Duplicate Envy

I envied the copier machine mechanic. For all that is in line with everything else in the universe, and to those who have seen it, heard it, or if there is just something off about you...Where the hell was I?

I envied the copier machine fix-it-guy. I stood there, standing in line, a bunch of nicotine craving hags in front of me, wanting that next cup of coffee to be running through their veins already. Staring around, looking like lost children, because there was only one copy machine working. We had four, but only one graced us with its actual capabilities.

In my arms was on piece of paper, and I needed to make one-hundred and eighteen twin syblings for this thing. And we only had one copy machine working. An occupation funded by the city, by taxes, by the government, by this world, and we only had one copy machine working.

The copy machine's first aid had arrived, the med-tech, the lifesaver, the techno-molder. There he was, working with his toy, one which he's become to know very well. One he's nurtured, looked after, and knows it by name. "Damn this piece of crap," he slurs to it, but smiles after.

He fixed things. He made things work again. He was able to work with his hands, and get things done. It never ended, always travelling, and new rooms, but the same toys. Maybe a few twists in the gadget myth, but exact enough. He travels, and he fixes things.

And then I made my copies.