Historically, I have never had any problems procuring the proverbial supplies needed to read, write and learn.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday my sister and I went to purchase office supplies. Never mind that both of us graduated from high school long ago. Sylvia, now a public school teacher, was on a mission of mercy to buy all the supplies her special ed students would need to survive their sophomore year of high school. And then I saw Him. Loyally surrounded by high stacks of colored two pocket folders, construction paper and three-ringed binders. Crowned by a shelf after shelf of golden file folders. Proudly standing at the triangular apex of two aisles–filled with erasers, pencil sharpeners and cigar boxes–as if to extend his welcoming arms.
It was a majestic sight of fantastic proportions.
Enter HRM Xerox KG2-1732, the newest, most regal manifestation of my childhood fantasy. A Xerox color copier. I lovingly called him King George II. If this machine were a man, I would have married as a teenager and given birth to print resolutions of at least 300 x 300 dpi. When I thought of the book reports and scientific research notes I could have copied, then I finally understood the inspiration for both the colony and the song, Georgia On My Mind.
Let me take you back to 1982.
The parental units would announce that it was time to create our forecasted list of necessary school supplies. The older two really didn’t take much interest. Their list was pretty standard. A Trapper-Keeper, calculator, college-ruled paper, a few blue Erasermate pens and a box of number two pencils.
Sylvia and I were a whole different story. A back-to-school sale was another name for “A” student paradise. Sylvia and I were nerds at heart. We were ages nine and ten, respectively, when we realized that school spending was in truth synonymous with hitting the jackpot because the parental units would spend lavishly on any education-related endeavor.
The key word is any. [You thought I was going to say lavishly, didn’t you?]
Much later in life, as a thirty-two year old attorney, I would soon learn to love and appreciate the words must, shall, and any in the most perverse and precise ways, but any would never again be the sweet respite of honor and hope it represented in my well-spent youth.
Remember, we went back to 1982. Reagan was President, Bartles and James’ Melon Splash was all the rage, and a first-class stamp cost $.20. We said goodbye to Princess Grace and Jim Belushi. Alexander Haig resigned and The Color Purple–already my favorite colored pencil–quickly became my favorite book.
If that didn’t bring you back, I’m not sure anything could.
For two weeks before school started, Sylvia transformed into Sylva Meanie. Already an ever-present and worthy opponent for my parents’ love, attention and annual income, Sylva Meanie became my arch nemesis in the war over 5-subject notebooks, plastic stencils, yellow highlighters, and blue Pilot pens.
Yes. We fought to the near death over Pilot pens of every color!
Show me an 80s student who didn’t own at least one Pilot pen and I will show you a kid who never finished her homework by laying on the floor, pressing her paper against the underbelly of her desk while chewing grape Bubbalicious gum and humming a Megadeath riff.
But, I digress.
The parental units, however partial to the older, slimmer and clearly more manipulative Sylvia, had some limits. If they hadn’t, I might be referring to them with a much icier tone.
Motherpod, hair restrained in a tight bun like a freshly caught felon in handcuffs, decided that a color copier machine was out of the question. Fatherpod, seeming similarly restrained by the strength of her decision, stood stoically at her side while nodding in agreement.
Looking back, I vaguely remember seeing a barn in the background and pitchfork in her hand.
The parental units had spoken. The color copying machine was out of the question. Their reasoning? There was not enough space in the house.
I argued quite persuasively that the machine fit quite nicely on Sylva Meana’s side of our full-sized bed. To my amazement, S’Meana supported my argument by volunteering to sleep on the fluffy yellow mat poised betwixt the bed and the chest of drawers. I had to give it to her. She was mean, but she had nothing but respect for the crystal clarity and razor precision representing the Monolith that was 80s Xerox, complete with color cartridges and up to 500 dpi.
Alas, there would be no copier. Not even next to the laundry basket, the alternate space that I suggested. Looking back, that was the day my dream of becoming a world famous neurologist went up in smoke and my career as a paper peddler began.
Peddler. Pilfer. Whatever.
Sylvia and I, now happy, well-adjusted, and childless adults, push our way through the mob of parents, students, teachers and employees in an attempt to pay for the school supplies. We get along well. The failed attempt at the acquisition of King George II forever bonded two sworn blood enemies. As paper pushing professionals, we use the copiers at work all the time and would never dream of bringing one home.
Well, not unless that model I just saw in Office Depot is available online. And in case you’re wondering, Sylvia can use it anytime. In exchange for a small fee: a huge slice of her homemade banana pumpkin bread, and a vat of her addictive Cranberry Apple Zinger tea sweetened with no less than a quarter cup of sugar. It sounds hazardous, but it is the most nectareous way for a peppermint sprig and a chunk of ginger root to carelessly float without a lifejacket.
For the record, King George’s distant cousin would’ve been just as welcome in my bedroom…
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