Every School’s Doomsday Machine

There’s an episode of the original Star Trek—my all-time favorite—called “The Doomsday Machine.” In its heart-stopping finale, Captain Kirk is stranded alone on a battered, listing USS Constellation. The starship’s engines are set to overload and timed to explode inside the insidious, remorseless planet crusher. With 30 seconds remaining, Kirk grabs his communicator and says, “Beam me aboard.” But when the transporter chief tries to bring him back to the Enterprise, disaster strikes—the system shorts out in spectacular fashion.

The Constellation teeters on the brink of destruction while, back on the Enterprise, Scotty is locked in mortal combat with the transporter circuits—naturally, they’ve chosen this moment to blow a fuse. Kirk, still on the Constellation, repeats his request with more urgency, “Gentlemen, beam me aboard.” Mr. Spock calmly informs him that the transporter is out. Everyone knows Kirk’s chances for survival are narrowing by the second.

The tension cranks up as Sulu counts down the seconds until their heroic captain is vaporized. Every repair Scotty attempts triggers a bone-rattling boom and a fresh plume of smoke from the transporter pad. Egging on the suspense is Mr. Spock’s insistent—almost metronomic—”Mr. Scott. Mr. . . . Scott.” At the last possible second, Scotty slides out of the Jefferies tube, slaps the intercom on the corridor wall, and shouts to the transporter chief, “Try her now, Mr. Kyle!”

The doomed Constellation plunges into the doomsday machine, the explosion destroying the thing from the inside. The trill of the transporter on the Enterprise gives us hope, and within seconds, the captain safely materializes back home. In the transporter room, Mr. Kyle yells, “Bridge, we got him through!” And then I imagine he’d head straight to the break room for a couple of crullers to steady his hands.

That scene? Pure adrenaline. The ultimate “there’s no way in hell this will work, but let’s try anyway” energy. That gut-wrenching moment, with its impossible odds and last-second triumph, plays in my head every time I use the copier in our teachers’ lounge.

Usually, it starts with a short line of three or four teachers gathering before first period, each hoping to make copies for their class. On a table near the copier, a fresh box of crullers beckons, a quiet reward for anyone surviving a morning paper jam. With so many people ahead of me, a familiar dread creeps in—the more the copier is used, the closer we come to toner-fueled Armageddon.

I casually poll the others, trying to gauge their copy loads. Most requests are modest: 120 copies, front and back. Maybe 30 sets of a two-page packet, double-sided and stapled. Manageable. But every so often came the catastrophic revelation—say, a calculus teacher who needed 100 copies of a 22-page study guide. Suddenly the routine turns grim; the sight of that thick packet feels less like math and more like a stone tablet carved with hieroglyphic curses, dooming the machine.

At that moment, my heart sank with dreadful certainty. The copier’s jams, stalls, and shrieks of anguish aren’t distant possibilities—they’re inevitable, gargoyle-like, crouched above us, wings half-spread, waiting to swoop.

The tardy bell looms. I load my documents, set the number, and hit the green print button.

Disaster feels imminent, and the infernal device doesn’t disappoint: “Paper misfeed, Tray 2.” Usually, it’s a minor issue, but under these circumstances, it triggers a Red Alert klaxon in my mind.

Somewhere in my mind, I can almost hear Sulu’s deep voice: “30 seconds left.”

What begins as a small hiccup often snowballs. Trying to ignore those thoughts, I clear the Tray 2 issue, only to face a new, more ominous warning—a paper jam in area 9, that familiar paper mangler deep in the bowels of my tormentor.

Sulu’s voice returns, steady as ever: “19 . . . 18 . . . 17.”

I wrestle open doors, gently tug at jammed sheets, but one won’t let go. I pull harder, and the culprit pops free—except for a ragged corner stubbornly clenched in the machine’s jaws. “15 . . . 14 . . . 13.” For a second, I consider leaving it—maybe it’s a minor scrap, maybe the machine won’t notice. But experience says: the copier always notices.

I spin wheels and unclick latches, desperate to free the orphan scrap. Then, I see it—finally loosened from the beast’s iron grip. I reach in, pull out the ragged piece, and secure all the internals.

I remove my now toner-scarred hand, close the last panel, and let myself hope for a miracle. The hum of the machine rises, steady and powerful, as Sulu’s countdown hits zero.

All forty copies land in the tray, crisp, unsmudged, and warm—like fresh chemical bread from the oven.

As the tardy bell rings, I scoop my copies and dash for the exit, ready for a classroom full of AP students.

Just before reaching the door, I lift the lid in sweet anticipation—only to be devastated by the greasy, sugary outline where crullers sat just minutes ago.

Shaking off my disappointment, I encounter one of my young colleagues, who radiates the warmest smile.
“How are you this morning?”

I hold up my copies and say, triumphant: “I got ’em through.”