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He was such a kind man,
Frank. It's no wonder Kinko's had hired him. And then Jim saw
it. His eyes happened to wander to the waist of Frank's Levi's,
and there, just below the edge of his brown sweater, Jim saw a
paperback edition of Sons and Lovers sticking out of Frank's
cheek pocket.
"Well, I was lonely, like I said, so
I . . . now this might seem a bit odd to you—"
"Wait. Let me guess. You're bored. Not
a single customer for hours.  You
got the Sanyo running on auto-pilot. So what do you do? You whip
out a bottle of Liquid Paper, unscrew the cap and start sniffing.
A cheap high, but a high nonetheless. Before you know it you're
leaning on the Sanyo, huffing away. The store starts spinning.
You fall to the floor and on the way there you drop the bottle
of white-out, which falls onto the Sanyo's copyboard glass, spilling
its contents into her mechanism."
Jim thought for a moment. His universe
rested on his response. "Yes. That's it. That's it exactly."
Frank straightened, his visage unaffected
by Jim's admission. "I'll be honest with you. This isn't the first
time I've seen it happen."
"So, you're not mad?"
"Listen, when you're in my line of work,
you can't take these things personally. Accidents happen. It's
not like you meant to foul up the machine."
Jim relaxed. Of course not.
"What do you say we go home and sleep
on this thing? Things like this have a strange way of fixing themselves.
You'll see."
Jim nodded, his watery throat keeping
him from speaking.
Later that night, Jim's thoughts tormented
him: "How selfish I am to accuse Frank of behaving savagely, when
it is I who have been acting like a heathen. Despite our single
night together, is not my knowledge of Sanyo of a purely physical
nature? Could I have examined Sanyo the way Frank was able? I
can't even clear her of a simple paper jam!"
The Kinko's training program seemed ridiculous
to him now. He had been taught only what was needed to fulfill
the most essential of Sanyo's needs — how to add paper ("fan
and stack"). Sure, he could manipulate the control panel with
the best of them. But the control panel merely indicated the state
the machine was in, akin to reading a woman's face versus soothing
her weary soul. How like a man he had acted! He could control,
but not repair. Jim had to face it. He simply had not committed
himself to the machine.
Jim walked to work the next morning with
a newfound purpose in his step. He strong-armed the Kinko's front
door like a running back.
"Em, get Frank on the horn."
"The what?"
"The phone."
"Get who on the phone?"
"Frank. The repair representative."
"What are you doing here? You're not
even scheduled to work today."
Jim stayed up late that night reading
the manual Frank had given him. "My God," he whispered when he
read the description of Sanyo's "friction-air-cushion/vacuum-paper-withdrawal
mechanism" which operated in three stages: 1) A gentle puff of
air aimed at the edge of the incoming-paper stack served to separate
the lowest sheets, while 2) two rubber-coated rollers at the paper's
sides pulled the paper forward, after which 3) a vacuum drew in
just enough air to ensure that only a single piece of paper had
been extracted, leading to 4) a third roller spun and snagged
the separated lowest sheet, drawing it deeply into the machine.
By the time he got to page 542, Jim had
unzipped his fly and sat erect on his knees, holding himself.
Such a sweet, sublime and sensitive thing is love, he thought
to himself as he tugged, masturbating to the blueprint. The elegance
of form, the mastery of science: it was enough to make Jim come
a second time.
On page 787, Jim shrieked in horror,
"No! There must be a better way!" With time, the mechanism used
to raise and lower the paper exit tray would wear down. The rubber
belt that controlled it was recklessly notched at 3/4 inch intervals
and that simply meant trouble. It was inevitable: the machine
would break down. Something must be done.
Jim was already throbbing the next morning
as he opened the store. In his haste, he ran to the copier, clumsily
removing his pants along the way. Kicking off a shoe, then another
shoe, then yanking off a sock. He pressed Sanyo's power button
playfully with the tip of his penis and the machine lit up. Almost
immediately, the red "ERROR 7" light came on. Jim remained undaunted.
He turned the machine back off and ran into the supply closet
to get some tools.
Jim opened Sanyo's panel A, lightly brushed
and vacuumed loose toner and cleaned the Corona Charge Wire Assemblies
with moistened Q-tips and loving puffs of air.  He
was giving Sanyo what she wanted. He rejuvenated the heated Fuser
Rollers with Isopropanol-soaked wipes, then scoured the hardened
toner buildup from the underside of the paper pick-off fingers.
He lubricated the scanner shaft, slide rails and copyboard pads.
They glistened. He tightened the transport belts until they hugged
her gears snugly and performed true. He replenished the fuser
oil and developer, replaced the machine drum cleaning blade, the
upper fuser roller, two roller shaft bearings and the heater lamp.
Lastly, he wiped down the copyboard glass and swabbed the lenses,
even going so far as to slide the exposure lamp assembly aside
in order to inspect the undersides of each optical mirror.
The pivotal moment had arrived. Jim pressed
the on button. The machine whirred. A yellow light flashed: "Warming
Up . . . Recovering From Shutdown" Sanyo clicked and sputtered.
Jim heard a single crack as if something had snapped and broke
out in a thin sweat. Suddenly, CLICK CHICK KACHANG CANK WHOO SHUP
KATICATACK! Shave and a haircut — two bits! The indicator
light burned a steady green. A message flashed: "Ready to Copy."
"Sanyo. My sweet Sanyo," Jim moaned.
All the pleasures that had been revealed to him! He stepped on
a chair and climbed on top of Sanyo, so that his knees straddled
the machine.
He could feel Sanyo's internal fans and
vacuums, alternately puffing and sucking as she tried in vain
to copy a piece of paper that Jim teasingly held just out of her
reach. He yearned to get inside Sanyo, not just to rub against
her exterior, but to be in her, to penetrate the copyglass barrier
that kept them apart, to experience the movement of her belts.
Most of all, Jim wanted to touch the machine drum — the forbidden
part — and not just to touch it, but to stroke it, to feel
it rotating beneath him. The air passing endlessly along the shaft
of his penis, and the paper's edge fluttering madly against his
testes, and Sanyo's puffer, puffing crazily into his anus, caused
him to bellow, "Sweet Jesus! I'm coming, Sanyo, I'm coming!" He
raised his penis and sent a spray of semen in a showering arc
high above the machine.
"If you're that desperate, Jim, why don't
you just rent a video?" the manager said as she entered the store
(after which she promptly made an appointment for Jim to receive
psychological counseling, covered by Kinko's benefits package).
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