“Error Code 113” // Faultline Journal

*This story was originally published in Faultline Journal volume 35

The printer mocked me with its winking red eye, its manic beeping and whirring, its haughty general demeanor. I’d pored over the manual, exhausting every troubleshooting tactic, and yet that cursed machine always had a new error code to shove in my face. My entire adult life I’d believed evil was a lie perpetrated by fairytales, but this thing, this little black box, upended that notion entirely. It was forged with wicked intent, infused with pure malice at every step of the supply chain. Its purpose was singular: to ignite my fuse. After months of therapy, said fuse had gained considerable length; however, even my most advanced coping mechanisms were no match for the HP and its Machiavellian maneuverings. I snatched my hockey stick from its wall mount and raised it above the dreadful device, poised to smash it into oblivion. My son—my beautiful, innocent Oliver—cowered in the corner of the room, and I felt naked before him, the grotesque workings of my psyche laid bare. I knew, should I bring my stick down, I would shatter not only the printer, but my relationship with the boy. 

***

The pressure was on from the moment I picked Oliver up in my battered Civic two days earlier. It was his first weekend visit since the divorce. I was still digging myself out of the hole from my last meltdown—I’d spent months begging the boy to give me another chance. Only after I enrolled in anger management did he give me the time of day. When I reached over to help him with his seatbelt, he flinched away from me. Even in the deepest throes of my fury, I’d never harmed the boy—at least not physically. 

He whipped a new iPad out of his backpack, an obvious ploy by Debra to buy his affection. I asked him if he learned anything at school, but he didn’t respond; he stared impassively at the screen, eyes glazed over like a dope fiend. The game’s object, as far as I could tell, was to extract rare minerals from the Earth. We drove in silence, the only sound the occasional “cha-ching” as Oliver scooped up a twinkling ruby or diamond.

Dread crept into my stomach as we rolled up to my new apartment. I wanted more than anything to win my son over, to cultivate an environment so warm and welcoming he would beseech Debra to bring him back. But the divorce lawyers, those vultures, had picked my carcass clean, and the only place I could afford was a cramped basement beneath a hammer factory. Even the laxest building inspector would have recoiled in horror at that windowless death trap, which was why Jeff, my old hockey teammate, rented it to me off the books. 

“Here we are!” I said, gesturing grandly to the subterranean pit. My decorating style could best be described as “divorced dad chic”—lawn chairs furnished my living room, neon beer signs covered my walls, and a puddle of standing water crowded my kitchen. Right on cue, a rat the size of a chihuahua scampered out from under my minifridge. 

“Cool,” Oliver replied, too enthralled by his game to have noticed. 

“What do you want to get into, kiddo?” As subtly as I could, I grabbed my broom and shooed the rodent away. “We could tear up an ice rink, catch a movie, grab sundaes—sky’s the limit!”

“One sec, I’m about to beat this level.”

Oliver tapped away for well over an hour. In the pale glow of the iPad, I saw the changes puberty had wrought—the baby fat had melted away from his jawline, and a constellation of acne had cropped up on his left cheek. It struck me like a gut punch that my time with him was finite. Before I knew it, he’d jettison off to some faraway college, dialing my number only to scrounge for beer money. I had to seize the precious moments I had left with him, to wrest them into beautiful memories before they slipped away. 

I logged onto the family iCloud (Debra evidently hadn’t gotten around to changing the password) and locked Oliver’s device. A stunned look crossed his face when his screen went black, cutting his plundering short.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m friggen locked out! Right as I was about to dig up a rare emerald!”

“Ah, that’s too bad, bud. Your mother must’ve put a screen limit on you,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Anyway, how about that ice rink?”

***

I snuck us into the stadium where I used to play. It somehow felt vaster, more immense without legions of piss-drunk fans crowding the stands. Our footfalls echoed among the twenty-thousand empty seats. From the rafters hung championship banners, immortal tapestries chronicling the glory days. We laced up our skates, awestruck by the sheer scale of the place. The arena felt like a cathedral, the air charged with meaning. 

