Hard Copy, page 2
I asked the repairman if he wanted coffee, and how he took it.
‘Sugar,’ he said. I felt very aware, right then, of my role: I was a woman in an office asking a man how he took his coffee, then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, meekly serving him. I thought about porn, about how really I should take my clothes off, put on a little apron and bend over the desk, naked.
‘It’s the paper,’ the man said when I returned with his coffee. ‘It’s doing something weird. It’s too rough to move through the printer smoothly, but that only happens once it’s inside the printer. From the outside, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the machine.’ He held out a sheet of A4. I grabbed it and examined it.
‘When it isn’t in the printer, it’s fine, smooth – the fibres stay in their place, as it were.’
I stared at the paper again, frowned and nodded.
‘But the moment the sheet enters the machine, they get roughed up. The fibres.’
I nodded again, this time making a ‘hmm’ sound. Hmm, fascinating!
‘Frankly, it’s a worst-case scenario. Once the paper is inside, it’s at the printer’s mercy.’ He asked if I had tried a different type of paper, but I hadn’t. Our in-house designer probably wouldn’t allow it anyway, since there are strict rules about the type and weight of the paper we use. If we wanted to change it, it would take all kinds of meetings, and the entire house style would need to be overhauled.
The repairman had to get going, he said. He left me with an uninspiring tip (‘Another brand of paper might help, but who knows’) and twenty-two boxes of very specific paper stock that was no longer of any use because the paper had decided to rebel against the printer with every fibre of its being. Trees respond to heat even when they’re dead. After being ground into wood chips, then into pulp, then bleached, and then pressed and sliced, even then they continue to react. The fibres slowly swell up, it’s not something you can see with the naked eye, but it does happen, and that makes it hard for a sheet of paper to squeeze its way through the device on a hot day. (Dry winter air, by the way, brings its own problems.)
*
Today it’s nearly thirty degrees. The trees outside are trembling in the heat, but I’m inside, on standby next to my printer again. Now the paper is getting stuck between the feeder and tray one after every eight pages. Why eight, you ask? Only the printer knows. Error code 001: Paper Jam. He’s like a baby, he has few ways of communicating, so what could be wrong is anyone’s guess, but it does become easier to work out with time. I stand there patiently, counting along with the machine’s heavy breathing, and with every count an A4 sheet slips out until there are eight in total. Then comes a rustling and then a wheezing sound: the printer is choking! The wheezing turns into a gurgling and beeping. (He’s suffocating! Do something!) When people are choking, they will, out of sheer embarrassment, try to find somewhere secluded so they can die in peace. Printers can’t do that, they’re at the mercy of their partner. So I immediately open the front of the device and pull out the jammed paper, carefully, it mustn’t tear, like a fishbone in a child’s windpipe that has to be pried out in one piece. Then I switch him off, unplug him, wait twenty seconds, plug him back in and turn him on again. After about thirty seconds of whirring and clicking start-up sounds, the announcement comes on: Resuming Print Job. He’s breathing again. So am I. Eight counts to go.
I haven’t dared to tell my boss that the package is still missing, but luckily no one monitors my work. They don’t watch my daily activities too closely: all they care about is that the letters go out on time. The printer is so noisy that I have been given an office to myself, which helps. No one can see my screen. I do sometimes browse the internet, but I don’t feel guilty about it. I’m making minimum wage minus the cost of my lunch.
*
What if I’d grown up in a different place? Somewhere in another part of the country, next to a body of water? Somewhere with a little boat? What if I’d been rich? Then I’d never have had this job. It wouldn’t even have occurred to me that this kind of work existed. Maybe I have a huge lack of self-confidence I’m unaware of, self-confidence that I would have had if I were rich. But it’s the rich people who should have a crisis of confidence. They should be the ones asking themselves: that scholarship in New York, that internship at that cultural institute, that PhD position, that Master’s at an arts academy, did I truly earn it? But they never think about that, because they’ve been gifted everything from the moment they were born. Aside from their driver’s licence at the age of eighteen, these things are more or less the following: piano lessons (piano at home); good books; skiing holidays; feeling at ease in expensive spaces; unwritten rules about how loudly to speak and how to sit at the dinner table; what a mortgage is; what smart investments are; a friend, family member or acquaintance named Emma; chess; etiquette; proverbs; the right television shows; a familiarity with classical music; the polite way of addressing your elders; the kinds of alcohol and alcoholism that are acceptable. That you don’t sit on certain chairs because they’re designer. How to hold a wine glass. That it’s rude to inspect someone’s bookcase. The rules of tennis. And because you know all these things, you’ll never really wonder, in the depths of your soul, whether you have earned it. You’re not a bad person: you object to the inequality in the world, everyone deserves the same opportunities, you mean well, of course you mean well, that’s how you were raised. But the subtle, burgeoning consequences of this unequal distribution elude you: you believe the gap has got smaller over the years rather than bigger, and you think you can’t personally do anything about it. Maybe there’s an inferiority complex lurking in my subconscious that I’ll never be able to shake because I’m ashamed of my family and ashamed of the accent I used to have. I don’t think someone who knows the rules of tennis would ever be doing this job. I can’t even imagine it.
