I hate photocopiers

I always approach photocopiers with fear. From my very first experience as a young, 50 dollar-a-week typist, who snarled up the office photocopier so badly that the technician had to be called, to my most recent this week as a substitute teacher, they have humiliated me. They have spat back at me, resisted my efforts to coax mangled bits of important documents out of their jaws, and sat in stony silence when I was rushing to meet deadlines. Yes I hate them and, like a dog who senses fear from a stranger, they seem to bristle at my approach.

My worst experience with that infernal invention was when I was beautifully dressed for a presentation at a large college store I managed. The dress was a particular favorite; my sister had willed it to me. As she was dying she had said, “Look, I just spent $1,000 on new clothes before I got ill. I really would rather have you wear the duds than have them donated to Goodwill and have some bimbo wearing them.” My sister was practical and opinionated, even in her waning days. So I picked through her closet and this dress immediately caught my eye. A soft pearl grey cotton with tiny white dots. Big puffy sleeves, a narrow self-belted waist and gored skirt. When I put it on I felt a little of my sister’s fairy princess magic; she had always been the blonde Cinderella while I had clumped along behind her like one of the ugly stepsisters.

So there I was that morning in my Cinderella mode, about to go and wow them (I hoped) at a motivational breakfast. First, however, I had to copy my speech notes; Cinderella still had chores to do before she could go to the ball. I hurried into the copy room. This was not going to be a difficult encounter, I told myself. No single sided to double sided, no collating or stapling. Just three little pages. I loaded the feeder and pressed the button. Silence. No whirring, no papers moving. I looked at the display message, “Put toner in.” Toner, oh great. I looked at the sheets; was there a way I could get around this? But, no, to give a professional presentation, I needed handouts. So I reached for the bottle of black dust, opened the drawer and uncapped the bottle. Whether the machine really did have a malevolent spirit, I don’t know. I don’t really know what happened in the next few moments. All that I do know is that the bottle tipped forward and the black dust scattered all over the front of my lovely dress, all over my hands. And, like Cinderella in front of the fireplace, I was no longer ready for the ball. I looked every inch the scullery maid and my dress was ruined. And the photocopier settled back, satisfied that it had once again put me in my place.