The Tech Guy

When I was in high school, my best friend’s father was a magician. No, not one who does a few tricks and says they are, he actually performed on stage. I would watch him. Although he wasn’t David Copperfield, he did at least leave the audience wondering how the trick was done. Then, there it was on the audience's faces -- a sense of befuddlement that comes when watching magic tricks and trying to apply logic. While I'm not a magician, we have something in common -- I've seen that look as well.

Whatever was amiss with computers and equipment of all sorts, I have been the one who people called upon to fix it. A jammed copier? “Call Mitch.” A broken piece from an adding machine? “Call Mitch.” A mouse that has stopped working? “Call Mitch.” So it went. No matter where I was, or what I was doing, I’d usually come right away to the wretched wreck of mangled peripheral that caused such consternation.

Most times, I arrived to see two or three employees hovering over the beast – typically a copier, printer, or computer – and discussing its symptoms much like a doctor would with their assistants and nurses. This day was no different. This time the main copier, a Ricoh Aficio 1600, decided it needed some attention. Amused, I listened for a few moments before my approach just to hear their conversation.

“No. No. No. It was a whirrring sound and then a kerplunk kerplunk and Grrrrrrr, like stripping of gears,” Robert said.
“No it was the kerplunk then the whirring, and then the grinding noise,” Mandy refuted.
“No… listen to it again,” Sheila nodded in agreement, while she reached for the green button.
“No!” Robert half-shouted. “That might damage it even more. Don’t hit that button.”
“This thing is a dinosaur,” Mandy chimed in, “It needs replaced.”
“What are you talking about? This is only a couple years old. You ought to have worked with the last copier. That thing was a dinosaur,” Robert murmured with a reminiscent look toward the ceiling.
“Open up that side panel again. Are you sure you got out that paper jam last time?” Sheila inquired, with accusation of incompetence in her voice.
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Mandy shot back. “Go ahead and look for yourself.” Then she rolled her eyes with a nobody-believes-me-around-here expression.

The employees prodded and poked, and opened and closed little plastic panels, pressed buttons, and pulled out cartridges, only to look at each other and shrug when the copier wouldn’t work. This is when I arrived – The tech guy. The equipment guru who could fix anything that whirred or kerplunked, when it wasn’t suppose to do either.

“Hi, Mitch,” Robert stated and half grinned, knowing that likely in the next five minutes his report would finally be copied.
“Hi, Mitch,” Mandy and Sheila said in unison, and then glanced at each other as if both had trod upon the other’s speaking territory.
“Hello,” I replied. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Well it’s making this whirring sound, and then kerplunk kerplunk and the…” Robert piped up.
“It’s the kerplunk first, and then the whirring… I’m telling you,” Mandy insisted.
“Ok. Ok,” I said. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

They huddled around me and the offending copier, to watch. Each had their expression. Sheila listened intently, as she knew the green button would be pressed. At that, I imagined she would glance and nod at Robert with annoyance. Mandy waited with restraint, and anticipated the first test as well. Hope for redemption was clearly on her face; that thing was broken and it wasn’t ‘just a paper jam’. And then Robert eyed each movement I made, to demonstrate in the future that he could be the “go to” tech guy in a pinch.

So, I closed all the panels, checked the paper, checked the cartridge, smelled the interior (to see if anything smelled hot), and slapped the nearest piece of paper with any kind of writing on the glass. This time it was a newspaper crossword puzzle. I glanced Mandy’s way when I grabbed it. Her face turned a tinge of pink. It was hers.

And there before the trio of misfits, I hit the green button. Each one with a look of shock and awe at the audacity of such a maneuver. The copier hummed, the light came on, the clear sound of paper rattled through the internal mechanisms, and a piece of 8 1/2 x 11 paper smoothly, eloquently and perfectly floated into the outbin of the copier. The crossword puzzle was perfectly duplicated -- showing 3. Down’s answer: “Irony” surrounded by little blank boxes on either side.

“Hmm. Seems to work fine.” I said with a mild-mannered smile.

With this, I glanced at each of the employees. Magically, it worked again, but somehow only when I was around. There was the look. Their mouths agape. Their tongues silent. Their minds trying to apply logic. Then I, the tech guy, strolled away.