By Tori Marlan
Kazmier’s friend Jim stops by every now and then to “shoot the bull,” but Jim, who’s 73, hasn’t been well lately. The only regular visitors these days are a pair of pigeons Kazmier calls Pete and Repeat. He talks to them and feeds them sunflower seeds and popcorn, but he’d like them a whole lot more if they didn’t get feathers on his carpet and leave droppings on the area above the front door, which he’s now shielded with cardboard. His landlord recently asked him to be more vigilant about cleaning up after the birds.
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That afternoon he’s sitting at his workbench, hunched over the skeleton of the Smith-Corona with a magnetized screwdriver in hand, when a young couple with briefcases and folders jangle through the front door, passing shelves of repaired machines–mostly electrics and manuals–that were made before they were born.
“We’re here to see the owner,” the woman says.
Although his business isn’t what it once was–he says he makes half what he used to and works twice as long–he’s not in the dire straits he’d like the phone service reps to believe. He’s pretty certain he’ll be able to hold out another five years, until he hits retirement age, though he knows he won’t be able to sell his business. Who would buy it? “All the guys that’s in it, they gonna retire,” he says. In another ten years, he predicts, “There won’t be any typewriter shops.”
In 1963 Kazmier went to work for Benbow Office Machines. He felt underappreciated there too, believing that the company was squandering his years of repair experience on cleanings and inspections–tasks he thought should be reserved for the younger boys just learning the trade. One day he refused to go out on a maintenance call and was fired for insubordination–the best thing that ever happened to him, he says now. He then came to the sensible conclusion that if he could make money for others he could make it for himself.
He could use his downtime to hound delinquent customers, including U.S. representative Rod Blagojevich, who owes him $75 for fixing a VX 106 Sharp fax machine almost two years ago. After his invoice with a “friendly reminder” stamp on it was ignored, Kazmier resigned himself to the loss, even though the congressman’s office is just up the street. “Let it be a donation,” he says. “It’s not him, it’s his people.” He waves his hand. “He doesn’t represent me anyway.” Kazmier lives in an unincorporated part of Du Page County.
