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The DocuWunder 1000 copier technician shouted over the noise in the busy mail room—"Abracadabra! Just like that, Reuben. All your problems will be solved!"

Reuben Sierra frowned.

"A-bra-ca-da-bra!" The technician waved the circuit board as if it was a magic wand. "This gizmo is beyond state of the art! Soldered it together myself. No blue prints. No specs. One of a kind."

Reuben looked away. The mail room was a scene of controlled chaos. It was late afternoon, crunch time, and the twenty-two people he supervised for Moore & Moore, the city's largest law firm, struggled to make the copies, send the faxes, and deliver the mail for two hundred and twenty-seven deadline-driven lawyers.

"Reuben, I'm telling you, if those stuck up engineers back in Rochester could see this little wonder, they'd fall down on their knees and worship me for the wizard I am!"

Reuben looked at the technician, then at the DocuWunder 1000 copier. The huge machine was ripped open, bundles of wires and teflon-coated rollers hanging from it like entrails. The $800,000 machine had been delivered a week ago, replacing three older copiers, and it had yet to make a single legible copy.

The technician saw Reuben's scowl. He shouted, "Faith, Reuben! Faith! Once my miracle gizmo is installed, it's abracadabra time!"

Reuben Sierra suppressed an urge to grab the circuit board and whack it over the technician’s head. Instead, he raised his hand to look at his wristwatch— before remembering that it was gone. It was an old watch, a gift on his fifteenth birthday that had aged into an embarrassingly cheap antique. This morning the watch had stopped forever, both hands stuck on the twelve, its calender displaying a date two months in the future. Disgusted, Reuben had thrown it in the trash. All day he had asked himself why— when he worked so hard, ten hours a day, often six days a week, bound up in the hustle and power and money of the huge law firm— why could he not even afford a good watch?

"Reuben!" One of his three assistant managers, ran up to him. Perspiration beaded above her upper lip. "File Serve just called. Their bike messenger got creamed by a bus. How are we going to make our filings?"

Reuben sighed. "Pull two of our people from the mail to do the filings. I'll call Federal Court and grovel for more time."

Reuben went to the closest phone and called the clerk at Federal Court. Twice a year, when the circus came to town, Reuben sent the clerk six tickets, one for each of her grandchildren. When she answered, Reuben asked for fifteen minutes beyond the court's official deadline. She cheerfully consented.

Before Reuben hung up, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face one of the copier operators, a stooped young man. "The 5090 we're copying Diana Mars' job on just went down! It's got to be in FedEx, or—or—"

"Split the job. Put it on two of the Canons. You run half. Pull someone to run the other half. Put it on three machines if you need to. You've got my okay to bump whatever jobs are ahead of Diana Mars' job."

Diana Mars ran the firm's environmental law practice. In the legal world, where lawyers who brought big corporate clients to the firm were called rainmakers, Diana Mars made more rain— acid rain, those who had to work with her said— than any six other attorneys combined.

"Reuben! Reuben!"

He jogged across the room to the row of ten fax machines.

"This stupid fax won't go through." The lead operator tugged on her hair as she spoke. "Diana Mars' is on the phone with this guy. Right now. Said he's got to have this stupid fax in his hands so she can talk to him about it and as far as I'm concerned—"

"Okay, okay. Here's what you do: don't leave it on auto re-dial. Stand here, abort it and retry it each time it doesn't get through. And make sure you write down each attempt in the log. We'll need to prove to Diana Mars how many times we tried to get her fax through."

As he walked away, Reuben felt the mail room wasn't as loud as it should have been. He looked around, and saw the machines that should have been copying Diana Mars' job were idle. He jogged over. "Where's the Diana Mars job?"

"She pulled it. Her secretary just called. We sent it back."

Reuben sighed. "Just as well. We were going to blow the FedEx pickup anyhow. At least now I won't have to drive it out to the airport myself. Let's put some of these other rushes on."

"She told us to hold the machines for her. She's making corrections. She says we still have to make FedEx for her."

Reuben went to the nearest phone and called Diana Mars' secretary. "It's Reuben. What's the status on—"

"Typing it now!"

She had him on speaker phone. He could hear rapid-fire clicking as she typed at her computer. Then he heard Diana Mars' nasal voice, "On page ninety-three... here... I want it to read..."

He hung up, thinking that Diana Mars, supposedly on the phone with someone waiting for the rush fax, was also standing over her secretary's shoulder, dictating. In the world of Moore & Moore, where time truly was money, Diana Mars had found a way to be in two places at the same time, and probably bill two clients for that time.

