 |
Confessions of a Copy Jockey©2003 David Boyne This essay originally appeared in Troika Magazine. It is an excerpt from my book, I Just Work Here, Memoirs of a Wage Slave |
|---|
1
I work in a copy store.
To the customers, I'm just a copy clerk. To myself and my co-workers, depending on mood, I'm a Repro Man, a Xerographer, a Copy Jockey.
My job description? Take the documents customers give me; make copies of the documents. We have self-service machines, too, for customers who want to save a penny per copy by making their own.
Every now and then a customer will ask if he can drop his pants, sit on one of the self-service copiers and make a copy of his butt.
"No," I always tell them. "Only people who work here can do that."
2
It amazes me what people leave in the store--and never return to claim.
Keys; credit cards; umbrellas; gloves; backpacks; dental floss, toothpaste, and toothbrush; mirrors; cosmetics; birth control pills; cell phones; military discharge papers; college diplomas; wallets stuffed with cash; drivers licenses; a Bosnian passport, an Iranian passport, a Sierra Leone passport; job performance reviews; school transcripts; photos of the family's vacation at the Grand Canyon; a handmade, heart-shaped clay plate with careful red lettering: "To Our Mom, Love Jennifer and Suzy"...
How is it these people never return for their missing property? How can they get very far in this world without their keys? Passport? Driver's licence? Did something weird happen to these people upon leaving the store? Were they abducted? Did they awake, 72 hours later, strapped into a dentist's chair, their mouths wedged open, as an old man bent over them with a whirring dental drill and hissed, "Is it safe?"
When I find something left in the store I ask any customer present, "This yours?"
If there are two or more customers in the store, they always answer promptly, "Nope." "Not mine." "My pasta maker is a different color."
Curiously, if only one customer is in the store and I ask him, "This yours?", he will invariably hesitate. He'll come over to inspect the lost umbrella or two-way radio or designer sunglasses I'm holding. I wait, patiently, knowing that he is doing a kind of primitive math: calculating the monetary value or esthetic appeal of the lost item, multiplied by his desire to possess it, divided by the risk of falsely claiming it.
3
There's a customer we call Stinky Cabala. (Stinky, because he never bathes. Cabala, because he calls himself a warlock, and, makes copies of handwritten rants proclaiming the existence of murderous global conspiracies, including the time-honored classics of fluoridated drinking water and Jewish-bankers cornering the world's gold supply.)
Stinky makes his own copies, always hunching over a self-service copier as if he suspected the other customers of being spies out to steal his imbecilic scribbling.
Once, Stinky left behind some of his documents. When I came in for my afternoon shift, I found them. Perusing them, I realized the screed I held in my hands was nothing less than Stinky Cabala's Master Plan For Destroying The World And Rebuilding It As It Should Have Been Built In The First Place If Only White Men Who Never Bathed And Always Misspelled The Word Genocide Had Been In Complete Control.
The reader of Stinky's Master Plan was repeatedly urged to send five dollars to Stinky's post office box. Those that did would be mailed a How To Survive Armageddon manual. Included, at no extra charge, would be a Secret Map. Survivors of the global war who possessed Stinky's Secret Map would know how to find Stinky... and survive with him.
I tore up Stinky's Master Plan. I dropped it into a recycling bag.
Later that day, when I was alone in the store, Stinky came back. Clearly distressed, he began searching all over, on the counters, on the floor.
"Do you need some help?" I asked.
"I have a serious problem with this store!"
"A problem?"
"I left papers here. Important papers. There!" He pointed to the table beside a self-service copier where I had found his documents.
"You forgot your papers?" I asked, taking a step back from Stinky's aura of odor.
"No! I left them."
"Left them. When?"
"This morning. Three hours ago."
"Three hours ago?"
"I have a problem with this store. I left important documents--"
"You know," I said. "Maybe a customer didn't realize how important your documents were. Maybe they put them in the garbage. Would you like to look through our garbage cans?"
"Yes!" Stinky searched each small garbage can in the store, then cried out, "They're not here!"
I said, "Gosh."
"I have a serious problem with this store!"
"I was just trying to help."
"Oh, not with you! You are helping."
Since I had Stinky's trust, misplaced as it was, I decided to abuse it further. "You know, I'll bet your documents were in the trash that the morning crew emptied. Would you like to look through our dumpster outside?"
I showed Stinky the overflowing dumpster in our parking lot. In my best Customer Service Voice I said, "You're welcome to search the whole dumpster. But please put back everything that isn't yours."
"I will. I will."
I stayed just long enough to watch Stinky begin his dumpster-dive, pawing through the trash, then went into the store.
I helped a lady make color copies of her tow-headed grandchildren.
"What are you so happy about?" she asked, seeing my big smile.
I considered telling her that I, a lowly Copy Jockey, had just thwarted a Master Plan to destroy world civilization. But I chose modesty.
I said, "Sometimes I really like my job."