Almanac Life: The state of things.

 

“Replace depleted cartridge.”

 

So said the printer error message.

 

Easy.

 

Which cartridge? I wondered. Probably black. It’s usually black. Old black comes out, and new black goes in.

 

The printer whirrs backward and forward, ink cartridges go on a sort of carnival ride as they dart left and right, and the printer’s brain thinks, analyses, and reaches a conclusion. The whole process takes about two minutes.

 

“Replace depleted cartridge.” It says again.

 

I think. Maybe it’s all of them? If I replace all of them, the depleted one would be included. Right? So, I replace all of them.

 

The printer whirrs backward and forward once again, blinking, thinking, analysing, and reaches a conclusion.

 

“Cartridge damaged. You cannot print with a damaged cartridge.”

 

“But I just replaced all of them with new ones!” I plead.

 

The printer sits impassive. Emotionless. Devoid of humanity. This contraption seems to have forgotten that it works for me, not me for it. Should I want it to perform a task, then the task should be performed. Isn’t that the master/servant relationship?

 

So, I take all the news ones out, turn the printer off, put the new cartridges back in and turn it on again. That’s how Apollo 13 got back to earth. They rebooted it.

 

“Houston, we have a problem.”

 

“Just reboot it.”

 

“Roger.”

 

I’m beginning to feel the tide of frustration creeping up my neck. Should this printer continue to defy me I may well reboot it as well – all the way across the backyard.

 

The power switch is flicked. The printer gives a slight shudder.

 

“Come on!” I say, “Hurry up.”

 

Then it opens its display window, blinks, whirrs and vibrates slightly, like it’s stepped outside on a frigid morning, goes silent, thinking, recalibrating. A message appears with a loud “Ping!”

 

“Replace depleted cartridge.”

 

“Which one?!” My voice is elevated now. “For f…..”

 

I take a breath. No point getting worked up by an inanimate object. I take all the new cartridges out, put them aside, and put the old ones back in. The sleight of hand trick. A stupid plastic printer will never know the difference.

 

I close the cartridge compartment door. Click. The display window flashes. The internal mechanisms whine and buzz.

 

“Hurry up!!” My exclamation is not quite a yell. Maybe a junior yell.

 

“You cannot replace depleted cartridges with used cartridges.” It says.

 

Okay. Game on. It’s me against the printer. A meeting of the minds. I have its measure. So, I replace only half of the cartridges.

 

“Work that out!”  I scream with manic delight.

 

“You cannot replace depleted cartridges with used cartridges” comes the answer. Dry, dead language. The vacant expression in its display window is infuriating. The “X” for error is written all over it. This piece of black plastic, mass manufactured crap is now telling me what to do. Get stuffed!

 

“Last chance!” I say to it. Up close. Like I’m whispering in its ear. An assassin who has cornered his prey and is taking pleasure in its imminent discomfort. If the printer could sweat it would, but it can’t because it’s a useless pile of plastic components put together by a smarter robot than its stupid self. “Last chance.”

 

Rage is now just under my collar. Lurking. Bubbling away like Krakatoa on August 25^th 1883. (Krakatoa erupted on August 26^th). The jugular is pumping blood like the Amazon in flood season. I don’t care about what I was trying to print. This is now a matter of principle.

 

So, I turn it off, extract all the old cartridges and slide all the new cartridges back in, and turn it on again. I can do no more. Maybe it just needs time to recalibrate. The printer whizzes up and down its own oiled rail, clicking, analysing, thinking. Then it makes new noises. This is promising. It clicks, the sounds coming in quick succession, like a sprinkler on a summer lawn. Click-click-click. It splutters. More clicks. The cartridges go on another fast carnival ride. This is really promising. A buzz comes from its guts, and the display window starts blinking, but I can’t catch the words that appear as they are only there for a nanosecond before it blinks back to black.

 

“Cart……..”

 

Repla…”

 

“Genuine…..”

 

Then a hum. Deep. Like Paul Robeson emitting a resonant C#2, reportedly his deepest recorded note. Then a high-pitched soprano squeal. Then nothing. The screen is black. The blinking has ceased, but there is a faint buzz. A light appears, a red light, there are words. It has decided.

 

“Replace depleted cartridge.”

 

Eruption.

 

Without another thought I grab both sides of the machine and tear it out of its socket. The plug is released quickly. I have a powerful backward momentum from ripping the pathetic device from its berth. It swings past my head and crashes into the wall. Plaster splinters. The machine hits the floor and puts a ding in the Tasmanian Oak floorboards.

 

But fury has consumed my soul. I’m Gronk holding a cudgel over a wounded beast. Primeval screams bang away in my ears.

 

“AGGHHHHH!”

 

I don’t stop. I pick it up, stride across the family room, cast open the French doors and toss the bloody thing into the backyard like a mafia gangster casting a dead foe off a bridge into the Delaware River. The printer loops skyward, hits its peak trajectory and plummets to the ground. It skips and bounces and tumbles before coming to rest under the Magnolia. I can see it panting.

 

“Who’s the smart arse now?” I screech manically. “Ha? Had enough have you?”

 

The stupid printer doesn’t answer.

 

I reach for it, take a step back and hold it above my head. I’m now an executioner, loading the guillotine, preparing to send it to oblivion. To the recycling bin at the tip where all failed electronic devices go. The printer is Sydney Carton. Without nobility. But it has one last effort left.

 

“No!” it yells at me. “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

“Too late you worthless junk heap.” I shriek. “Too bloody late.”

 

The printer comes down hard on the ground. Its display window pops out, the ink reservoir and integrated smart chip are dislodged and bounce across the grass into a clump of violets. Painful for the printer but not fatal.

 

“I’m sorry! Please!” it pleads. “It wasn’t meant to go this far. I was just winding you up.”

 

But I’m a wild animal. The beast within is out. Fury is the fruit. Frenzied electrons dart around in my head. Commonsense is an idiot.

 

“Not laughing now are you?” I growl.

 

“I promise I’ll work” it says in a submissive, childish squark.

 

“Ha!”

 

Now my boot slams into its side. Right into the air vents. The paper jam doors fly open and rip away from the cheap, plastic hinges, and stepper motors are wrenched from the cartridge driver. The firing mechanism hangs hopelessly from wires like a kidney cut from a torso. The display is black. But this printer hangs on.

 

“Please” it can manage to whimper. “Please.”

 

“You’re done!” I howl. “You won’t be troubling me anymore. Say goodnight.”

 

I march to the shed and grab the hammer. When I return, the printer is labouring, panting like an old dog. Its front is open like its legs are spread. There is no dignity. I can see the motor. It looks up to me. Pathetic. Useless piece of rubbish. Brainless, idiotic moron. It took me for a fool. Well, who’s the fool now? The hammer comes down with all the force I can muster. Again and again. The clamour and clatter of hammer on plastic is obscene. Brutal. Plastic bits of printer guts burst into the air, spraying across the back yard, rolling under the Michelias, toppling into the roses, and even hurtling skyward and landing in the tangled mess of wisteria.

 

I stand over it. A conqueror. Breathing hard. The blood surges through my veins. The printer is dead. Go to hell!

 

I march back inside, pick up my phone, and make the call.

 

“Hello, Officeworks”

 

Hello” I say calmly. “I’m looking for a new printer.

 

 

To read more by Dips O’Donnell click here.

 

 

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