COPY MAX

In the seven years I've been involved with self-publishing, never once has an employee questioned me about the number of copies produced from too-easily-jammed machines. Either the barely-above-minimum-wage stiffs behind the counter haven't known about my long-standing coupon-free discounts (10 double-sided sheets for the price of one single-sided page) or zine-friendly folks like Josh of Copiez fame have looked the other way when the D.I.Y. booklets were being constructed. This maverick style has enabled me to spread the gospel amongst the blissfully unaware ("Why don't you write about bands I've heard of?") and converted alike ("What page is my band's review on?"). Until a girl named Debra asked to see the contents of my folder last Friday (Hey, not on the first date, sweetie!), the sliding-scale rate had never threatened an increase.

Debra, assumed to reside in Chesapeake, VA, has curly red hair and similarly hued apple-cheeks. Her face, eyes, and lips aren't cosmetically treated. The khaki pants which mask supposedly creamy-white, thick thighs are form-fitting with an unbuttoned left back pocket. A dark-blue collared shirt is loosened just enough to reveal an outcropping of tittage. Would any self-respecting BBW admirer ask Debra to position the whole (front 'n' back) of her body on the Xerox's glass, thus duplexing a woman who'll provide after-5:00-P.M. thrills? Of course.

Unfortunately, the hands of the clock read 11:23 A.M., ensuring an all-work-and-no-play attitude from her. "These new copiers are much easier to handle than the old ones," Debra said. "Yeah," I replied; "I'd like to grab onto your handles," I thought. "You are making a lot of copies," she continued. "I guess I am," I countered; "You have a lot of flesh that's making me want to climb over the counter," spoke the voice in my head. After forty minutes of unbeknownst-to-her foreplay, I presented Debra with my tally slip and asked if she had change for a $100 bill. "Don't think we have enough tens and twenties back here. Try up front...wait, how many did you make?" she queried. "133," I bluntly stated. "Are you sure that's all you made? You had a stack that was very high," Debra interrogated. "Oh, I meant 266...forgot to multiply by two," I responded with faux conviction. "May I see your copies?" she demanded in the form of a question. "Sure," I slurred not too generously. Placed in Debra's freckled hands were approximately 250 sheets skimmed from the top of my pile. "Where's the rest of them?" she suspiciously wondered. "I had made the other copies at the Laskin Road store yesterday. Brought them with me to fold and staple," I wittily gathered. Though Debra's green eyes met my baby blues with distrust, she allowed the 266-copy figure and instructed me to pay at a register near the store's entrance. I thanked the lady and promised her a sugarloaf on my next visit. Debra: You're a child of nature and a friend of man!

As I waited behind a businesswoman purchasing a tin of Altoids to combat her six-cups-of-coffee-induced halitosis, my trusty little golf-course pencil (you know, the type with no eraser) began to spasm into convulsion. I tried to regain its focus by hypnotically streaking straight lines. After a couple minutes and a fine sharpening, it communicated to me with this lead-stained message: 111. Relaying the post, I confided in an elderly cashier. 111: The number on the slip. 6: The number of the multiplier. 666: The number of the beast. Of course, Hell, like Virginia, has a 4.5% sales tax. Total lack of repentance: $7.10. At 89% off from the total cost ($69.30), Gee-Zuz wasn't the only one who could've saved me on that day.

The wages of sin are substantially less. Ask an Office Max worker.