I’m tucked halfway into the massive belly of Bais Bayla Academy’s mammoth copy machine, legs jutting out an impossible angle, when I hear a cautious, “Eh... Rabbi Spinner?”
I scramble out of the machine, dust off my pants.
“Oh! There you are.” A respectable looking guy — navy tie, trimmed salt-and-pepper beard — peers at me, looking slightly alarmed. He holds out his hand. “Sholom Meth, I’m on the board.”
I brush my hands off quickly before returning his handshake. “Shua Spinner. Do I know you?”
“Well, I know you,” Meth says, trying to sound hearty. He strokes his beard with a quick finger. “You’re the brother of our wonderful dean.” He stops, and I smile at him because he looks nervous. “Look, this is really unofficial. But when can we talk?”
I want to ask, who needs a meeting when we’re both standing right here? But I can hear Tzivi telling me to behave, so I say, “How about I first figure out what’s ailing this fella? Then I’m all yours.”
“Great. Around half an hour, yes? In the dean’s office.”
He disappears and Mrs. Pinkewicz charges toward the broken machine. “Oh, Mr. Spinner, I’m so glad you are here! I’m just finishing this test sheet here and they told me this morning the machine broke down and I thought to myself, Breindy, what are you going to do? And I’m coming here and who do I find if not you? What hashgachah! Thank you so, so much, Mr. Spinner.”
“You can save the thanks for when it’s fixed,” I say mildly, turning back to the errant copy machine. I sigh and squat over my toolkit. Anything I need to fix a glitch, big or small, I’ll find right here, in my toolkit. Or inside my own head.
I select a spanner and duck back into the machine’s sleepy innards. I wonder if my brother feels this way about his school. Is he confident that he has all the little cogs for this huge operation right here, with this colorful conglomerate of Mrs. Pinkewiczes and young, dreamy teachers and gravel-voiced board members? Simpler to fix copy machines.
Fifteen minutes later, I find a stray worksheet and tuck it into the copier. The little red lights blink, and a perfect copy slips out. I give the smooth surface a pat, nod to the secretary, and remember the meeting.
I head over to my brother’s office. He’s a good man, Dovid. Hip replacement surgery is no picnic and Dovid is too young for this stuff. But he says he’s feeling better. A couple of months and he’ll be back.
Inside, I hear voices. The door opens as soon as I knock.
Meth is there, along with three other board members, a similarly respectable fellow with small glasses, an older man in a sharp suit, and a young fierce-looking guy who might’ve made a good fighter pilot.
“We’re so glad you made it, Rabbi Spinner,” Meth says, rather pompously. He introduces us; the guy in the good suit is Shaul Bennett, the would-be fighter pilot is Menachem Hirsch. “And this,” he indicates Small Glasses, “is Boruch Adler.” A bunch of handshakes and then Meth waves me into one of those burgundy armchairs.
“It hasn’t been easy with our esteemed Rabbi Spinner out,” Adler begins, “but we’ve been swinging it and we expected things to continue this way until he’s back. But now we have a problem.” He pauses for effect and leans forward. “Reb Shua, I’m sure you’ve heard of Robert Marcus?”
I nod. Dovid’s mentioned him. Big money.
“Well.” He clears his throat. “Looks like our many invitations finally paid off. His secretary called. Marcus is interested in a visit.”
I whistle.
Adler gives a nervous chuckle. “But here’s the thing. We need this to go over well. Very well. And that’s not going to happen with a principal out for surgery.”

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 606)