People, Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Best Friend. He's a One Gal Copyin' Pal Who'll Love Me 'Til the End.

The copy machine is loaded.

I take full responsibility. Those Kyoceras just can't hold their paper. Like a kindergartener forced to hold a vomit bowl under his chin in the car, Kyocera has to have a safety outlet. Drawer 1 must remain open. If we close it, you see, Kyocera's guts start churning. Paper goes places paper shouldn't go. It's too much for his system. Kyocera shuts down. He needs a cold cloth for his forehead.

I feel for Kyocera. I do. Nobody wants to be exposed, a virtual stranger's arms up to the elbows in his guts, in full view of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks down the hall. I try to soothe him. Any time I need a job done, I coddle Kyocera. First, I check for a fever. I ask how he's feeling. He's not very talkative, that Kyocera. But sometimes he flashes a text that says he is under the weather. And I leave him alone.

Today, Kyocera appeared to be perfectly healthy. Robust, even. He had just finished a major task for a colleague. So I let him rest momentarily. Gave him a quick check-up. It seems that he was not starving, but it had been a while since he had eaten. Like maybe his blood sugar might be low. So I fed him. Filled him to the brim. You never want Kyocera to get hungry while he's working for you. His nutrients go down the wrong tube. Sometimes, a simply Heimlich maneuver can fix him. If you catch him choking in time. It's tricky. Because, like humans, a choking Kyocera makes no sound. I saved him on a hunch, once. Pulled open Drawer 2, and saw an accident waiting to happen. His next bite was twisted into a shape that would never have fit Kyocera's esophagus. I removed it. Disposed of it. And that day, like today, Kyocera hummed happily along. If he had lips, I swear that he would have whistled while he worked. None of those septuagenarian-with-emphysema wheezes were in evidence.

I got Kyocera loaded. And I take full responsibility.