TO-WIT: The Call of the Wild
Those of you who have followed my meanderings over the years know I have this thing for machines. When I find a machine that appeals to me, one that promises to interpose a little order and efficiency into the chaos of my daily life, I fall in love and I just can’t wait to plug it in and get going.
What I love best about machines is their push button mentality. Whenever I need something from them, all I have to do is push a button. Not once has any one of them ever required me to first discuss our relationship. Not once has any one of them ever sulked because I forgot when I bought them. Not once has any one of them ever asked me about my day. And perhaps best of all, whenever anyone of them gives me the slightest difficulty, I can get rid of them with a telephone call. (Just try that with a spouse – it’s damned expensive.)
It was just such a situation that developed recently with my photocopy machine. I had had the machine for several years and, asking only to be serviced once in a while, it had done yeoman-like work. It had been the perfect companion, obedient, voiceless and cheap, but on this particular recent day, without so much as a moment’s notice, it went on holiday.
At first I thought my secretary had screwed it up – not an unjustifiable conclusion about the lady who, when we first got the postage meter, tried to catch the stamps in her hand. this time however, knowing that she was truly faultless, I berated her but briefly.
Next I tried to reason with the copier just as I reason with all machines, not exactly man to man, more like foot to metal, but it had apparently taken complete leave of its chips and fully failed to respond to any such ministrations.
A visit from the serviceman confirmed my worst fears. “She’ll cost more to repair than she’s worth,” he said. “Someone’s kicked her to death.”
“We’ve been having a problem with mice,” I offered.
After the serviceman left, my secretary and I stood alongside the machined, observing a moment’s silence. It was an emotional moment for both of us. she tried to choke back the tears as she recalled the many happy reproductive moments she had shared with it and I fought back the urge to take a baseball bat to the damn thing and forever fix its wagon beyond repair. Finally I turned to her and said “Well, I guess we’re going to have to buy a new copier.”
The words had no sooner left my mouth than there was a knock at the front office door, followed by another, then another, then an entire cacophony of knocks, whistles, yells, bangs, hoots and chortles. I haven’t heard such a clamor since the last time our bar association meeting included an open bar.
It was quite a sight to see, all those photocopier salesmen lining up outside my door and jockeying for position like male dogs after a bitch in heat. They were shouting and elbowing and wrestling each other and, just like in the penny arcade go-cart ride, they were ramming one another fore and aft with those dollies that carry the machines, except no one was smiling.
Each one was trying to talk to me, but the commotion was so great, I could only make out snatches of conversation. “20 cps,’ “10 second warm-up, “state of the art,” “who’s biting?” It was obvious that someone had to step quickly into the fray before toner was shed. “Take care of this,” I told my secretary and I retreated to my inner office. The last I saw of her she was beset by hordes and going down, not entirely unlike a wooly mammoth before little itty bitty Cro-Magnons flinging four color brochures.
What a curious thing this was. no sooner had the words “buy a new copier” escaped my lips than I was besieged by salesmen. Was it a coincidence or was it something else? Determined to find out, I called my friend, Dr. Shemp, at the Institute for the Study of Biomechanical Genetics, and I put the question to him.
“Funny you should ask,” he replied, “for we have been studying that very thing. Come on over and let me show you something.”
When I arrived he ushered me into the lab, where there, spread out on the dissecting table, was a photocopier salesman, arms and legs pinioned down, the top of his skull removed.
“Have you taken out his brain,” I asked, peering into the empty cavity of his head.
“No, no, it’s still there, it’s just a mite small. But look here, under this withered cerebellum” and taking a pencil he pushed aside some small gray matter to expose a reddish-brown sphere. “We have learned that this organ senses the failure of a copier and in response it emits a special hormone. When we injected this hormone into some swallows they all flew to Capistrano.”
“You mean…”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. And by the way, how do you think all the law book salesmen know when a law firm breaks up?”
I stared dumbfounded at the body on the table. “How did he die,” I asked.
“Oh, he isn’t dead, he’s just resting.”
“Can I go now, Doc,” asked the specimen, as if on cue. “A machine just went down across town.”
“Sure,” said Doctor Shemp. “Just let me find the tube of Crazy Glue, and you can be on your way.”
“They’re really very cooperative subjects,” the doctor told me while rummaging around in the drawer for the blue, “and best of all, we don’t ever have to use any anesthetic.”
© 1989, S. Sponte, Esq.