He phoned the parking attendant in the basement garage.

"I need one of the firm's cars. Pronto."

"Sorry, Reuben. Both cars are taken. One's out in Washington County. The other one's been reserved all day by Diana Mars."

"Damn Diana Mars!"

The attendant snickered. "The lady is a solid gold bitch. Am I right, or am I right?"

Reuben wasn't listening. He was watching across the room as the technician lowered his head and half his torso into the DocuWunder 1000. Reuben wished the machine would come to life and eat the man alive.

The parking attendant said, "It's her husband's birthday or something."

Reuben asked, "Who?"

"Princess Diana Mars. She's making one of her indentured servants drive to all the jewelry stores in town. Got to find hubby a nice gift."

"Please get my car ready."

"For you, Reuben, absolutely. But hey, tell me you're not doing another sprint to the airport."

"Yeah. I am."

"When are you going to get your life in order?"

Reuben pictured the attendant, his long-hair tied in a neat pony-tail, lounging on his upholstered chair, feet up on a battered desk, strumming chords on his guitar. He would be sipping from his thermos of Moore & Moore coffee, the one Reuben sent down every morning as a bribe to ensure his prompt extrication of the firm's cars. The man did have his life in order.





Late that night Reuben Sierra sat at his desk in the mail room. He watched the eighty pages of a report he had spent three hours preparing come peeling out of a laser printer, and he chanted, "Lousy day. Lousy future. No: no future. No future in this job." Something the smug parking attendant had said came back to him: indentured servants. "He's right. I'm a lousy indentured servant. And I’ll be 63 years old before I can purchase my freedom."

He gathered the pages of the report to make copies of it. When he saw the DocuWunder 1000 was back in one piece he loaded the report in the huge machine's document handler. "Lousy machine. Lousy day. Hate my job. No money! Can't even buy a decent watch! And Diana Mars—"

He viciously jabbed the DocuWunder 1000's start button. The huge machine jolted to life. It hummed powerfully, absorbing a river of electricity. Reuben Sierra cursed, "Fucking Diana Mars!", as the machine began making double-sided copies of the report, collating and stapling the sets. He jabbed the start button repeatedly and shouted. "Diana Mars is a solid gold bitch! A money-hungry double-billing two-timing insider-trading— " He searched for a climactic word and found the most derogatory he knew: "Lawyer!"

The DocuWunder 1000 went quiet. Reuben looked up to see all the swing shift clerks standing across the room, staring at him. His face was hot as he reached inside the sorter and pulled out the copies.

He fanned the pages— and stopped. Every page was blank. He wanted to run out of the law firm and never come back. But instead, he fanned the pages again, slowly. He found one page that wasn't blank. In fact, it was entirely covered with small black letters and numbers: 21 3/4 13 1/4 H//7Q Hit 1.22e 5.6 q 160 21 3/4 21 1/4 21 5/8+3/8 DI Ind 210 9/16 -1/16 Han wtB 182 1/8 +1/32 Cat 3.99e 198 33 1/8 5/8+ Sen 1/4 -7/8. Only two things were not gibberish: at the top, there was a date, but it was a date two months in the future. And in the lower right corner were the letters: watchmars.

It was incredible that the scrambled circuitry of the DocuWunder 1000 had actually spelled out something semi-intelligible. But then he remembered the famous proposition that an infinite number of monkeys banging away at an infinite number of typewriters would eventually type the complete works of Shakespeare. It was a fluke; nine random letters spelling out something of skewed meaning.

"Watch Mars! All I ever do is watch out for her. Tell me something I don't already know, huh?"

He kicked the machine. He tossed the useless copies into the nearest recycle bag. He used one of the old copiers to run his report then strode out of the mail room. He went through the dim halls of the firm and dropped one copy of the report on the Facilities Manager's chair, then one copy on the Managing Partner's chair. He was exhausted, but he had one more delivery to make: the receipt proving he had gotten Diana Mars' job to the airport.

He climbed the carpeted stairs to the top floor. He stood outside her office. He saw no light behind her closed door and was relived; for once, Diana Mars wasn't working the marathon hours she was famous for. He opened the door, and walked in.

"Who's there?"

He saw her, across the dark room, silhouetted against the large windows.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Mars. I didn't see a light on and—"

"Who are you?"

"Reuben Sierra."

"Reuben who?"

"From the mail room. I’m the manager of—"

"Oh. Yes."

