Giving names to inanimate objects entertains me. Perhaps it’s from the early influence of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, the psychedelic over-the-top fever dream that appeared in the form of a Saturday morning kids’ show that aired in the late 80s. Pee-Wee was notorious for naming his friends, like Chairy, his talking chair, Globey, the spinning globe, or Mr. Window, who needs no introduction. Pee-wee’s method of naming is pretty straightforward, but for me, I look for the type of name that captures the spirit of the thing. I adopted this habit as a young adult. For instance, our first car as a married couple, Blurb, got her name because she was a short, stout little car, the color of toothpaste.
Today, our fleet of transportation vehicles include Miss Beverly Highlander, Lola (the Toyota Corolla), Matilda the teardrop camper, Stella, my bike, and The Mango Sisters, our kayaks.
This strange habit of mine followed me to work, where I bestowed the name Richard on the office copier. When we were mad at Richard for not doing what we asked, we shortened his name. When Richard was upgraded, Jolene moved in. I made a little sign and affixed it on the front of the toner cartridges with lyrics from the famous Dolly Parton song. I felt the name captured the power that a printer holds over our department. If she stops working, we all stop working:
I had to have this talk with you / My happiness depends on you / And whatever you decide to do, Jolene
Alas, shortly after the real Dolly Parton passed away this past August, we received news from the higher-ups in our IT department: alas, Jolene the Copier would be going to the great print shop in the sky, replaced by a younger, sleeker model with brighter colors, deeper contrasts, and the ability to collate, staple, and whip out trifolds at a dizzying pace.
I did not like this news at first; which was followed by the realization of how I had formed a strange attachment to a piece of office equipment. It was a source of pride that all the other departments recognized her by name. It was common for a request to come through: could Jolene possibly print off 150 of these brochures? Would Jolene kindly copy and collate these handouts for tomorrow night’s presentation? The answer was always yes. She’d served us well, but her time had run out. Sadly, the day before she would be wheeled out by the installation technician from the printer company, a colleague from another department came into our workspace and played “Jolene” on his phone as we all exchanged sad glances. It felt like a ceremonial goodbye. It felt like a benediction.
The next day, our new printer rolled into our lives. First she came in parts, and we looked away, to give her privacy. But soon enough she whirred to life, and the technician began showing us her new and improved features. There were mailboxes to set up, settings to calibrate. Then, as though we were witnessing a birth, we surrounded her as she brought forth a copy of a booklet, in its full cyan, magenta, yellow, and black glory. We oohed and aahed. We reached out to touch the smooth glossy paper, still warm from the mysterious womb where plain copy paper is magically transformed into something beautiful.
But what to call the new printer? We couldn’t name her Jolene again, because there is only one of those. The name of the printer dominated conversation for nearly three days. I dare say we were slightly less productive as we weighed our options.
We debated. Henry? Hank? Dolly? Prince? Or even more topical, The Artist Formerly Known as Prints? We couldn’t decide.
At one point, going through my favorite songs (because there is always a song running through my head), I remembered reading that next year, Fleetwood Mac’s pivotal album, Rumours, turns 50.
“I’ve always loved Stevie Nicks,” I said hesitantly.
“Stevie,” we all said, rolling the name around on our tongues.
“I’ve always loved Stevie Ray Vaughan,” said Eva.
“Yes! And don’t forget Stevie Wonder!” said Zoe.
The next morning I arrived at the office to see a new sign, affixed to the side of the sleek new printer with trifold and stapling capabilities. On it are three figures, all in black and white: Stevie Nicks, with her dramatic wings spread as if ready to take flight; Stevie Ray Vaughan, lost in the groove with his electric guitar; and Stevie Wonder, without his signature smile, but solemnly posing with his hand over his heart. We are an office, after all.
Jolene won’t be forgotten. I will never stop naming inanimate objects as though they are my own children to be cherished. May Stevie live a long life, veins rich in toner, belly full of 11 x 17” cardstock.
Amen.
