Primordial: An Abstraction

18

Two years pass like refried dreams.

A lot happens.

For instance:

I develop a meaningful relationship with the R.A. in my dorm. It collapses.

I develop a meaningful relationship with my psych professor. It collapses.

I develop a meaningful relationship with the President of the University. It collapses.

I develop a meaningful relationship with at least six of my roommates. They all collapse before they ever happen.

I develop a meaningful relationship with several members of the opposite sex. They never happen.

I realize that relationships are doomed to entropy and failure. I don’t talk to anybody for months unless a professor calls on me in class or I get drunk and call my wife and kids or a writer gets too close to me.

More happens.

And more. Two years is a long time no matter how you quantify and experience it.

For instance:

I get a part-time job at the library to supplement my income from book sales and help pay for my (re)new(ed) Ph.D. The job involves data entry and various organizational skills and techniques. Payment is a partial tuition waiver and a modest stipend.

On my first day I walk into the head librarian’s office. Nobody’s there.

Somebody left a note on the desk.

“The laminator in the learning center is broke,” reads the note.

I go to the learning center to see what’s happening with the laminator.

There are several ex-Ph.D.s I recognize from one of my classes trying to figure out how to use “the Internet.” They’re huddled around an old computer, one of those dirty, ochre-colored Apples with the green numerals and the cubed miniscreen that sits atop a hard drive the size of an anvil.

“What’s the problem with the laminator?” I ask.

They don’t know.

“Well it’s broke. Broken. It’s not working.”

They don’t know what a laminator is.

I’m not sure I do either.

“Well where is it then? I’ll give it a shot.”

The ex-Ph.D.s shrug. They’ve forgotten what I’m talking about and they want to know what I’m talking about.

I find what I think might be the laminator and take it apart. There are how-to-dismantle directions taped to the door of the cabinet beneath it, but I don’t care for the tedium of reading through directions, and I always try to do things myself first, even if it means botching the job beyond repair.

This apparatus appears to be a heated roll laminator with all of the trimmings and fixings. I understand how it works immediately, instinctively. Heat rollers melt glue onto a lamination film that is subsequently applied to a paper-based substrate by pressure rollers. I don’t understand the purpose of the machine. I calculate that it has something to do with the unbridled embellishment or protection of printed documents.

I see the problem.

I tell the ex-Ph.D.s to hand me a Phillips screwdriver.

They observe me.

I get a Phillips screwdriver and remove what I believe to be a rogue screw.

No. It’s not a rogue screw. It belongs where it is.

I screw the screw back in and toss the screwdriver aside. Then I remove the micro-adjustable slitter assembly unit, which looks suspicious.

There is a thermal response.

I remove a few casters and place them on a table. I remove a few mandrels and drop them on the floor. I gut the entire laminator and throw the viscera in the garbage.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with this shit-wheeling contraption!” I divulge, kicking over the laminator.

Curiously, the ex-Ph.D.s have managed to access the Internet on the old Apple. The porn is green and it’s in 8-bit. It takes awhile to load, but it still looks pretty good.