*
I have all the time in the world to contemplate these things in my tiny office while my printer haltingly prints out eight letters at a time, while it swallows and spits out the paper, as it tries to compress nature into A4-aligned order. It really is sad how quickly people turn their back on their printers when they’re experiencing problems, how they don’t want anything to do with them anymore. Even the repairman showed up with great reluctance. ‘Have you tried uninstalling and reinstalling the drivers?’ Deep sigh.
The machine just stands there, helpless and dependent. People turn him on and off, yank at USB cables and plugs, open and close trays and covers, but no one really cares. Sometimes, when I’m in a bad mood, I think: Is this what I’ve been working towards all this time? Struggling my way up the social ladder, only to end up here? But then I look at the printer and feel guilty because I don’t want to abandon him. I respect him. I do.
*
The first page slides out of the machine. In my first year of secondary school, someone said to me, ‘You’re the poorest person I know.’ Second page. ‘Poor’ is a big word. I knew people who were a lot poorer. Three. Children whose parents cried when primary school was over, knowing it was only going to get worse. Four. Later, at my middle-class secondary school, when everyone owned a raincoat except me. Five. That kids used words like ‘cinema’, that they ate avocado, actually had real boat shoes and a sailing jacket. I always thought that was a cliché. Six. I hear a noise. Slow footsteps on the carpet moving past the door. I’ve trained myself to hear them over the sound of the printer. I don’t move; the printer is on the seventh page. Nothing to worry about. ‘Cinema’ and avocado. I had never even heard of it. Almost there. After the eighth page I hear the first knocking sounds coming from the machine, then a low buzz. I start my choreography before the wheezing begins. To be honest, it seems like a lot of hassle being rich. To have so much stuff, and to have to protect it all. Locks on the door, insurance. You have to make sure nothing breaks. And if it does, where did you leave the warranty? Did you put it in a clear plastic sleeve in some drawer? You have to worry about your inheritance, and how much of it will have to go to the tax office. You have to work out how much you’re allowed to give away as a gift before that’s taxed too. When you buy a house, you’re stuck with it, so you have to keep an eye on the housing market and figure out when it might collapse. You have to find out which political party wants to keep the mortgage interest rates low and make sure that that party will have the final say in this country. You have to think about the price of petrol and whether it’s cheaper across the border, and then calculate whether the difference is worth the trip. Someone’s mother once told me, after describing how much the annual maintenance on their sailboat cost, that no property is duty-free.
*
A message pops up on my screen. An event has been added to the shared calendar. How much effort will it require? I need to know in advance. Will it be physically demanding? I’d rather just stay in my little office. I hear enthusiastic footsteps approaching, then the click of the door handle. My colleague from PR sticks her symmetrical face round the door. ‘I don’t know if you’ve already seen it, but we’re having a picnic at lunch!’ She closes the door. I hate picnics. They’re just like karaoke: everyone gets dragged in and you’re the grouch if you complain. The door opens again.
‘By the way,’ she says. ‘Isn’t the heat in here suffocating? We could do something about it, move the printer or something.’
Move the printer?
‘Oh, it’s no big deal,’ I say, feeling a drop of sweat rolling down my armpit. My hands leave moist marks on the printer, on my keyboard, on the letters. My legs stick to the chair. ‘I have a fan.’
‘OK!’ The door is shut.
The fan, an enormous white, rattling thing, makes a quarter-turn, swinging first towards the printer and then in my direction. When the fan is aimed at me, I selfishly wish it would stay there, cooling the film of sweat on my face. It’s only when the fan is pointed this way that I can think clearly. But I can’t deny my printer the cooling breeze. He’s already having such a tough time!
I eat lunch at my desk. When Marketing stops by in the afternoon to print his documents, he shows me a video of something that happened at the picnic. He laughs very loudly about it.
‘You should’ve been there,’ he says.
*
So maybe it’s a good thing my dad has nothing but debt. Having your finances in order, paying your bills on time: if you ask him, that’s reserved for normies. He looks down on these people with a sneer. I think, you can sneer all you like, but if the bailiff walks out with your TV because you haven’t paid your bills, you won’t be happy. Whatever. It’s his life. Is there anything worth watching on TV these days anyway? After the divorce my dad moved to a new city, started a new family and then left them as well. We see each other once a year now, and even then we don’t talk about anything. He never said much to begin with. Was that a trend in the nineties? My mother was allocated a new council house nearby. The small back garden was converted into an aviary by the previous occupant. That was the beginning of the end. No, we didn’t keep any birds, that’s a very niche hobby for a very niche kind of person.
To summarize: I would very much like to be someone who casually keeps family photos on the mantelpiece, but I’m not that kind of person. And I don’t have a mantelpiece.
*
The next day is nervewracking. I go to the office as usual, turn on my computer and see an email: REMINDER: YOUR PACKAGE IS READY FOR COLLECTION. No address, no pick-up point. The all-caps makes me nervous. What does this message mean? I’m no closer to knowing where to get it from, and I need this package, my colleagues are waiting. It’s crucial.