For a moment, all we could do was gape at the ice; it was immaculate, smooth as glass. Then Oliver whispered, “Catch me if you can,” and glided off. I sped after him, chest swelling with warmth. Out here, there were no depositions, no custody battles, no salivating lawyers—just the thrill of the dance, the sizzle of our skates on the ice. For the first time since the divorce, my son cracked a grin. Maybe there was hope for us after all.  

Just as I was about to tag Oliver, a gruff voice boomed through the arena. “You assholes are trespassing on private property!” A portly security guard emerged from the tunnel, brandishing a baton. Oliver and I vaulted out of the rink and ditched our skates. There was no time to grab our shoes; we dashed through the emergency exit in socks. Alarm bells rang as we dove into the car and whipped out of the parking lot. Once we were safely away, we laughed hysterically at the security guard bent over, clutching his chest in the rearview mirror. 

We kept cackling all night. Just as our laughter would subside, one of us would remember the guard sucking wind, and we’d start right back up. After I shut off the lights, we stared at the ceiling, too exhilarated to sleep. I couldn’t afford mattresses—instead, we laid side-by-side in sleeping bags, like kids at a slumber party.

Just as I was drifting off, Oliver whispered, “Psst. You awake, Dad?”

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“The MOAB isn’t gonna go off this weekend, is it?” 

Mother of all bombs—that was the announcer’s moniker for me in my hockey days. He belted out the acronym when my anger ignited, leaving a trail of smoldering wreckage strewn across the rink.

“The MOAB is decommissioned for good, kiddo.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

A great weight lifted from Oliver when we locked little fingers. Soon after, he conked out, resting his head on my chest. I savored the gentle cadence of his breathing. For months, I’d stared forlornly at my ceiling, yearning for the days when I could see the stars. But as my boy snuggled up against me, the exposed wires and duct-taped pipes were imbued with a new majesty rivaling the sublime contours of the Milky Way. 

***

“Don’t tell your mother” was my refrain for the remainder of the weekend, as we indulged in a bout of debauchery befitting a Roman emperor. By Sunday evening, my apartment was a pigsty, every surface cluttered with excesses that had runneth over from our proverbial cups: firecrackers littered the floor, stacks of R-rated Blu-rays towered to the ceiling like skyscrapers, and hot fudge stained the cardboard box that served as my coffee table. 

Just as Oliver pressed his lips to my beer can, triggering the sternest “Don’t tell your mother” of them all, my phone buzzed. I tapped my pockets before realizing it was buried somewhere in the wreckage. I snatched the beer can from Oliver and sifted around until I found it lying in a pool of cheese fondue. I rolled my eyes when I saw who was calling. 

“What do you want, Deb?” I said, wiping my phone with my shirtsleeve.

“Hello to you too.” 

“I don’t need you checking in on me every few hours like I’m some ditzy blonde on her first babysitting gig.”

“Well, being the responsible father that you are, I’m sure you’ve got Oliver’s book report all squared away.”

“You bet I do,” I lied, shooting a sidelong glance at Oliver.

“That’s great to hear, Munchkin,” she said, wielding my old pet name like a shiv. “I’m sure Miss Blackburne will be pleased with the finished product.”

“She most definitely will.”

I hung up, enraged that Oliver would conceal a book report from me, one assigned by Ms. Blackburne, no less, the callous English teacher who was an inch away from flunking him. The other instructors had been understanding about the strain the divorce had put on Oliver, but not Blackburne. “Due dates are due dates,” she’d said, pressing her horn-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose. Since the parent-teacher conference, I was plagued with visions of snatching those tacky frames off her face and stomping them to bits. Maybe without them, I could stomach her. I squeezed my eyes shut and repeated the mantra I’d developed in anger management: “Breathe in the calm and exhale the toxic.” Only when my fists had unclenched did I turn to face my son. 

“Ollie, what’s this I hear about a book report for Ms. Blackburne?” I asked, injecting my voice with as much sweetness as I could muster.

