Our photocopier breaks down regularly. Almost daily in fact.
And our photocopy repair guy is a barrel of laughs.
His name is Baltazar. He has dark circles under his eyes, a scowl that could make children weep tears of blood, and from what I’ve seen, one shirt.
I feel badly for him. He seems profoundly angry. Maybe it’s because he’s asked to fixed the same photocopier over and over and over again.
And yet for all his fury, Baltazar is a miracle worker.
I’ve made it a habit to avoid him.
But today I needed photocopies. And there he was, fixing the obviously dead photocopier.
His photocopy machine repair methods included pounding on it with his fists, swearing a blue streak, and then making noises that some might describe as speaking in tongues.
After delivering several blows to the machine with a rubber hammer and then putting in the boot, he put his head on top of it and sighed heavily.
I asked him how he was doing.
He looked me over like I was something he’d just dug out of his ear and said: “My lungs are thick with the stink of toner and my eyes burn under the light of the photocopier. I’ve poured my lifeblood into this building and in return I’m forced to chat with idiots. My back is sore, my balls are swollen, and my son wants to write screenplays.”
Then he made a kind of barking noise and pounded on the photocopier – and just like that it kicked back to life.
Another Baltazar miracle.