Television Tumble

The late afternoon sun hung low over the university town of Arcata, casting long shadows from the four-story Arcata Hotel. I stood outside the entrance, waiting for my buddy Jake to pick me up for work.

The air smelled faintly of jasmine from the planters nearby, and the hum of traffic mixed with the occasional chirp of a sparrow. My knapsack rested by my feet, and I was thumbing a newspaper when the world turned upside down.

A piercing shriek cut through the air–followed by a crash that made my heart lurch. I looked up just in time to see a full-sized tube television hurtling out of a fourth-floor window, its power cord flapping like a useless tail.

It spun end over end, glinting in the sunlight, and I froze, my brain screaming to move, but my legs refusing to obey. The TV smashed into the pavement not two feet away, exploding into a mess of plastic, glass, and sparking wires. Shards skittered across the sidewalk.

“Holy—!” I yelped, stumbling backward.

My heart pounded like a drum, and I stared at the wreckage, trying to process what had just happened. A small crowd—hotel staff, a couple of guests, and a guy with a delivery clipboard—gathered nearby, all gaping at the scene.

From the window above, a woman’s voice bellowed, “And STAY OUT, you cheating piece of trash!”

I craned my neck to see a figure leaning out of room 403, her silhouette framed against the curtains. She was middle-aged, with wild, tangled hair and a bright red bathrobe that flapped in the breeze. Her face flushed, and she was shaking her fist at the sky like she was cursing the gods themselves.

“Ma’am, please.” a nervous voice called from inside the room—probably a hotel employee trying to calm her down. “You can’t throw things out the window. Someone could’ve been hurt.”

“Someone should be hurt!” she roared back. “That TV was his precious baby, and I hope it’s in as many pieces as my heart!”

I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the delivery guy, who muttered, “Man, she’s lost it.”

The hotel’s front door burst open, and the manager, a wiry man named Grayson, sprinted out. His tie was askew, and his face was a mix of panic and exasperation.

“Is everyone okay?” he shouted, scanning the crowd. His eyes landed on me, standing closest to the wreckage. “Tom, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice shook. “Just…nearly got flattened by a TV, though.”

Grayson winced, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I am so sorry. This is—unprecedented. Please, come inside, we’ll get this sorted.”

Before I could respond, the woman in 403 leaned out again, now holding what looked like a lamp. “You tell that no-good snake I’m not done yet!” she yelled, waving the lamp menacingly.

“Ma’am, put the lamp down!” Grayson shouted, his voice cracking.

He turned to a bellhop who’d just jogged up. “Call the police, now. And get maintenance to block off this area.”

The bellhop nodded and darted back inside while Grayson muttered, “Why did I take this job?”

I couldn’t help but ask, “Who is that up there?”

Grayson sighed, glancing up at the window. “That’s Mrs. Clara Henshaw. Checked in two days ago with her husband. Apparently, she just found out he’s been… less than faithful. She’s been screaming about it since noon, but I didn’t think she’d—well, do this.”

As if on cue, Clara’s voice rang out again. “Forty years, Harold! Forty years, and you throw it away for some floozy in Fortuna?!”

The lamp sailed out the window, landing in a shrub instead of on anyone’s head. The crowd gasped, and I took a few more steps back, just in case.

“She’s got a hell of an arm,” I said, half-impressed, half-terrified.

Grayson shook his head. “She’s got a hell of a temper. I need to get up there before she tosses the minibar next.”

Just then, Jake’s beat-up truck pulled up to the curb, and he leaned out the window, grinning. “What’s with the junkyard? You tossin’ out TVs now?”

I pointed at the shattered remains. “Not me. Crazy lady in 403. Nearly took my head off.”

Jake whistled, eyeing the wreckage. “Damn, dude. You always find the drama. Hop in before she starts chucking microwaves.”

I grabbed my bag, still glancing up at the window. Clara was now arguing loudly with someone inside, her voice carrying snatches of “divorce papers” and “you’ll regret this.” As I slid into Jake’s car, sirens wailed in the distance, and I saw Grayson sprinting back into the hotel, probably praying for a miracle.

“Think she’ll be okay?” Jake asked as we pulled away.

“Sounds like she’s got enough fire to burn through this,” I said. “Her ex, though? He’s gonna need a new TV.”

I laughed, the adrenaline finally fading, but I couldn’t shake the image of that TV plummeting toward me—or Clara’s furious silhouette against the sky.

The Arcata Hotel wouldn’t forget this day anytime soon, and neither would I.