Paper Jam

 

Our friend was coming to lunch, she was also going to sign The Teenager’s passport form. The one he still hadn’t filled in.

We also didn’t have the photos ready having discovered that the photo booth in the nearby supermarket was not in working order.

The previous day  at home I’d taken photos, and all that remained for to do was to choose one and print it out.

With minutes before the arrival of my friend The Teenager was sitting by the printer. He had been using photoshop. He had chosen one of the earlier photos I’d first taken as being the best. The earlier photos had been taken in ‘landscape’ form until I had turned the camera so that they would be in  ‘portrait’. Consequently, because of this he’d had to use photoshop to add more of the white background.

There is an unwritten law in the universe that whenever you need something in a hurry a printer you intend to use at that time plays up. Our trusty printer was no exception.

“Paper jam!” The Teenager exclaimed.

He fiddles with it. You can sense  annoyance rising in the room like an oncoming tide.

“I’ve cleared the paper jam, but  the computer still says it’s jammed!”

Time is ticking away.

“I’ve uninstalled and reinstalled the printer and it still says it’s jammed!”

“Switch off the computer, then turn it on again and it will print,” I say.

I know that this works from long practice. The Teenager switches off the computer and goes off with Zen like calmness for a bath.

After I’ve finished getting things ready for lunch, I think to help speed things up by switching the computer back on.

As it reboots, I listen for the printer expecting it to whirr into action.

Nothing.

It’s switched off.

I switch it on.

The lights don’t come on. I check the plugs. The plugs are all in. I try the buttons again.

Nothing.

It’s broken.

The Teenager is still in the bathroom. I decide to ask.

“I pulled the plug out,” he explains, “like you told me to do.”

“No, I didn’t.” I reply, “I said switch off the computer.”

I go back downstairs to check the plugs for a second time. My friend will be arriving soon and here I am trying to make sense of a spaghetti arrangement of wires.

All the plugs appear to be in the right sockets.

I go back upstairs and call through the bathroom door a second time, “All the plugs are there.”

“No!” exclaims The Teenager. “I took out the cable at the back of the printer.”

“Why?”

“You told me to.”

I don’t argue.

I go back to the printer and eventually find at the back of the desk a grey wire which I then manage to reattach it to the printer.

The lights come on, but nothing happens.

I find his picture on the computer. I ready the shiny photo paper and press print.

The machine whirrs and clicks into life.

Paper jam.

I drag out the paper.

The Teenager has just come downstairs and he’s watching as I battle with it, “It’s like a reverse birth,” he comments as I tinker with the printer’s innards.

A car pulls up outside.

“She’s here.”

“Perhaps it needed more paper underneath to lift it up. We could try a practice run.”

“It still says paper jam.”

“Switch the computer off and then back on and it will print,” I say, as I go to welcome my friend.

We try to look calm but she can what is going on from the array of forms and papers on the desk. We explain it all as the computer tinkles its windows theme song.

Then the printer, loaded with ordinary paper, begins to print.

We watch hopefully. Images are appearing.

We look.

“You can’t use this,” I say.

“Why not?” The Teenager asks.

“Because your face is out of proportion.”

The landscape photo image has been stretched, and the distance from his chin to his nose has been elongated in a caricature of the face that is now looking at me.

After much debate, it is agreed that we will all go back to the photo booth at the local supermarket in the hope that it will now have been fixed.

I search the house for £5 in coins and then we set off.

As we walk towards the booth, I run through all the things he has to get right, “Don’t smile, get the seat in the right position, make sure there’s no hair in your eyes,” I say without nagging, trying to make it sound fun.

The machine is working. The Teenager goes in and closes the curtain.

And my friend and I giggle outside like kids as we listen to the machine’s voice.

“Three, two, one.”

Then we wait.

It prints.

We look.

There is hair over his eyes.

I want to scream.

“It’s all right,” The Teenager says.

“They won’t accept it,” I say.

My friend agrees.

Confronted with two against one the Teenager reluctantly agrees.

I have no more coins. I  go back to the car. I find a five pound note.

“You’ll have to get change,” I say.

He goes off and returns with the coins.

“No hair in front of your face,” I nag, as he readies himself once again.

“Three, two, one.”

Then we wait for the photo he has chosen.

It prints.

We look.

It’s okay!

We go home for lunch, my friend fills in the form and leaves. We then fill in the rest. We check and double check the instructions. We add this, and recheck that until we are certain we have everything just right.

Then we post it.

And then, and only then,  do we walk back home on air!