backforthmenu Classified. I head over to a copy shop downtown to make a copy and send a fax. There’s only one copier and someone has left their originals in it. There’s only one other person in the place, a middle-aged man in 70s circa Nikes peaking out from under baggy brown pants with a short-sleeve shirt half-tucked into them. Big red sideburns drop from a head of wild red hair. He’s a big guy, must weigh some 250 pounds or so. I pull out the newspaper clippings and put them on the counter next to him, “Are these yours?” He turns quickly to me, head sideways, and says, precisely, articulating every word, “Are what mine? What are you referring to, sir?” “Those.” I point to the two clippings. “They were in the copier, I assumed they were yours." His eyes widen. “What? What makes you assume I was using the copier? And what do you mean, ‘are these yours?’ That’s such an ambiguous question. Many of these papers are mine.” He spreads his arms like a preacher. “And they are ALL classified. I'm on a deadline, get away from me.” and he continues to work, shuffling clippings from one very thick folder to another. He takes the two I brought over and stuffs them under a pile of similar ones. The droopy-eyed woman behind the counter shows no emotion whatsoever. I make my copy, send my fax, pay, leave. 9/27/90