So, there I was, hunched over the black eye of a toilet seat regretting the previous night’s tequila decision. It was just another Monday morning.
I glanced up. There was writing on the white tiled wall.
“THE JOKE IS IN YOU’RE HANDS.” … Bathroom graffiti never has a stitch of originality.
I flushed. My head ached.
The smell of cheap disinfectant was dense.
I tore a couple squares of toilet paper from the black plastic dispenser and wiped my lips. Hygiene is important.
My name is Andrew. I repair copy machines.
As a copy machine repairman I travel a lot. So, finding myself in this charming interstate rest area’s bathroom wasn’t all that surprising. I like to drink on the road.
The company I work for has me cover the south-eastern corner of Washington. I repair late eighties, early nineties models, exclusively. You have no idea how many companies still use such old machines.
A man stammered into the stall beside me. Judging by the person’s muddy work boots and camouflage sweat pants I guessed it was trucker. Truckers all wear the same uniform.
The man sat down with a grunt. He breathed loudly. Unpleasant sounds and smells followed soon afterward.
The sun was rising as I left the rest area.
Sunrises are never all that beautiful anymore. They just make the head hurt more than it already does.
My truck’s door opened with a screech.
I turned the key three times before the engine started. My pine tree-shaped air freshener vibrated like a little seismograph waiting for the engine to explode. 452,782 miles and running.
I buckled my seat belt and lit a cigarette. I was ready for the day.
***
I smile at the receptionist.
She glares back at me.
“Are you the copy machine repairman guy?” her fluffy red hair bounces a little as she talks.
I said yes.
Reluctantly she stood up and said, “Follow me.”
She wore a white blouse and a black mini skirt. All receptionists wear the same uniform.
My eyes migrated to her ass. The silky black fabric of her skirt formed a perfect silhouette of what laid beneath… It bounced.
“Here it is,” she held a manicured hand toward a doorway that was labeled ‘COPY’ in stenciled letters.
I said thanks and she walked back to her high desk without another word.
Over the years I’ve learned that fixing copy machines really doesn’t require all that much skill. Most copy machine ailments only require a stiff kick or elbow jab to the paper dock to be mended. I kept that in mind as I entered.
The room was bland. A sanitarium’s decorum: off-white walls, bleached out tile floor, and yellowing fluorescent lights illuminating the room from above. Honestly, I was surprised I didn’t see a straight jacket waiting for me on a hanger in there.
The copy machine was beige. It’s worn off buttons stared at me like blind eyes. Someone had scratched, “I HATE YOU!” into the scanner’s white plastic lid.
I pressed the green start button. The machine made funny noises. I kicked. The machine still made funny noises. I kicked again.
One whole second of silence passed and then a piece of paper flowed through.
I smiled.
“My work is done here,” I said to myself.
I’m good at my job.
Out of curiosity I took a look at the piece of paper that had been stuck in the machine. On it was a pair of scanned butt cheeks… I wasn’t amused. This wasn’t the first time I had seen this happen…
Then I got the call.
My ring tone sucks. It’s one of those free ones that come with the phone when you buy it. It sounds like the bastard child of circus music and polka. It’s disgusting.
I answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi… is this… um… Andrew?” My mother was speaking. She was a hippy back in the day and is still pretty paranoid of the government listening to her calls.
“Yes…” I hadn’t talked to my mom for eight months.
For ten seconds the only conversation was the distant background traffic that her receiver picked up. She was using a payphone.
“Mom?”
“Sorry… Um… well… …” her voice was shaky. “… … … YOUR FATHER’S DEAD!”
“Mom?” was the only thing I could say.
I haven’t seen my dad in seventeen years. I never will again.
I don’t remember the conversation from there on very well. I think it was mostly just gasping and crying on my mother’s part and utter disbelief on mine.
I walked out of the office distraction free… I think the receptionist was yelling at me to sign something but I didn’t care.
I’m drunk right now.
I’m driving.
I’m writing this.
I’m fucking multi-tasking.
The funeral is on a Wednesday… tomorrow. It’s in Ohio.
I won’t be able to make it. It’s too far. I can’t afford a plane ticket. But, I’m trying to get there all the same. I’m trying.
