Remember the Maytag repairman commercials? Poor, poor Maytag repairman...so lonely. Nowhere to go. Nobody to talk to. Let the record show that the Kyocera repairman is the life of the party. And not by choice.
One of Newmentia's copiers has been on the fritz. We have two, you know, in the teacher workroom. That's because one was always broken, so the in-chargers got us another one. Then the contract ran out with that business, and we were used to looking at two copiers, so we got two on the new contract. That's the way I remember it.
We finally had two Kyoceras that worked. At the same time! Even though the one closest to the door decides to spaz if you try to staple. So we use it for single or double-sided copies, and let the big dog do the packets that need stapling. Like tests.
For at least the last two weeks, the big dog has had an issue. Oh, he still copies and staples...but he leaves a double line across the top. That is not photogenic. On some papers, it is quite confusing. So we've been trying to work around the problem, saving important papers for later. Why the Kyocera repairman wasn't called sooner, I can't explain. He must have been overbooked. Partying it up with other faculty in other copy rooms.
Today, on my actual plan time, I decided, lunch eaters be darned! I was going to run my copies whether they wanted to talk over the wheezing Kyocera or eat while looking at my ample buttocks or not. I took a stack of papers, seven days worth of assignments, into the teacher workroom.
AND SAW THE KYOCERA REPAIRMAN KNEELING BEHIND THE BIG DOG!
Talk about embarrassing! The big dog was all turned out, doors open, parts dangling, shoved to the middle of the already-narrow room. You could hardly squeeze by between the big dog and the Books Are Fun display. But I didn't need to. I just needed a copier. The Kyocera repairman looked at me like a deer in the headlights. Or a man caught kneeling behind the big dog.
"Well. I certainly picked the worst time ever to make copies."
It was a rhetorical statement, actually. I don't know what the K-Rep might have said to respond. But it was an uncomfortably silence. I went about making copies on the lesser Kyocera. Even adjusting my job to reconfigure an assignment that needed stapling.
The K-Rep's body language said he was uneasy with sharing my space. The lunchers all went to the cafeteria, leaving the two of us alone. I could tell K-Rep didn't want me there. Every now and then, I think he stole a surreptitious glance my way. I can't really describe it, but it's kind of like he was dressing me with his eyes. That's right. Putting more and more and more clothes on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, so he didn't have to acknowledge her as a person, but rather as some kind of antique attic dummy that needed no attention. In fact, for about 10 minutes, he took out his cell phone and called (or pretended to) someone and talked in hushed tones. Like maybe it was about trade secrets. Or some kind of old-school 900 line.
It took a while for me to run those copies on the lesser Kyocera. 75 at a time. Two-sided. The fun began when the third lunch shift trickled in.
"Oh, you're finally here!"
"It's about time somebody fixed that machine!"
"Are you going to make it work this time?"
"Will it run copies without lines now?"
"How long is this going to take?"
"When will it be ready to run copies?"
Yeah. K-Rep picked THE wrong time to show up and go elbow-deep into the big dog. I'll go out on a limb here, and propose that he's not a people person.
K-Rep may be surrounded by Newmentia faculty, but something tells me he's still the loneliest guy in town.