I'm your saving grace. I'm your worst enemy. I'm the guy you both hate and love in a single breath. I can make your day hell or the best one you've had in weeks. Yes, that's right. I am the copier repair man.
A lot of people don't know this, but the process by which a photocopy machine operates was actually patented back in 1937 by Chester Carlton and the whole thing was based upon a little know property of sulfur—that if you expose it to bright lights, it loses its static electric charge. The first commercial machine came out on the market in 1947. I won't go into the details because unless you're someone like me, you don't really care about how the machine works. You just want it to work.
The paper jam is the bane of the modern office worker's world. Nothing drives fear into a secretary's heart faster than that dreaded phrase, 'the copier's jammed.' Usually, you can unjam it pretty easily, but there are times when you need to call in someone like me. That's when desperation comes into the picture and folks start slipping a little something 'medicinal' into their morning coffee to keep from going insane waiting for me.
We have a very well planned and executed method of making service calls. You need to wait just long enough for the anger to turn into panic or desperation before you show up. Wait too long and it devolves into hopelessness and a strangely fond reminiscing for carbon paper. I'm just kidding with you about this last bit. We handle the calls in the order that they are received, no matter what you think otherwise.
It makes sense that a top secret organization like the UNCLE would have a bunch of copy machines. I mean think about it, when you have carbon paper, there's the danger that a sheet might be stolen and the world placed in jeopardy because of it. Well, maybe not, but it could happen. Anyhow, they are cutting edge and they love their toys! They were the first ones to get electric typewriters, paper shredders and computers.
I was brought in as a contract worker to keep an eye on things. I technically work for someone else, but I usually spend at least one day a week at 'the office,' as I like to refer to UNCLE HQ. It's a crazy place and you never really get used to people running around armed. I've been working there off and on for two years now and I still jump when the doors slide open by themselves. I will never get used to that.
People get really weird when the machine jams, especially if it jams when they were copying something they weren't supposed to be copying, like recipes, their butts; you name it, I've seen the photo copies. UNCLE isn't any different. When I show up, I can instantly tell is there's something caught in the machine that's going to cause someone a headache or not.
For example, this happened to me just a month or so ago. The call came in, about the same as normal. I recognized the address, it's a fake one, by the way, and knew that I was in for a day at 'the office'. When I go in, it makes sense to service all the machines. I call it being proactive, but it's really just because there are so many cute chicks working there, so I guess it's more of a matter of personal gratification.
The machine that was jammed was on the same floor as the secretary pool, so it's not hard to guess what happened. I strolled in there waving to the women I knew and smiling at the ones I didn't, but would like to.
The copier room was set away from everyone, mostly because of the stink of the ozone produced by the machine, but also because it's happier if it's kept cool and in a dimly lit room. There were shelves of paper stored there as well and some tables for stacking and sorting things out. All in all, it was a pretty normal looking copy room. I could have been in any one of a dozen rooms like this spread out through the city.
It looked like someone had really gone to town on this machine. Whatever got stuck inside was of great interest to the operator. I was squatting down and suddenly felt a pressure at the back of my neck. It was hard and a scary feeling started to uncurl in my stomach.
"I'm going to kill you now, without remorse and without regret, for the pain and suffering your machine has caused me."
I started laughing about halfway through his little diatribe. "Jesus, Illya, you almost made me pee my pants!" I stood up and shook the man's hand. He'd just been using his finger to stick me up, but it sure felt like a gun barrel to me. "What's going on?"
Illya is, well, I don't know what the hell Illya is, except that he seems to be the one the girls flock to before they call me in. He hangs around with this other guy a lot and they both wear guns. I think they work together or something. Anyhow, Illya's an okay guy, although he has a scary sense of humor and he knows more crap than anyone else I know.
"What happened here, man?" I pointed to the poor copier. "It looks like someone did a Hiroshima on this thing. Someone sure wanted something out of it bad."
"To be honest, it's a mystery. I just got back in town myself and Miss Sloan called my attention to this. She was... concerned."
The door opened then—this is one of the regular 'you have to work a doorknob' kinda doors—and his working buddy came in. Mutt and Jeff these two... well, not so much size wise, but every way else they are opposite. Still I like...um, what's-his-name well enough. He's not too bad for Establishment. He looks like an accountant, but he'd got the calm attitude of a man who knows his spot in the universe that kinda lulls you into a false sense of security. I don't think that's by accident.
"Illya, Mr. Waverly is waiting for us. We need to go now." He points to the door.
"I'll be right along, Napoleon. I was just discussing the state of the copier machine with Mr. McHenry."
"And why's that? Surely, he knows his job without your needing to... " Napoleon, that's right, that's his name... he squatted down and looked into the machine. "I see what you mean, partner of mine. This is odd."
"Someone was really frantic about getting whatever was jammed out of here." I said, just to remind them both who was really in charge. "I'm gonna have to pull the drum." I glanced over at Illya. He's all serious and intent on things, like he usually is just before he cracks some joke, but this time the joke never comes. Instead he reached in and grabbed just the corner of a bit of paper jammed in there. Even as careful as he was, it tore and sent a shower of toner flying. He was wearing black so he's okay, but Napoleon jumped like you'd tossed him a snake.
"Napoleon, I think we have a problem." Illya held up the scrap of paper. There was some writing on it. File 40? It didn't mean anything to me, but Napoleon was immediately there, right beside Illya, staring into the machine. After a long moment, he gestured Illya away to the other side of the copier.
