For the past few years, a black rectangular box has occupied a shelf in my home office. A small, inexpensive Canon inkjet printer that I bought in a hurry at a local Walmart center, and of all the inkjets I’ve purchased over the years it has served me best and longest.
These printers are considered disposable. Generally, inkjets aren’t expected to last long. And of course, they offset their cheap upfront cost by the staggering expense of the ink they run on. Over the years, I’ve occasionally walked into my office to find that the printer has died silently and alone in the night. Without even a warning whimper. No drama to it. Just simple expiration.
In contrast, my previous laser printer was all about the drama. It valiantly spat out 100,000-word manuscripts and innumerable rough drafts for years, and after a lot of wear began to signal warning signs of its demise. It developed a squeak in its rubber page-feed rollers. Then one of its dual paper trays stopped working. Then it began to make a BAD NOISE like its guts were being twisted by some torturous device. I nursed it, babied it, crooned and cooed to it, and kept it working. If that critter folded, I would never find another printer able to talk to my then out-of-date computer. And so I went down to the wire, trying to print out a manuscript to meet deadline (in the days before we emailed our submissions). Running out of toner. Hearing that lame gear grind and squeal and moan with every page. Stopping between chapters to pull out the toner cartridge, shake it to loosen a few more flecks of ink powder, and slamming it back in place. Begging the printer to please keep going. And it did. It wheezed the final ten pages and fell in the traces like an abused Victorian cart horse hauling coal uphill. I mailed that manuscript on time and heaved the printer into the trash. At least I’d wrung every possible drop of use from it.
And of course, after a while, I was paid for the book. Then I bought a new laser printer and a new computer–one that’s now so ancient I call it Grampy. Yes, by a few months Grampy is even older than Ole Faithful, but Grampy still purrs smoothly in its out-of-date Windows XP program. It has never been connected to the Internet, never known the evil kiss of a virus, never fended off cookies, never experienced the jolt of updates. Firing it up to work on a manuscript is like taking your grandmother’s 1976 Cadillac Coupe de Ville out for a spin. Too long to park, guzzling gas like it’s still 72 cents a gallon, and a smooth surge of V-8 power under that l-o-n-g chrome-embellished hood. Oh, baby!
Ole Faithful, on the other hand, has withstood Internet updates that crash it, the invention of the Cloud that confuses and crashes it, the creation of Google Chrome that garbles its poor old brains and crashes it, and the indignity of wearing virus protection like a corset. Buffeted by cookies and threats and electrical brownouts and power surges, Ole Faithful falters and swoons but still manages to stagger onward, game to the last rattle. And Ole Faithful has cozied up to an Epson printer, a Brother printer, an uppity HP that blew ink everywhere but where it should, and for quite a while now a small black Canon. The little printer that could.
Li’l Blackie has held on, held up, done its job, and kept going for–as I’ve already said–longer than any of its other inkjet predecessors. Long enough for me to occasionally think, “How long will this thing last?”
And then, in December, it sent out a cry for help. An error message announced that its ink absorber was nearly full.
I went and talked to an equipment guy. I learned that all inkjets–even the monster machines that print banners and blueprints–have a tray with gauze pads to catch the ink that’s not squirted on the paper during a printing session. (I guess that’s what the sputtering HP printer lacked. It just threw the unused ink underneath itself and made such a mess I kept it sitting on a tray lined with aluminum foil.)
And I learned that–as I already suspected–a replacement ink absorber costs more than a replacement printer.
So I kept Li’l Blackie going, ignoring its quiet little error message, until recently it stopped printing. The machine is still viable, still fine, but it will no longer squirt ink to paper. No words come from it at all. Li’l Blackie sits, silenced.
I disconnected its power cord and USB cable. I removed it from the shelf. It rests now on the floor in a corner, awaiting trash day. All because of a $34 part. (Plus shipping.)
And I went and bought another Canon inkjet. I know they’re not economical–inkwise. I know there are $200 inkjets that will run for a year or more off a $12 bottle of ink. And maybe I’ll investigate one of those later. After all, a few purchases of Li’l Blackie’s ink cartridges would easily pay for the pricier–yet more economical–machine. Meanwhile, I needed something now. Another $30 printer came home with me last week.
The new one is white instead of black. Its shelf footprint is about the same. Its paper tray is different. It came without a USB cable, so thank goodness the old one fit it. And when I fire it up to print it makes a worrisome little noise like it’s straining a cheap plastic gear that probably won’t last long.
But, golly, I like it. The built-in copier feature works easily. It prints much faster. It doesn’t sit and make all sorts of silly little noises before it starts like Li’l Blackie always did. Whitey just gets on with the job.
That’s all I want. Unlike Li’l Blackie, Whitey’s heads are in perfect alignment. And best of all, Whitey’s installation did not crash Ole Faithful.
For the moment, life is good.
Now, if I can just bring myself to toss Li’l Blackie in the trash.