Mine is not a very macho occupation.  It requires little in the way of either muscles or courage to complete my daily bureaucratic tasks.  The office is not a place where heroes are typically forged.  However, I do occasionally find myself flushed with the thrill of battle; infused with a latent machismo, when I am required to fix the photocopier.

Sometimes the issue with the photocopier will be a problem of my own making––inserting a sheet of labels in a tray designed for A4––but, more-often-than-not, I will encounter the machine left out of action by a previous user who has slunk away an anonymous saboteur, selfishly abandoning its victim to an unpredictable karma.

Red lights flashing; warning signs blinking, the photocopier is clearly in distress.  In the absence of any professional assistance, it is down to me to render my best attempts at contraption CPR.  I check for vital signs.  Switch the machine off and on again in the best tradition of The IT Crowd.  No success.  A higher level of first aid is going to be required.  I make an inspection for blockages.  Paper tray 1.  Check.  Paper tray 2.  Check.  Paper tray 3.  Airways all clear.

What does the patient have to say for itself?  I check the diagnostics screen.  It suggests opening a plastic flap in the side of the machine that I have never noticed before.  Scalpel, sister, I’m going in.  I now have access to the internal gubbins of the machine.  Swab, please.  There is a surprisingly large array of multicoloured clips and switches.  I am quite sure that somewhere here there is a flange, if only I knew what such an entity looked like.

I am approaching the heart of the matter.  I can see an inky toner cartridge and a red warning sign advising of hot metal parts.  I also spy a distinctive foreign body.  A crumpled screw of white paper lodged around a shiny, cylindrical drum.  Instinctively, I know that I have encountered my nemesis.  I attempt to grab a corner of this offending object and pull.  It is a tug of war between me and the small lodged fragment.  It is now that I discover the warning sign is fully justified.  The metal drum is hot.  Very hot.  But I am close now.  I am not going to be defeated.  One last yank and I have the obstruction loose.

Almost immediately the patient is showing signs of recovery.  There are green lights where before there had been only red.  A reassuring whirr suggests a return to normal healthy function.

I emerge triumphant.  My fingers are burnt.  I have toner ink on my hands, my clothes, my forehead.  But I have proved myself a Man in the workplace.

Only there is no one else there to see me.

© Simon Turner-Tree

Simon Turner-Tree feels no need to prove his masculinity.