She said “copy.” I copied. Literally.

We were raising hell in biology, 1971. Teacher: “Copy the next ten pages.” I told my friends not to worry — I’d take care of it — then went to my dad’s office and ran the book through the Xerox. No handwriting, no cramps, no moral growth, just ten perfect pages that said, in bold toner: mission accomplished.

Remember that copy paper you could slip under and press so hard the ghost of your pencil copied through? Nostalgia. This was the grown-up version. I walked back in and handed over the machines-made proof. She said she meant “write them out.” I said she said “copy.” The class? Dumb, but with happy tears. You could feel the relief like a warm scam.

Lesson learned: words are weapons if you’re ambiguous. Teacher learned to be specific. I learned the most important thing biology never taught me — how to obey with precision and a photocopier. Comedy.