"I have the receipt for your package, Ms. Mars. I drove it to the airport. Sonic Boom Air Freight guaranteed delivery by—"

"Reuben. Have you ever been in love?"

He stopped. "Sorry?"

"Today is my wedding anniversary, Reuben."

"Oh, well, my best—"

"My husband called two hours ago to tell me he wants a divorce."

He stood there, not knowing what was safe to say.

"Reuben, please sit down. I want to show you something. Please."

The desk light snapped on. He moved to sit down but she said, "Close the door."

He closed the door, then sat in a chair in front of her desk.

In the light of the desk lamp Diana Mars' sharp features were softened, her eyes were dark. She was a good looking woman, closer to fifty than to forty, and she had been alone, probably crying, in the dark emptiness of her office.

"Look at this," she said, removing the lid of a long jewelry box. She held a large gold watch under the light. "I bought it for my husband. I had one of my paralegals run down to Feinstein's this afternoon. She described it to me over the phone. I was happy to pay four thousand dollars for it, Reuben. Happy to."

Diana Mars' eyes were large with bewilderment. "I'll never recover from this."

He sat forward in his chair, wanting to help her. "You're hurting now. You will for a long, long time. But—"

"I will never be the same." She put the watch down, then smiled at him. He felt a tension across his chest from the depth of sadness in her smile. "It sounds as if you've had your heart broken, too, Reuben."

The dormant emotions of his divorce, three years past, came painfully alive. "I have. And I know that you will carry some of this hurt for all of your life. It will change you forever. But you will recover."

She stared into her empty hands. He thought how small she was without the padded shoulders of her expensive suits. He looked at the soft, freckled skin above the opened top buttons of her white silk blouse. She caught her breath in a sob, and Reuben Sierra experienced a physical stirring he thought was compassion.

She stood up and moved to the huge windows. "I'm so alone."

He went and stood behind her. "I'm very sorry. If I can help..."

She turned to face him. She stepped close and he was surprised how short she was. He looked down and saw she was not wearing shoes.

"Please," she whispered. "Please just hold me."

His arms felt weak, but he raised them. She pressed herself against him. Her arms enclosed him and her sharp nails traced down his shoulders, down his spine, then dug into his buttock.

The effect on him was instant.

She tightened her grip and put her face up to be kissed. If her eyes had been closed, he might have resisted. But her eyes were open, dark and bright.

An hour and a half later, Reuben Sierra stumbled out of Diana Mars' office. He drove home, drained and dazed.





He dreamed he was chained to the DocuWunder 1000. The giant machine rumbled and spewed a blizzard of paper into the air. The papers flurried past his eyes, covered with streams of nonsensical letters, numbers, fractions and symbols. Diana Mars came toward him, completely nude, but for a gold watch around her waist, its luminous dial like a huge buckle over her belly. She pinned him against the throbbing copier and began biting his neck. He fought to push her off but she overpowered him. Pulling his hair with both hands, she opened her mouth wide— and a loud telephone began ringing.

He had the phone in his hand before he knew he was awake.

"Reuben?"

"Y-yes?"

"Uh, it's me, Mike. Uh, I'm sorry but I got a bad stomach thing and I got to call in sick."

"What time is it?"

"Four-thirty. Sorry, Reuben."

After he hung up, Reuben pressed his face into the pillow, but it was cold, wet from his sweat.

The phone rang again. It was the second mail clerk, calling in sick.

Because the volume of mail for Moore & Moore was so great, and its lawyers' need to have it so urgent, the two mail clerks went to the Post Office every morning at six to haul away the firm's mail and begin sorting it.

Reuben got out of bed.



It was raining hard when Reuben Sierra dragged two long sacks of mail across the empty street. He passed beneath a flashing sign that showed the date, the time, and the figures from the wide-awake New York stock market three time zones away. He grunted, "Time... is... money."

Alone in the big mail room, he sorted the mail inexpertly, bleary from his bad dreams and lack of sleep. When the day crew arrived at seven-thirty, he took one of the mail carts to the top floor and began distributing what he had sorted.

"Ah! Reuben. Come here a moment. Please."

He looked up to see Diana Mars standing in her office doorway. She was fresh and alert in a navy suit with padded shoulders and a snug skirt that showed her legs off well.

She shut the door behind him. "I want you to know two things, Reuben." Her hand brushed down his back as she walked to her desk.

"First, I sincerely and genuinely appreciate all you did for me last night." She took something off her desk, then came close to him. "I want you to have this."

