When I managed to find a parking spot within car-seat-hauling range of the Harvard Square Kinkos, I thought it was a good omen. But it must have been just a spot of plain-old dumb luck, because it all went to hell from there. Off we go:
I find the only Mac in a sea of PCs, only to discover that it costs 40 cents a minute, whereas PCs are a relative bargain at 25 cents a minute. “Why?” I ask.
“Because this is a design station,” I’m told, as if that clarifies the situation. I look down and notice that the “design station” comes equipped with a keyboard blackened by a thick patina of grime. (If
Antiques Roadshow has taught the nation that a natural patina increases the value of a fine piece of furniture, it must be understood that there are exceptions to the rule.) “Let me know when you’re ready to print,” the guy adds.
It’s a simple enough task that I’m there for: Print my document on card stock. But I sit down and immediately start to panic about my per-minute fee. The baby helps things out by fussing. Can’t hardly blame him, though, because he’s still bundled up for the cold, causing him to roast in his own juices like those turkeys cooked in plastic bags (a question for another day).
With the document ready to go, I look for the guy with the power to print. “He’s gone downstairs for a few minutes,” I’m told. “But he’ll be back.” In my mind, I see a giant digital tally of my mounting fees, like the tickers that calculate the national debt. But before too long, he’s back, attempting to connect my “design station” to the “printer.” Without luck. We reboot. Twice. Finally we’re ready to go, but what’s this? Someone else is printing out what can only be a copy of
War and Peace, double-spaced in Courier. “I guess we’re gonna have to wait,” I’m told. On my dime (and nickel and quarter)? There goes the kid’s college fund. But, wait! It’s finally our turn. He loads the paper, I hit print. Paper jam. We do it all over again.
“I guess you can’t print on this paper,” he decides, after the page comes out smudged but unprinted.
“Whaa???” I stammer. (Henry backs me up with a “WAAAAH!” of his own.)
“I guess you could buy our card stock downstairs and use that.”
“But I want to use this card stock, the card stock that I’ve already paid for,” I say. (Henry is a beat behind in the conversation: “WAAAH!”)
“Well it doesn’t work in our printer.”
“ ,” I say.
“ ,” he replies. “Or I guess you could try using this
other printer,” he finally volunteers.
“There’s another printer?” I say. “Hook me up!”
“It costs twice as much. I guess because it’s a color printer.”
“But I’m printing in black and white.
“Yeah, I know. . . . ”
“But it’s still twice as much? For the same thing?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
In the end, I declined the offer. I didn’t buy their card stock. I didn’t pay extra to print my black and white document on their color printer. And the kind young man generously offered to credit me for the whole 20-minute transaction. So I collected my stuff, including my crying baby, and walked out of there none the richer and none the poorer, either. Except I did score 20 minutes of free “design” time.
The lesson? Next time, hire a
professional.
