Printed In America

Tommy Baritoni watched the photo print roll out of the HP Photosmart 3210 All in One Printer. Ah, that’s the stuff, he thought, admiring the full-color portrait of his favorite band in all their early-’80s glory, headbands, keytars, and all. They stopped making bands like Journey anymore, but I still believe. Tommy checked his watch and wondered where Marcela, Summer, and T.J. were. They were supposed to meet him here fifteen minutes ago.

Around him, the other customers of the Bloomfield Copy & Print Shop went about their business. They paid only casual attention to Tommy, unaware that here was the man who ran the largest hubcap-fencing ring in East Jersey. Nice little all-in-one printer, scanner, and copier they got here, Tommy mused. Prints without a PC thanks to the memory card reader and PictBridge USB port. Fast, too – 32 ppm black and 31 ppm color. I oughtta get one for Club Fuggetaboutit, have the girls put ‘em on the glass and sell the printouts. He filed the enterprising idea away until next week.

Just then, a guy in a suit stepped through the copy shop door and seemed to look right at Tommy – or did he? For a terrifying second, Tommy wondered if the guy was with the Dotatello family, or maybe was working for those Syrians that Tommy had ratted out to the FBI. As the suit moved up to the counter to pick up a printing order, Tommy tried to shrug off the anxiety that haunted him. No matter how forcefully he commanded his mind to think pleasurably about the HP Photosmart 3210 All in One Printer, he couldn’t shake this cloud of impending doom. He found no comfort in its built-in slide/negative adapter, dust and scratch removal, and advanced copying features. For some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, it felt like everything was about to come to a sudden, inexplicable, unsatisfying end.

Tommy eased a bit as Marcela and T.J. came through the door, the electronic sensor in the door bleeping as they did. Through the plate glass window, he saw Summer by the bicycle rack outside, struggling with the padlock on her bike. “Hey, Dad, want some Funyons?,” T.J. asked, extending the yellow cellophane bag. Tommy plucked out a Funyon, watching Summer finally clasp the padlock shut and walk toward the copy shop door. He pecked Marcela on the cheek and wiped away the stray Funyon crumbs his lips left there. The electronic door sensor bleeped again. Tommy looked up and