Stress is the leading cause of death these days, so I force myself to stay calm. Maybe there was an error at the sorting office, very normal, no problem at all. It was an automated email, after all, and they can be confusing. I won’t file a complaint, because package delivery services have a hard enough time as it is. I’ve had a stomach ache all morning. Every so often I manage to forget what’s causing it, but then I suddenly remember and get a sharp pang in my stomach again. The package will definitely arrive tomorrow. As long as no one asks for it today, I’m fine.
But maybe… Maybe it was sent to another incorrect address, on a totally different street to the one I searched. Or maybe it was sent later than I thought, and it won’t arrive at that sex shop until tomorrow. I should have left them the correct address. Why didn’t I think of that before? Hopefully the man with the crow’s feet will remember me and track me down if the package turns up there. Or maybe it was delivered to the sex shop days ago, and the crow’s feet guy tricked me, he’d already opened the package and, recognizing its value, sold its contents on the dark web. He might have seemed sweet and friendly, but that was all for show. Nerves are contagious; I can sense it in the printer, who’s printing more erratically than normal.
*
A Greek settlement at the foot of a sleeping volcano was Nervia’s place of exile. The demi-goddess of anxiety. That feels familiar. She was the niece on her mother’s side of Damocles, courtier to Dionysius the Elder. The villagers lived under constant threat: although they looked upon the volcano as a friend, they knew that it was capable of engulfing them. They were nervous, even when they slept, due to the presence of Nervia, who, out of fury over her exile, hovered over the valley like a white mist and showed no sign of leaving. The closer to one another the people lived, the more concentrated Nervia’s presence. Things stayed quiet for a long time. But those who sleep, no matter how deeply, must one day awake. In 361 or 362 BC (records are unclear), Nervia came to dance, as was her custom, at the annual wine festival. It was the only time in the year when the villagers welcomed her unconditionally. People lifted their glasses to her. But this year was different from other years. The tense excitement Nervia brought with her intensified. She danced, whirled, spun through the valley, climbing the vineyard-covered slopes of the volcano and returning to the dancing crowd with even greater energy, like a tornado. The party grew wilder. Never before had the people felt clearer, happier, better. They were one with all that was around them, their nerve endings sparking with curious sensations, their senses sharper than a freshly whetted knife. The dancers, their feet bare in the grass, their faces turned to the warm autumn breeze, were so absorbed in feeling at one with the planet that they didn’t notice the intensifying vibrations of the earth. The increasingly dazzling light seemed to fit their sublime moment of shared illumination. It wasn’t until the burning avalanche had engulfed the vineyard and was about to reach the valley that a villager noticed the approaching lava. ‘At last!’ he cried out. ‘Deliver us!’ The earth was scorched black. The bodies of the dancers were found like the bodies in Pompeii: preserved in medias res. Even thousands of years later, you could tell from their posture that they’d reached the pinnacle of happiness.
*
‘Hi, good morning,’ my boss says as he invades my office. He makes me jump. (Question: What is loneliness? Answer: Jumping when someone speaks to you.) ‘How’s it going in here?’
My boss stands very straight, his shoulders self-consciously relaxed; he must have learnt to do that somewhere. All his movements are controlled. You might even think a robot had taken over his body. A Real Person (trademark). He would probably take that as a compliment: my boss is the kind of guy who thinks technology will only improve us. He says ‘AI’ in English instead of Dutch. He almost never enters my territory. I’m very self-conscious about what I’m wearing. Do I have enough clothes on? He steps into my little room and looks round, but there’s not much to see: the printer, the rotating fan, and me. He takes a few steps towards the window. The old wooden boards creak under his feet. He casts a searching glance outside, but his office is right under mine, so he has the same view.
I sit up straighter. My stomach always contracts a bit when my boss and I are in the same room. I’d like to say as little as possible, but instead I say too much. I’m not scared of him, not really, but he’s my boss and no one else is. Most of my sex dreams are about him. I’m about to start listing everything that’s been going well, when he says: ‘Question.’ I would have said, ‘Just a quick question,’ and that’s why he’s the boss and I’m not. The stomach ache I already had spreads throughout my body. After all, it’s nobody else’s fault: I’m the one responsible for this package. He knows it, I know it. It will definitely be an expensive loss if it turns out it can’t be found. I should have asked the sender for a tracking number, but for that I would need to know who the sender was, and I do not. It’s probably lost forever now, and if that’s the case it will be one hundred per cent my fault, a mistake for which I’ll have to face the consequences.
‘Or actually, before we talk about that – I didn’t see you at the picnic yesterday. Were you not feeling well?’ He knows I’ve got some sort of illness, but what exactly…?
‘Well.’ What should I say? ‘No, not really… It was a little too hot for me. And the printer was acting up. I wanted to make sure the print job went well, so I stayed in my office. I don’t like leaving him alone.’ Leaving him alone? What am I saying? ‘I mean, like, to keep an eye on the printing, you know?’ My boss is gazing outside again.
‘That’s fine of course.’ He tries to conjure up a reassuring smile. ‘What I’d like to discuss with you is the inbox.’
I look at him as normally as possible.
‘Whether you’d be able to take over again for the next few weeks, because [name of colleague] is going on holiday.’