“Don’t worry, Dad! I woke up early and finished it while you were sleeping. I wanted us to have plenty of time to drive to the fireworks store.” 

I hugged Oliver so tight he could hardly breathe, marveling at what a responsible young man he’d grown into. In the death grip of my embrace, my son choked out six words which, at the time, seemed wholly unremarkable: “I just need to print it.” If only I could’ve foreseen the anguish they would inflict, the grisly chain of events they would set in motion.

***

I searched the moving boxes for my printer. I’d avoided unpacking them for months, afraid to sift through the ruins of my old life. I tried not to look at the relics: Oliver’s macaroni art, pressed flowers from Debra’s wedding bouquet, smiling photos from our family vacations. These artifacts had once graced the walls of our family home, and it was painful to see them piled in my dark pit. 

By the time I found the printer, I’d reopened all my old wounds. I dusted it off and set it on the floor, focusing on the task at hand. It was a simple device, a little black box with a paper tray, a power button, and a display screen. Though it had sat in my home office for years, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used it. 

“Alright, Ollie, let’s fire this bad boy up,” I said, cracking my knuckles. 

When I plugged it in, the display greeted me with three digits: 202. It appeared to be an error code. The manual, of course, was long gone, but Oliver helped me find the support site. 

“202, 202…” I murmured, scanning the list. “Ah, here it is, ‘Error Code 202: Failure to connect with the HP Smart application.’”

Of course there was a fucking app. These leeches made you download an app for everything: starting your car, firing up your grill, running your goddamn icemaker. Companies no longer took pride in making quality products; they’d rather suck you dry with subscription fees. I kept these grievances to myself as I begrudgingly pressed “download” on my phone.

I paired the device to the app and pressed “print.” The HP sucked a sheet of paper from the tray and purred promisingly. “We’re in business, kiddo. Let’s wrap this up so we can light some Roman candles,” I said, tousling Oliver’s sandy blonde hair. The printer, as if sensing my eagerness, sputtered to a halt. It emitted a spiteful beep and spat out a new error code: 412.

I couldn’t believe the device had the audacity to steal precious moments from my weekend with Oliver. To add insult to injury, it winked at me with its little red eye, as if to say, “Better luck next time, chump.” A white-hot flash of anger shot through me; my pulse pounded through my skull. Upstairs, the hammer factory came to life, emitting the sound that tormented me in my darkening dreams: the sound of steel on steel, hammers hitting what would become hammers, a manic symphony of blunt objects. I tried my mantra again, but this time it was useless. My fuse had already lit, and it was only a matter of time before it ignited the mother of all powder kegs. I smacked the HP with my palm. 

“Everything okay, Dad?”

“They don’t make ’em like they used to, do they, kiddo?” I said through grit teeth. 

***

The printer and I locked horns in a chess match that raged into the small hours of the night. Each time I thought I’d gained the advantage, the cursed device countered with a more baffling error code. It toyed with me like a grandmaster who could predict my every move. Just when I thought I’d bested it, resolving every conceivable error—303: Paper jam, 441: Outdated driver, 602: Failure to align ink cartridge—it launched its final gambit: error code 113. 

“Ollie, do you see 113 anywhere?” I yelled over the heavy machinery upstairs. Not only was the clanking unbearable, but so was the heat. I peeled off my sweat-drenched shirt.

“It doesn’t say squat about 113!”

“Are you sure?”

“I looked through the whole goshdarn thing, Dad! Can’t we just print this at Kinkos?”

“Kinkos is closed on Sundays!”

“Then I’ll email the file to Blackburne.”

I imagined Blackburne opening the email over her morning coffee, a sinister grin spreading across her face. I saw her adjusting those horned-rimmed monstrosities and marking a big red “F” in her grade book, relishing every pen stroke. I said, “No can do, kiddo! We’re following her rubric to a goddamn T!”

I snatched the phone from Oliver and scanned the manual myself. The kid wasn’t shittin’ me—error code 113 was nowhere to be found. The cunning, duplicitous HP knew I was on the verge of a checkmate, so it tossed the rulebook out the window. Its depravity knew no bounds.

