One Bad Copier
We have a Toshiba E-studio 45 photocopier
on the 5th floor. It sorts, staples, prints double sided
paper, and does one hell of a Clint Eastwood
impression. Forged from steel smelted in Hell itself,
that thing is one BAD MOTHERFUCKER.
On an average day, I walk up to the copier, arms loaded
down with invoices, magazine articles and books.
I slap a couple pages down on the platen glass and hit
COPY. The Toshiba lurches. A low hum
rumbles in the background. The machine grits its teeth,
adjusts its hat, and sneers.
"It’s a HELL of a thing making PHOTOCOPIES.
It takes away all my TONER. Everything I’ve got. Everything
I’ll ever HAVE."
The copier spits a salty wad of tobacco on my boots.
Looks like we're in for a fight. I punch a few buttons.
Nothing appears to be wrong. Maybe if I use someone else's
access code this damn thing will fire.
Without warning, the panel on the front of the copier
lights up like a prison break. Sirens belch out piercing
screams. The dead rise from their graves to see what all
the commotion is about. There's a paper jam.
"Now I'm jammed. There's a GODDAMNED PAPER
JAM! I knew I couldn't trust you! I told the chief you
were GREEN!"
Sweat begins to bead up on my forehead. I've gotta get
these invoices down to accounting before the mail goes
out YOU PIECE OF CRAP! You're worn out old man. Your time
is up! You're last year's model and you can't keep up
the pace!
The great machine lurches forward. A cloud of dust begins to rise from underneath.
"I'm faster than you'll ever be PUNK, and
I don’t like being spoken to in that tone of voice. Opinions
are like assholes;
everybody’s got one. So just take your papers and get
the HELL out of here!"
The force knocks me backwards. I stumble into the filing
cabinets behind me. The corner of the cabinet tears my
shirt like legal paper.
"Listen to him, he's crazy!"
The electric stapler screams at me over my left shoulder--but
I don't hear the warning. The stapler's mouth is stuffed
with bent staples.
"He's one crooked COPier!"
The Toshiba builds enough steam for full-on rage. "This
is a Toshiba E-Studio 45. The most powerful copier in
the world. From this range, I could blow your head CLEAN
OFF."
How could a copier blow my head clean off?
"Don't tempt him! He's fucking crazy man!
He'll do it--"
The stapler explodes in a hail of sparks.
"You just killed an unarmed stapler!"
"The son of a bitch should have ARMED himself,"
the Toshiba sneers.
"But he was just a stapler! How can you do that?
How can you kill a DEFENSELESS stapler like that?"
"I'll see him in HELL. He can settle the
score with me there."
Another wad of tobacco lands on my feet.
At this point my boss walks by. What's going on? Copier
jammed again? "Copiers have a nasty habit of getting
jammed around you, don't they DAUB? Just wait till the
MAYOR hears about this. You're a LOOSE CANNON DAUB!"
The mayor? What? This isn't a movie. This is my office.
I don't know the MAYOR.. I’m not a loose cannon! I just
want to copy some invoices.
My boss walks away shaking his head.
Now I’ve gottta get this jam cleared and fast. Hyperventilating, I open the manual feed door, clear the jam, return the door. What do I do next?
The keypad is black as death.
"What do I do next?" I mutter aloud.
"What?" the copier asks.
"After I remove the paper, WHAT DO I DO THEN?"
"Then….. Then, you LIVE
with it."
Epilogue
Sometimes, I imagine myself with a full bucket of water.
I power up the 45, open the top and slowly pour the entire
contents down through the machine's crackling circuitry,
laughing like a madman.
Then I remember, what the beast would probably
say.
That's why I often make my copies on 4th floor.
