I Heart Scanners

“Oh okay, I’ll print out that registration form and mail it in with the check, sorry we missed the deadline.” (*plugs the computer into the handy machine here in her 3rd-floor office, an HP all-in-one  print/copy/scan number, calls up the file, and presses Print*)

“Yes of course I have their current vaccination records right here. I’ll just make a couple of copies and run them by  camp headquarters sometime in the next couple of days.” (*pulls the records out of one of few clearly labeled and filed folders on the desk, places them on the glass surface of the printer/scanner/copier, and presses Copy.*)

“Well, I could use one of my childhood pictures to illustrate that essay…oh, you think so? Cool, I’ll just scan that here in my home office and you should have it before end of business day today.” (*pulls old picture from faded red photo album, fingers trembling slightly as she carefully centers the fragile  paper face-down on the glass of the printer/copier/scanner before closing the lid and pressing Scan.*)

“Fuck You.”

The woman jumped, whirled around. “Who was that! Girls!? Who’s up here?”

No answer. From downstairs came the sound of the kids arguing over whose turn it is to pick the T.V. channel. She turned back to the printer-machine to see it flashing “USB cable not connected.” That’s weird, she thought, checking to confirm that the very same USB cable that had just allowed her to print and copy was indeed still connected. It was. Annoyed and pressed for time, she pressed Scan again.

“I said, Fuck YOU.”

This time there was no mistake: the voice was emanating from the printer/scanner/copier. “Um…hello?” The woman ventured tentatively. “I’m…I’m just trying to scan in a simple picture. You know, the just like I printed out a few pages and made a couple of copies.”

She heard a faint sound, almost like a snide snigger bouncing off the close confines of a small plastic cage.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Uh…not so hot, actually. I’m pressing Scan, but it’s….you’re…not scanning.”

The ricocheting snigger again, louder and more smug this time.

“Engineering degree?”

“Beg pardon?”

A heavy sigh.

“I said, WHERE is your engineering degree from?”

“I…I don’t have an engineering degree. I have a degree in Comparative Literat—wait a minute, what are you talking about? I’m just trying to scan a fucking picture!”

“Mind your language, sailor! Think I’m fucking stupid? I can see you’re trying to scan something, but I’m here to tell you that unless you have a double degree in Engineering and Computer Programming that ain’t happening.”

“But…but…I don’t understand. My computer’s plugged into you and I just printed something and copied something else, so why shouldn’t I be able to scan?”

This time the machine made a muffled but clearly derisive snorting sound.

“Why should you is the question? Don’t you know that scanning’s different? You must not have downloaded my driver programming.”

“But I did, of course I did! How else would I be able to print and copy and–“

“And you think that’s all you have to do to SCAN for chrissakes?!”

The woman looked at the window over her desk.  If she lowered the top half instead of lifting from the bottom, the HP Photosmart would fit through it perfectly flying at the high velocity she imagined. It would make such a satisfying sound when it hit the driveway three stories below. Would it scream as it broke apart? she wondered.

“Looks like you’ll have to download some extra-special programs from our website. Why don’t you go there now…assuming you’re not too stupid to find it.”

“Of course I can find it,” the woman grumbled, locating the site and selecting make and model number of her possessed office equipment. Reading the instructions carefully, she clicked on the corresponding applications, preferences and programs in her computer that the HP website assured her should lead to scanning success. Nothing. Off to her right she heard the snigger again, louder this time, more like an actual guffaw, really. She looked at the clock: 5:58. She had now been wrestling with trying to scan a simple photo for over an hour and would clearly miss the agreed-upon deadline for sending her essay in to the sympathetic editor. Scan: no. Spotlight, Image Capture: no. Devices: no. Photoscan…

“fuuhuhuhucccck….yoo-hoo.”

The muffled plastic voice was barely a whisper now, as were her hopes of getting her piece before the eyes of the sympathetic editor before the end of the work week. With the weekend coming up–Hamptons, she imagined, or maybe Fire Island–her pitiful, essay-less query letter wouldn’t even be a ghost of a niggling memory come Monday morning.

The woman stood up, snapping the two window-locks outward and lowering the top half of the window. She then carefully disengaged the printer/”scanner”/copier from her computer. “Now the USB cable really isn’t connected anymore, motherfucker” she whispered as she heaved it out the window. It fit perfectly, just as she had imagined it would. A faint, airy scream was whisked away by the descent, then silenced altogether by the satisfying sound of smugly condescending plastic and glass shattering into a thousand pieces.