Don, Our TV Repair Man, Made House Calls by Anthony Buccino It was always a hoot when Don the TV repair man came around to fix our Motorola. You could keep your RCA with that little dog, he only sold Motorola brand TVs and stereos. |
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He drove a
red Ford panel truck that he likely bought new in 1955 or so. In the
1960s it didn't seem so old, but by the 1990s when he was still
tooling down the street, it tended to stand out against the minivans
and SUVs. It was eventually sold to a fellow in
Don
the TV man was huge, stocky and huge, especially since I knew him
from the time I could walk and he was already grown up. His arms
were ham hocks and his fists as big as boxing gloves, and yet he
handled the screwdrivers and the glass tubes without popping them
like a child's floating bubble.
His hair, jet-black and slicked
back, fit snugly under his beanie-like cap. He always had a cigar
that he chewed but didn’t smoke inside the house. And for all his
bulk and talk, he was the nicest guy you could ever pick to be on
your side.
He'd open up his heavy toolbox and
trays upon trays of boxes of parts and test tubes in cardboard boxes
shifted before him. They all said "Make In USA."
Removing the long, tiny
Phillips-head screws, Don the TV man would remove the vented
cardboard backing and set it down, then fiddle with one hand in the
back where glass tubes either lit up or didn't light up, wherein the
problem might lie, and in his other hand, extended to the front of
the set, he held a small vanity mirror to watch the screen.
When I was older, sometimes he let
me hold his flashlight as he jiggled tubes, pulling some out and
switching some, or turned a knob to see "what it looks like now."
Just when you thought he had the
problem licked and we could go back to watching our regularly
scheduled program, Don the TV man would day, "time for a break."
Dad would leave the room, apparently
in mid story, and reappear with glasses and a bottle of Scotch.
Before putting the bottle or the glasses down on the table, Dad
would point out the pencil mark and date on the side of the bottle
from the last time Don the TV man visited.
Don the TV man would fill the shot
glass and continue with his story. He knew everything and if the job
was big enough, he'd tell you everything about everybody.
He knew which politicians were
crooked and all the places the mob took over, and could tell you how
this guy was hooked up with that guy and how they got away with
every thing they did.
But Don the TV man was a working
stiff. He knew he'd have to work forever because all the crooks and
politicians were going to steal the Social Security and leave the
honest hard-working people with nothing. We were always happy to get Don the TV man to fix our TV. He worked in the days before everyone had answering machines.
In fact,
he never answered his phone. Lucky for us we knew where on
Otherwise, we'd call on one of his
brothers to tell Don the TV man we needed him to come by because our
Motorola was acting up again.
Then, late one evening after pining
for days about the rolling picture or the ghosts on Channel 2, about
when we'd all but forgotten, Don the TV man would call to make sure
we were home.
In those days our family never went
to a store to buy a TV or hi-fi stereo, we got them from, yeah, you
guessed it, Don the TV man.
And all those TVs, those beautiful,
expensive black and white TVs all came in beautiful, real wood
cabinet that then became the most stylish, up-to-date article of
furniture in the house.
Long after Don the TV man
semi-retired, I'd still have him take a look at one of my newer sets
before tossing it. He was the last resort after we tired of slapping
the side of the set to get it to go back to normal. Some times we'd
get a few more years out of it. Or he'd tell us it was shot. Those times I'd bring it to his
house and we'd sit around chewing the fat over a few cold ones. Then
it would be the same when I came back to pick up the set. Over a few
beers he'd tell me how he had to run around for the part they don't
make anymore and how much it cost him – he couldn't believe the
prices. It was always good to catch up on who the crooks were and
how the country was doing.
The Ciccolini who sells me my TVs
these days is pleasant enough, but it's just the brilliant picture,
the tech sheet, cable, remote, the delivery schedule, and the credit
card. There's no tubes, no glasses, no bottle of Scotch, and I never
get to hold the flashlight anymore. From Greetings from Belleville, New Jersey, Collected writings by Anthony Buccino Don the TV Man .... in Old Belleville first published on Belleville-Nutley Patch, June 27, 2011
C& D Appliances, Charlie and Don (Julius and Eugene) Mosior, brothers who grew up next door to the author's dad on Gless Avenue in Belleville, N.J. Charlie handled the washers and Don the TVs. "Charley's' Washing Machine Shop" and the brothers are mentioned more than a few times in WW2 Letters Home from the South Pacific by Angelo Buccino Read more: |
ANTHONY'S WORLDAnthony Buccino
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