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure there’s one around.  When do you need it by?”

“This afternoon?  The movie starts at five.”

“Sure, sure.  I’ll have it all set up for you.”

And sure enough, at 4:45 pm, I walked into the auditorium to a capably set-up sound system, with the cord in question coiled up and waiting for me.

And oh what a movie night it was!  The volume was loud enough that children could talk to their friends without bothering another soul—particularly the most important soul in the room, and more specifically the patience of that soul—my soul.

The movie ended and I collected my things, leaving, per Yan’s instructions, the cord neatly coiled for him to pick up tomorrow.

Next week’s movie night rolled around, and, whistling a merry tune*, I strolled into the municipality to find disaster.  The speakers were once again unplugged and the cord was nowhere in sight.  Don’t panic I told myself.  This can be fixed.  I just need to find Yan.

But Yan was nowhere to be found.  The cord, which he had told me he had borrowed from the almacen, was not in the almacen.  The man in charge of the almacen, Lincoln (who has never particularly liked me), had no idea where it was.  All he knew was that it had not been returned.

With time running out, I was left with no other option but to start movie night, without the speakers.  And once again, I was called upon to patrol the aisles, shushing with the fury of a hundred librarians.

This would not do.

I returned the next week to question Lincoln further.  Had the cord returned?  No. Well, did he know who had it?  Yan, was his best guess.  I hunted Yan down, no easy feat as either no one has his phone number, or no one wants to give me his phone number.  At last I found him walking down the street, and, bobbing behind like a determined duckling, I tried to get to the bottom of the matter. Where was cord?  No idea.  Well, had he returned it?  Yep.  Then who had it now?  I’d be better off asking Lincoln. (Fun Fact. I learned a new verb through the course of this conversation.  Repartir.  It means distribute.)  I returned to Lincoln, with, I regret to say, a slightly petulant and accusatory tone creeping into my voice.

“Yan says you were the last to have the cord.”

He stared at me.  I stared back.  I wanted that cord, and I wanted it bad.

“Well, maybe the high school has it.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure they have it.  The municipality gave them a bunch of computer stuff.  Gave it to the student body president.”

A new lead!  Like a bloodhound on the scent I made my way to the high school.

I asked the principal if he knew where the cord was.  He plead ignorance of all matters.  I said that the municipality told me they gave the computer and its accessories to the student body president.  Well, I had better ask her then, he said.  Using the school schedule we tracked her down to her home ec class.  Single-mindedly I knocked on the door, politely asking her professor if I could borrow her for just a moment.  She came out and, mercilessly, I pounced.

“Hi Santa. How are you?  Good, that’s great. Me, I'm doing good. Listen, I’m really sorry for pulling you out of class, but I think you have a cord that I need…”

She told me she had given the computer and all its accessories to the principal.  So back we went to the principal’s office.  Ah, he now suddenly remembered, that computer.  Well, the computer teacher was put in charge of all that business.  Quickly we scurried up a flight of stairs to the computer teacher’s classroom.  The computer?  Yes, he knew where the computer was.  It was downstairs, in the room next to the principal’s office.  He’d be down as soon as his class was over, to get the key from the principal for us.

We walked back down and decided to ask the principal ourselves.  “Where was the key?” we demanded.  “Key?” he asked innocently.  "I don’t have that key.  The computer teacher has that key." 

It was all utter and complete madness.  A quiet voice in my head began to whisper, “Conspiracy…conspiracy….”

The computer teacher at last joined us.  He too claimed to have no key.  By this time, a large group of students had gathered around us.  The computer teacher reached to the badge around his neck and took it off.  It was clear he planned to swipe the lock through the crack in the door. 

“Turn away!” he implored of his students.  “Don’t do this at home!”

But the badge did nothing.  The lock was too strong.

It was at this moment that the principal rejoined us, with, magically, the key in his hand.  I was too relieved to press the issue.

At long last I had gained entrance to the computer and its accessories.  But I as tore through the boxes it became quite clear that I had been misled.  There was no cord hidden within its depths.

Enraged, or at least mildly pissed off, I returned to the municipality and to Lincoln, who I was beginning to consider my enemy by this point in our tale. 

“It’s not at the high school,” I pronounced. 

“Hmmm, well, then I don’t know where it is,” he replied, making it clear that this was solely my concern.

The trail was cold.  I could hardly interrogate each and every resident of Huantar and the surrounding caserios. There was nothing left for me to do but try and endure the increasing hell that was movie night.  Which is exactly what I did, until this Tuesday.

Because this Tuesday I noticed that the high school’s soundboard was being stored in the same classroom where I taught my sex ed classes.  And the soundboard had an awful lot of cords attached to it.

You see where I’m going.

THE CORD!  There, resting innocently, having no idea of the anguish and heartache it had caused, lay that godforsaken cord. A cord I wanted nothing more of than to forget, if not for the fact that my peace of mind was inexplicably tied to its fate.

I rushed to the principal’s office.  “I need to borrow a cord.”

And just like that, the cord was mine.  Mine to use, mine to plug in, mine to revolutionize movie night with!

Just as it had before, the cord changed everything.  The movie’s plot was understood and accepted by all.  The children all laughed when it was funny, they cried when it was sad, they gasped when it was scary.  It was all that great theater should be.

So encouraged was I that I decided to hold another movie night the very next night.  I was mad with glee. That next night I made my way to the auditorium.  I plugged in my laptop and the projector.  I connected the two and, of course, my laptop to the soundboard.  My final step was to plug in the soundboard into the wall.  To give power, electricity, FIRE, to the whole production.

Do you see where I’m going?

Nothing happened.  The soundboard, that had served so brilliantly just the night before, lay quiet.  No lights illuminated its screen.  No faint buzzing was heard whispering from the speakers along the wall.  And worst of all, no sound of the movie could be heard.

Desperately, I flicked the on and off switch.  Any second now, I assured myself, any second now it’ll turn on.  Any second now, you’ll awaken from this fresh nightmare.

But it was not to be.  The power cord to the soundboard was the same as the one to the projector.  I switched them, and lo behold, now the projector lay quiet as the soundboard and speakers awoke with light and sound. 

Woefully, I switched the cords again.  The movie once again covered the wall, but the words, so carefully chosen by the screenwriter years ago, could be scarcely heard over the rioting of the small heathens come to watch.  Once again, I was prowling the aisles.  I was a madwoman, confiscating cell phones, thwacking repeat offenders on the head with a pad of paper. I had been driven to this point, to becoming this shadow of my normally cheerful self, by the knowledge that this tale had grown, had doubled, in fact.  It had become the story of “The Cords."

 Besos!

* This is a blatant fabrication.  I can’t whistle a tune to save my life.