New Copy Machine

The old machine is unceremoniously carted away today. Where she used to sit find interesting assortment of junk (mangled paperclips, large dust bunnies, pieces of oreo and pretzel) and treasures (an oromlou bracelet, a pill box, a ruler, and the master key to the office, which had hitherto been given up for lost and the office rekeyed, so in truth, tell self that this find should be classified as junk too--brain takes--at the time interesting--but finally unfruitful journey into the that way that one decides someting is valuable or not). At one, the new copy machine arrives, swathed in Saran Wrap. The delivery men set up the machine and turn it on. The Contessa and I take the event schedule to the copy room for the inagural scan. When we seen the unwrapped machine, we both stop dead in our tracks. The Contessa says in shocked voice, doesn't it look exactly like the old one? Say (without meaning to) I think it is the old one. I make a copy This machine, at least, doesn't have a death rattle. Instead there is a high pitched squeak like there might be a loose wheel at the end of the machine which spits out the copies. Have feeling that have entgered time warp and become dizzy. The Contessa white in the face. A call to the saleswoman clears things up. She says It is a Refurbished machine--the same model, but not the actual same machine. Say, I see, though don't quite see at all. Had though was getting a new machine. When, at 2:30 am called to load staples into machine -- an intricate and counter-intuitive procedure that calls to mind surgery -- am filled with a peculiar sadness.