The office copy machine is located perilously close to my cube. I say perilously close because the machine is close enough that I can eavesdrop with hardly any effort.
The bathrooms are close too. Actually, they're closer than the copy machines, but most people don't talk going in and out of the bathroom. The men keep their heads down for fear that eye contact may insinuate a session of homosexual, lavatory, afternoon delight. The women smile and great each other, but the slight squint in their eyes screams "Bitch, I'll cut you if you take the good stall." There is little conversation, so little distraction. All I hear are the daily flushings, as if my cube is perched on a fluorescently lit meadow of industrial carpet next to a babbling brook.
Most copier talk consists of daily pleasantries -- talk of weather, the weekend, and the nearness of 5 o'clock. I don't pay any mind to this useless type of conversation. It blends in with the clacking of keystrokes. More frequently than not, the copier is broken. And I delight in it. Hearing the struggle between man and machine as the office worker cries "Oh, its broken AGAIN!." The grunting of someone trying to remove a paper jam. There is one worker bee who is so irritated by the copy machine - functioning or not - that she curses and behaves as if the machine has a personal vendetta against her. While these are her worst days, these are my best. I chortle quietly in my cube listening to her rant and rave. Giving thanks that the quality of my day does not rest on the performance of the copy machine. I know, its wrong, but it makes me glow like the brightest coal in the fires of hell.
The copy machine provides more than just mere schadenfreude, it also provides incredulity. Today I heard the following conversation:
Copy Monkey 1: Oh it must be nice having the kids out of school
Copy Monkey 2: I dread going home. Something's always broke and its always either "not me" or "ida know" who's done it. Nobody takes personal responsibility.
Copy Monkey 1: We'll, that's kids for you
Let's ignore the 1950's tone of this conversation. Let's ignore the fact that miss "nobody takes personal responsibility" is probably the one who leaves the paper jams in the copier. Focus on the fact that this woman just quoted Bill Keane's "The Family Circle". Who does that? The apple cheeked, earnest humor of this comic has long since past its prime. I would be less surprised to get stabbed at work than to hear someone quoting "The Family Circus." If the only reading material I could find in a post-apocalyptic world was a compilation of "The Family Circus" my first reaction would be "Oh good, I have toilet paper." I just couldn't believe that someone actually quoted this comic. I jumped out of my chair to see who it was so that I could make a mental note to no longer say hello to this person in the hall.
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As you may recall...I had the same experience with the copy machines. At first it was a distraction, but once you find the humor in it...it's GREAT! Someone jams it, breaks it, or just forgets to put paper in it...then the next 5 people just have a snit fit. Let's also not forget that "EVERYONE" is the only one to ever put paper in the machine. "everytime i have to put paper in, i sware i'm the only one". There is usually the expert that someone has to track down for those tricky paper jams. I would also keep my back to these issues, like I was paying attention. Don't make eye contact!! Not as good as a water cooler for gossip, but you do catch the occasional melt down...they are having a bad day, the paper runs out, the ink needs to be changed, and it's just more than they can handle! LOL
MISS YOU!!
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