(A couple months ago, the people behind the Machine of Death book series had an open call for submissions. To get an idea of what they were looking for, check out their call for entries. I submitted a story titled ‘Ink Poisoning’ and got the word back a few weeks ago it was not accepted. So instead of letting it sit in a folder on my computer I decide to put it on the blog. Enjoy.)
I didn’t have a clear image of what he or she would look like. Guessing his appearance passes the time during the acceptable form of human torture known as waiting for the repairman. A few weeks ago the fax machine in the large copy room started acting all wonky. The repair woman showed up around lunch and, well, I honestly wasn’t expecting a woman at all. Not that I don’t think women are capable of fixing machinery it’s just that in thirty-plus years of waiting for a repair person to show up to fix dishwashers that only got the top shelf clean, televisions that had terrible reception on every third station, a toilet that only stopped running if the water was shut off and a window broken with a magazine (I was trying to kill a fly) a woman has never shown up with a tool belt and an invoice sheet.
He (or she) is supposed to be here between 10-2pm. Who schedules appointments during lunch? It screws up my entire day because I always buy lunch. I can’t leave the building should the repairman show. The company will say I missed my scheduled time and I’ll retort “but I had to get lunch” and they’ll fire back with “well we told you the allotted time was between 10 am and 2 pm and you should have brought a lunch” and I’ll argue that “I was hungry and who the hell expects a repair man… woman…whatever to show up at lunch?” Why would anyone schedule anything around lunch? Don’t repair people eat? Trust me, the men that have shown up to fix things, they eat. It’s obvious from their tight around the gut work attire. Even that repair woman was a little on the, what’s that word my wife uses to describe her fat friend, happy…a little on the happy side. Lunch appointments might factor into the obesity problem among repair people. It’s like Diane in accounting who starves herself all day and then probably gorges all night. At least that’s the impression she gives in the lunch room while licking the bottom of a yogurt cup for every last possible taste.
It’s kind of ironic in this case that a person in the business of repairing machines that tell a person how they are going to die appears as if they are almost at death’s door. Unless this is the type of person that can really detach themselves from their business. Much like a mortician. After seeing dead body after dead body a person just goes numb to it all. Wonder if that’s the same if their own family is involved. Can a mortician work on their own family? I’m sure some have. This situation is a little different. A repair person isn’t really dealing with death specifically, just a machine that prints out a piece of information. It’s not blood and formaldehyde more as it’s black ink and 92 Bright White paper.
A truck just pulled into the guest parking spot. It’s a rather nondescript vehicle. I expected to at least see some type of advertisement but this is a rather niche business. Only a few places sell and repair these machines. Anyone that owns a machine knows who to call to get it fixed. This is the first issue with particular model. The old one, Christ don’t get me started, that think broke every other week. On the old machines they never used to send out people, just troubleshoot over the phone. First question, without fail, “did you turn the machine on and off?” Of course! Not just because that usually solves most problem with the machine but because it’s always the first God damn question. I’ll feel like an idiot if I the answer is no. “Did you try plugging and unplugging it?” Really?!? This is remedy to fix such an expensive piece of equipment? On and off, plugging and unplugging, as if it’s a faulty cable box.”
That wasn’t the repair person. Food delivery. I wish someone would have asked, considering I’m stuck here until at least two and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I’ve got crackers in my desk. I really should start keeping food in here for just such cases. Although whenever I do keep food it either gets eaten when I’m not really that hungry or it’s taken by the night cleaning crew. I really should talk to HR because it’s stealing, and stealing is illegal whether it’s a pack of saltines or a copy machine, but I’d really feel awful getting a person fired over a granola bar. If they need food that bad that the risk of losing their job isn’t a deterrent than I’ll just chalk it up to a donation to the needy.
On. Off. Still not working. Unplug. Wait. Wait. Plugged. I think that did something. It looks operational. Only one way to find out. Which arm did I use last time? Left. I think. I’ll use right arm this time. Giving the blood sample never gets any easier. OUCH! Two sticks? Stupid machine. It already gave a printout what’s with the second poke? It feels like the needle is going to come out the other side of my arm. Red ink this time? I didn’t even know color printing was an option. Is that a word or Morse Code?
TOM SNEED YOU HAVE A VISITOR. TOM YOU’VE GOT A VISITOR.
Damn it! As soon as I put…now I can’t pull my arm out. It’s locked in place. Did the machine just shut off? Fantastic. This is just great.
“Hey, Marsha, it’s Tom. I’m in my office. Yes, I know I’ve got a visitor that’s why I’m calling the front desk. Is it the guy about the machine of death? Can you send him back to the mail room? I’m in here and I’m kind of compromised right now.”
“My arm is stuck in the machine.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“Thanks. Oh and do you have any crackers or anything in your desk? Nevermind.”
This is going to be fun to explain. I’m sure he has seen everything. My brother is a plumber. He has so many fucked up stories about the stuff people flush down the toilet. This guy has probably seen this a thousand…
“You Tom?”
“Did the machine latched to my arm give that away?”
“I’m Lester. Here about the machine.”
“Just in time. As you can see it’s acting up.”
“Did you try turning it on and off?”
“Yes.”
“How about plugging and unplugging it. That usually resets the forecasting function.”
“Unplugging and plugging got me into this predicament.”
“You unplugged the machine with your arm in it?”
“No. I plugged it in and tried to test it. It shut down with my arm inside.”
“Oh. I was gonna say. I’ve seen some dumb things working this job but that might have beaten them all. Ok, hang tight, gonna get you out of there in a snap.”
The silence is awkward. Plus I can’t stop thinking about food.
“Been working on these things long?”
“About a year. It has it’s moments. This being one of them.”
He doesn’t look anything like I had imagined; thin but with a massive beer gut that look even odder on a man with a thin frame. He doesn’t skip many lunches but they all might be of the liquid kind. Mustache. Interesting look. Never a fan. Also how I know he didn’t skip lunch, there are pieces of it still in his face hair. He reeks of raw onion.
“So what’s the answer going to be?”
“Pardon?”
“When I get the machine up and running. How are you going out?”
“Oh, cancer.”
“Got ya. Sorry about that.”
“Eh, no big deal. Runs in the family. Father died of throat cancer when I was 21. That’s actually how I knew the machine was broken. I test it every once in a while per the bosses orders. Always comes up cancer. Last time I checked, yesterday afternoon, it printed out something about ink poisoning. So I called the hotline.”
Silence. Occasionally interrupted by my rumbling gut.
“Couple more minutes. The machine might not be fixed but I’ll at least have your arm out.”
“Fantastic. Not a moment too soon. I feel dizzy all of a sudden. You wouldn’t happen to have a pack of crackers or something would you?”
Posted on November 23, 2011
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