She held out the gold watch she had bought for her husband, still in its purple, velvet-lined box. Reuben didn't move. She took the watch, lifted his hand, and fastened the bracelet on his wrist.

"Looks good on you." She patted his cheek, smirked at his unshaved whiskers. "Rough night?"

He tried a smile but the muscles of his face only twitched.

"The second thing I want you to know, Reuben— this private understanding of ours is important to me. I'm excited. I'm going to block out some time, just for us. I'll call you. Soon."

In her dark eyes he saw the lingering heat of her lovemaking. He left, not having spoken a word, safe and remote inside the mental fog that had been numbing him all morning.

As he pushed the mail cart down the carpeted hallway he decided that every person got one big opportunity in life. This one big opportunity might not be easy to recognize. It might come when least expected, or arrive in a form altogether different from that imagined. Yet it was ultimately each person's responsibility to keep alert for their one big opportunity, to seize it when it came. But now, looking at the heavy gold watch fastened on his wrist, Reuben Sierra felt a tremendous apathy. Was this it? Was this his one big opportunity? To be Diana Mars' kept man? Was this what he had wished for?

He stopped. His mind reeled from sudden understanding. Stunned, he whispered, "Watch Mars", and remembered how, just last night, he had jabbed the start button of the DocuWunder 1000 while cursing gold watches and Diana Mars. "The machine thought I was making wishes— for a gold watch— for Diana Mars!"

The mental fog parted and he knew exactly what had happened: The DocuWunder 1000 had granted his wishes!

He ran down the carpeted halls before he realized he was still pushing the mail cart. He shoved it aside, and it crashed into the polished wood wall. He sprinted past the stunned lawyers, secretaries, and legal assistants coming out of the elevators. He slammed open the door to the fire stairs and jumped down the concrete steps two at a time. He raced into the mail room.

He skidded to a stop. "No!"

A dozen people turned to stare at him.

"No!" His hands went up as if bracing himself against an attack. "Don't!"

Horrified, he watched the DocuWunder 1000 technician lift the "one of a kind" circuit board he had installed yesterday— and break it over his knee.

The crack of the board reverberated, and Reuben believed it was the sound of his one big opportunity shattering.

He dropped onto a stack of paper cartons. He went blank, unaware that people crowded around him, asking him what was wrong, was he all right, did he need a doctor. When Reuben finally looked up, the technician was in front of him, the pieces of the circuit board in his hands.

"I guess I sort of screwed up, Reuben. My circuit board is garbage. But the engineers have sent one straight from the factory. I'll install it the second it gets here. The Docuwunder 1000 will be making copies by twelve noon. Abracadabra."

"Go away." There was threat in Reuben's voice. The technician stepped backward through the ring of people. Reuben pushed his hands through his hair, groaning. Then he leaped to his feet.

"The recycling!" He spun around, the concerned faces encircling him becoming a blur. "Did they pick up the recycling yet? Tell me! Quick! Please! Where are the recycling bags?"

Someone finally said, "They're taking them out now, down the freight elevator."

Reuben pushed through the people and sprinted to the freight elevators. He threw open the doors. "Stop!"

Two men, each hefting a heavy bag of recycled paper, froze in place.

"Put those bags down! Now!"

The men backed out of the elevator vestibule as Reuben spilled out the bags. He dove into the papers, wildly sifting through, searching, chanting over and over, "insider trading money hungry gold watch lawyers".

People stood in the doors watching him, whispering, not knowing what to do. Then Reuben jumped to his feet, shouting as if he was laughing and crying at the same time. He ran out of the freight vestibule, a single sheet of paper in his hand.

He ran out of the mail room, down the seventeen flights of stairs, through the lobby, and into the crowded rush-hour streets.

The rain had gone. Bright sunlight glared off the wet streets. He breathed the freshened air, spinning around on one foot, saying "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

People gave him wide berth. Finally, he kissed the sheet of paper, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.

Reuben Sierra knew just what to do. He would pawn or sell the gold watch. That would raise two or three thousand dollars. He would sell his car for another four or five thousand, his stereo and CDs and coin collection for one or two thousand. He would borrow, beg or extort every dollar he could, from his family, his friends, the banks and the credit card companies. Then he would put every dollar into a few, select stocks.

Whether the stocks he bought went up or down, he'd make money. Guaranteed. Because the symbols on the paper in his pocket were the prices of those same stocks, on a specific day, two months in the future.

This was the one big opportunity of Reuben Sierra's life.

He seized it.

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