For years, I smugly prided myself as a non-fax machine person. I felt it beneath my dignity to own such a technical contraption. The quill is more my style than a computer but, being practical, I reluctantly use a computer, casting wistful glances at the dust gathering on my quill.
Unfortunately, in the world in which we live, it is necessary to fax some letters or documents to someone in some odd part of the world. I don’t like it, but that’s just the way it is.
On the rare occasion when I must fax some document at an office supply store, I usually sneak in the back way. It has been my experience, when the fax man seeth me cometh, he always raises the price per page. This is just a small service he does for Yours Truly.
Then, when paying for this service, the fax man usually says with an impish grin, “When are you going to get a fax machine of your own?”
I always flash a smile back at him, but if he knew the thoughts in my head, he would charge me more per page. Silence truly is golden, especially for the person exercising the virtue.
Actually, I don’t trust machines. I know a mind somewhere is controlling all of these machines — a menacing, mischievous mind dedicated to the simple task of messing up my life.
When I eventually break down and buy a fax machine someone will invent something to replace it and I’ll have another antique on my hands to put alongside of my Underwood typewriter and boxes of 8-track tapes.
This notwithstanding, I ended up buying a fax machine several weeks ago. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice in the matter.
My printer finally went the way of all printers. I hated to see it go. The left side was cracked where Noah, the original owner, dropped it. For years, it served me quite well. My next printer will have a big ink cartridge to fill.