Everyday Occurences

The asbestos tiles flash beneath my feet. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got just one period, only forty minutes, and I’ve got so much to do. I’ve got to make copies. Lots of copies. Because every school that I’ve applied to need all of the things I haven’t handed in yet by Friday. Not enough time. I’ve got to send the copies to the schools or else oops, no college for me. It all piles.

The air stirred by my hectic passing sends the short pieces of hair around my face to tickle my cheekbones. Getting in my eyes. I can feel it starting. That weight on my skin that sinks my chest in. Wraps my lungs in cotton gauze, itching. Binds the inhalations and exhalations of my hurried breaths as I try to return the oxygen in my bloodstream to a normal level. Gasping. There’s never enough time.

The pulse of my shoes as they beat their rapid rhythm against the tile, asbestos safe behind its repeatedly renewed coat of sealant, sends my heart to dance along in my footsteps. Palpitating against my sternum. I’m almost there. I can see the door waiting for me. Silent in its ever-present opportunity. Giving no hint at my welcome.

The metal handle, cold beneath my hands, swings the door open in smooth acquiescence. I wish everything would go as smoothly.

“Hi, I need to use the copy machine.”

“Why?”

“Um, I need to make copies…”

“Of what?”

“These papers.”

“All of those?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“That many?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are they?”

“Recommendations and stuff…”

“Oh, well. Do you know how to use the machine?”

“Not really, but if you show me I can do the rest.”

“Well, okay.” Her eyes hold distrust like an old friend. Someone she’s grown to depend on. I wonder how many kids lie to her everyday. If I had a nickel… Well you know. I’d be rich as hell.

“Alright, so you put the paper in face down, line it up with the little red arrow. See it? Then press start.”

“What if I need to make more than one copy?”

“Just type in the number before you press start. But afterward, make sure you press the ‘reset’ button so it goes back to ‘one’. Don’t forget.” I imagine her horror at the possibility of the waste of paper from printing an extra copy or two. It might end her world.

Only thirty minutes left. And I’ve still got homework to do. I’m running out of time. I can feel it pass me by with a whisper and a soft laugh. I’ve got to make these copies.

Lift the cover, place the paper. Is it lined up correctly? There’s the red arrow, okay it’s fine. Lower the cover, press start.

The hum of the machine takes me by surprise. It’s louder than I expected it to be. It swallows all other sounds and leaves them in the background. The buzz of conversation in the councilors’ office to my left, the giggle of the secretaries, the swish, swish, scuff of carpeted footsteps slide into insignificance. My world narrows to the buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print of the machine in front of me. Its endlessly predictable cycle.

The page is warm when I take it from the scanner. Heated by lights only visible as they shine from the sides of the cover in yet another unsuccessful escape attempt. Never seen plainly, hidden behind the secretive dance of what goes on when the scanner is scanning. But the page comes out warm. Comforting on skin chilled by air-conditioning, violently unnecessary in the middle of February.

Time slows. Compresses to the vibration of the machine under my fingertips, the rhythmic movement of paper in and out of the scanners waiting mouth, the singsong melodies as it does its duty. Making copies. Copies upon copies, day in and day out. Always the same. Never changing in purpose or action. Peaceful in its simplicity. Allowing time to stand still.

I breathe. Surrounded by the hum of the copy machine, and feel the pull of my ribcage stretching. Relaxing. In this moment, breathing is easy, as time spirals and ceases to move. I swear I feel the clock stop. The activity of people around me blurs. Fading together and leaving me alone, inside that mechanized symphony of buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print.

Print.