"How is someone able to copy File 40 material? Not even Waverly can do that." Napoleon turned the scrap over in his hand. "And they are supposed to be impregnated with a special copy-proof ink to prevent this."
Okay, I don't know what they are talking about, but that's not my concern. I turned back to the task at hand and managed to wiggle the drum out slowly—you can't want to touch it or you'll leave permanent fingerprints... crap, too late. I could see the tell tale signs. Combined with the damage already done to other delicate parts of the machine, my visit was going to cost UNCLE a pretty penny.
Then the lights went out and there was a series of clicking from the direction of the door. I froze in place, trying to remember how the room was laid out. "What the hell...?" I managed to get that much out, but I could hear the other guys already working on trying to get the door open.
"Can you pick it?"
"In the dark? I'm good, Napoleon, but not that good."
"That's not what the bathroom walls say. They say you are quite capable in the dark."
"Of other things, Napoleon. Bathroom walls lie a lot."
I fumbled around in my tool kit and finally my fingers find a familiar shape. I turn the flashlight on and both these guys jump a mile high. I'd have laughed, but they were both pointing guns at me and I didn't find that the least bit funny. "Would... um...this help?"
Illya took the flashlight and handed it to his partner. "Hold it steady for me, Napoleon." He reached into a pocket and pulled something out. I couldn't exactly see what, but he started to kneel by the door.
"Just like I've been doing it for years," Napoleon quipped and then there was this weird on/off sort of chirping noise. In the small room, it was really loud and I saw them both reach inside their jacket pockets simultaneously and pull out pens. Napoleon pulled one end out and spoke into the other.
"Solo here." Ah, that's his last name, I remembered now.
"Where are you, Mr. Solo?"
"Apparently, we're trapped in the copier room on Level Two."
"We? Indeed..." Oh, that guy didn't sound like he was buying Napoleon's story for a minute and then I remembered what Illya told me about Napoleon being a bit of a playboy.
"And Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Here, sir." Illya leaned in to speak into Napoleon's pen.
"I'd have thought better of you, Mr. Kuryakin." Okay, I had no idea what was going on, but from the look on Illya's face, it was probably just as well. I didn't understand what the guy meant, but what the hell? I don't understand three quarters of what is said around this joint anyhow.
"Apparently, we are in the middle of a lock down, sir."
"Apparently, Mr. Solo, from what your agents are telling me, someone tried to breach security with a briefcase full of File 40 documents."
Illya stepped away from the flashlight's beam and I could hear him talking into his pen as well. "Open Channel L, this is Kuryakin. Report."
I couldn't quite make out the conversations; they sort of bled into each other, like someone playing two different records at full volume. I don't know how they could understand them, but it didn't matter.
"Someone will be along to unlock the door, Napoleon." Illya tucked his pen away and sighed.
"Soon, I hope." The air was already starting to get thick. I don't do tight spaces really well, but it wasn't the time to bring that up. These two looked like they already had plenty on their minds.
"Did they figure out who it was?"
"He was wearing a disguise. He bolted before the lockdown could be sounded and got away back in to the building." Illya sounded really angry and that was scary enough in itself. "How are they doing it, Napoleon? How are they getting their people inside? This is two in the last eight months. There must be a serious security breach somewhere."
"Or they are just getting better at it." Napoleon placed a hand on Illya's shoulder, like he was trying to calm him down or something.
"Um, guys?" I started to interrupt, but Illya waved me quiet as Napoleon continued.
"Probably the same way we are. It's just we'll never have a clue. He could walk right by us and we'll never know."
"Excuse me..." I tried again and, again, Illya ignored me. He looked right through me like I didn't even exist. Obviously his mind was elsewhere.
"But how was he able to copy File 40 documents and then why would he leave the copies here and take the originals? That doesn't make any sense at all and we've no evidence."
Finally, I'd had enough of being ignored, so I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly. They both stopped like I'd sucker punched them.
"Yes, Mr. McHenry?" Napoleon's voice was really soft; like he was one step away from proclaiming that I was the bad guy and show me the business end of his gun again.
"I'm trying to tell you something important here. I don't carry a gun or work at some top secret thing, but I know a lot about copy machines."
"Your point being?" Likewise, Illya's voice had taken on this edge, and there was this accent I didn't recognize. It sounded... dangerous. There was this glint in Illya's eye that was sort of worrying as well. I so didn't want to be the guy who needlessly yanked his chain.
"Your guy left his fingerprints on the drum of the copier. You've got a permanent record of him anytime you want it. All you have to do is make a copy. Give me five minutes once the lights come back on and I'll give you as much evidence as you want."
Well, I got this commendation from UNCLE and they made all sorts of really nice noises, but I still had to leave by the public entrance that night. No matter what, I was still the same the copier guy as when I went in. Granted, the girls were a whole lot nicer to me on the way out and I found a mess of phones numbers stuffed into my pockets before I left. Illya even offered to buy me a drink, but I'd seen enough of the other side of him and his partner to know that I didn't want to get any friendlier with him than was necessary. I still didn't know what they did for a living and after what I saw, I sure as hell didn't want to find out. I may just be the copier repair guy and work on contract, but I was left with a feeling that sometimes it's okay to just be a distant cousin. This was one family I didn't want to be close to.
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