I opened the customer support chat and asked about code 113. Three dots promptly greeted me as the agent typed. I could almost taste victory as I watched those dots dance, for soon a highly trained representative would hand-deliver the key to victory, the ironclad stratagem that would bring the HP to its knees. I saw Blackburn double-taking and cleaning her lenses when Oliver handed the assignment in on time. I saw Debra reluctantly phoning me to ask for my parenting secret. I saw Oliver jumping with joy when I let him light a celebratory M80, the kind of big kahuna that could blow a man’s finger off. It was all within my grasp.

The agent’s response brought me crashing down to reality: I regret to inform you that we have discontinued support for this product line.

That’s when I took up my old hockey stick. The instrument had once served as the outlet for my rage, the mighty cudgel I used to clip opponents and cross-check them against the boards. The grip tape felt familiar in my hands, the carbon fiber shaft as natural as an appendage. It would take only a single swing to send that vile printer straight to hell.

Oliver yelled at me. The factory machines roared so loud I couldn’t hear him, but I could read the words on his lips: “Put it down, Dad!” 

Only one implement remained in my anger management toolbox: visualization. After I signed my big-league hockey contract, I took the family to Vermont to celebrate. I shut my eyes and imagined the scene: the snow falling on the quaint New England town with its covered bridges and colonial-style chapel, the occasional horse-drawn carriage clomping across the cobblestone streets. Debra and I sipped hot cocoa, watching Ollie go berserk with joy. Panting and heaving, he rolled snowballs that dwarfed his little torso. He stacked them and, with a theatric “Ta-da!”, presented the finished product: a snowman version of our family. Debra squeezed my hand and smiled at me, a gleam of admiration in her eyes. After years of struggling through the minors, feeding my family a steady diet of Hamburger Helper, I’d given us a new beginning. It felt like the seasons would never change, and those beautiful snowmen would last forever.

I loosened my grip on the hockey stick, but before I could set it down, Coach McCracken’s voice echoed through my skull. “You think you’re the bomb, but you’re just a big fat dud.” The tranquil Vermont vista faded, and I was transported to my spot on the bench next to the leaky Gatorade cooler. Rage consumed me while I watched my teammates soak up all the glory, leaving none for me as I trudged back to the locker room with sticky pants. In the minors, I struck fear in the hearts of my opponents, tossing aside my gloves and throwing down at the slightest provocation. But my play style didn’t jive in the big leagues. I fumed remembering how the refs targeted me with ticky-tack calls, banishing me to the box for the slightest infractions. McCracken benched me for “handing out power plays on a silver platter,” and dropped me from the team soon after. I raised my stick above the printer, furious at those bastards for taking me off the ice, the one place where I could vent my anger. 

Oliver went fetal in the corner. The fear in his eyes broke me. It was the same fear that had gripped him during my last episode, the infamous explosion that decimated his birthday party and cratered our family unit. My stomach churned as I recalled how I screamed into the receiver at McCracken, retorting that I didn’t want to play for his pansy-ass team anyway. How I wailed on Oliver’s Pikachu piñata with a folding chair, W.W.E.-style. How I kept pummeling it, even after I’d knocked it to the ground and spilled its entrails across the yard. How the crying children begged me to quit hurting Pikachu. How I shrieked insults at the little rat, getting personal about its mother’s sexual preferences. How the terrified guests called the cops, who chased me around the function like a wild bear, at last tasing me into submission. How, with a mighty groan, I collapsed onto Oliver’s birthday cake, the magnificent three-layer creation Debra had labored over all week. 

The printer made an unhinged sound like it was cackling—or maybe breaking down. I felt just as defective as that cursed machine; I was a bystander in my own body, incapable of controlling my rage, only able to bear witness to its decimation. The trappings of my basement turned scarlet—this was the sign that the countdown had begun. The hockey stick trembled in my hands as I summoned the last of my strength. I prayed it would be enough to defuse the MOAB before it blew us all to smithereens.