I was at the University of Wales and a very kind Welshwoman librarian had just brought a dissertation out of storage that I desperately wanted a copy of. I asked her where the photocopier was in the library.
“Photocopier?” she asked doubtfully. The dissertation sat on the book truck between us.
“Yes.”
“We don’t have photocopiers.”
My face fell. I sighed. I reconciled myself to just reading it and taking notes.
“But there is one in the faculty room,” she offered helpfully.
“Might I use it?” I asked. She was putty in my hands.
She took me to the faculty room and left me with the student charged with copying things for professors.
“Hi,” I said jubilantly. “How much per copy?”
He looked up, “I can copy something for you if you need. What is it?”
I lifted the volumes that are the dissertation. He stared. “You want to copy that?”
“Well,” I considered the volumes with an expert eye. I looked at the clock. 45 minutes to closing. From my considerable experience (watching friends) buy outrageously overpriced college textbooks, photocopy and spiral bind them at the library, and then return them for full purchase price, I knew precisely how much I could get done. I chose the volume I wanted most. The one with content I had not seen anywhere else: her letters. I held it up. “I’d like to copy this.”
“I have other work to do,” he said doubtfully.
“I know how to use a copier,” I said cheerily. “How much do you charge per page?”
He thought. I got the idea that they had no set price as they only copied for profs on demand. He named a per-page price. It was reasonable. I thought about how much money I had left. I could copy for 35 of the 45 minutes available to me at which point I would have spent every pence I had with me in Wales.
“Great!” I said. I set to work. He watched for a moment, clearly unsure that this strange American could work a copy machine.
I began to work. I copied and copied and copied. I flipped pages and I copied and I read bits here and there and I copied. I counted. I counted pages and I counted pences. When I had copied every pence I had, I called him back. It was five minutes to closing.
I told him how many pages I had done. He figured the cost and then just stood there looking at the copies. He looked at me. It came out to nearly 45 pounds. He’d clearly never considered that anyone would pay 45 pounds for photocopying.
“How about 25 pounds?” he said.
“Great! I’ll be able to eat,” I said. I said this without thinking of what it was going to sound like.
“Eat?”
“Yes, see, the original total was all I have with me here in Wales and I’m not going back to London until the day after tomorrow. Now I can eat.”
I was thrilled over the partially-copied dissertation. It had not occurred to me to save back anything for food for dinner or the next day. What is food in the face of knowledge?
He shook his head wonderingly. I fingered the warm paper and sighed contentedly.
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