The Typewriter Shop
I slide a quarter into the parking meter where I inherit 7 minutes, leaving me with 37 to walk a block, go in a shop, take a peek, and turn around ---should be plenty of time. I take baby into my arms and strap the carrier around us, grab my wallet and shove my keys into a pants pocket.
I push open the door to the typewriter shop. It sticks a little.
Lining long, shallow shelves and gathered in groups on the floor are typewriters: green, black, yellow, baby blue, gray, brown typewriters. Some are manual metal antiques with circle keys held up by slender silver pipes, sitting on tweed, leather or canvass cases. Others are electric typewriters with modern modest keyboards that hide their parts behind plastic panels. There are also land line telephones and a couple used computers.
An old, black man with nails for fixing ribbons, letter keys, rollers, levers and knobs, leans to the side of his chair when we enter and asks how I'm doing.
I'm well, and how is he?
...Could be better. Nobody’s out. No customers around.
Must be afraid of the rain. I say.
It’s just him and me in the quiet shop so I tell him what I’m looking for: an inexpensive typewriter, one under $100, if such a thing exists.
He shrugs. I'm not the first person to ask this question. Many pass through his shop, he tells me, then go and buy a cheap, often broken typewriter off the internet. Then they bring it to him in pieces, after trying to fix it themselves.
I remember the time I took apart a bicycle and couldn’t put it back together again, but I don’t mention it.
He tells me: with typewriters, the older it is, the more expensive it is.
Because they’re antique, I chip in, to prove I'm not entirely ignorant.
I tell him that I’m a writer. That I have my work on the internet, but that I’d really like more freedom with the placement of my words and I’d like to stamp it onto soft paper then hold it in my hands. I want the inky texture a typewriter provides. We talk about the difference between paper and screens, computer printers and typewriters, and buying from him rather than some stranger through the mail.
Amelia watches him and looks at the shapes and colors of his merchandise. She fusses a little, belches, spits up a little. The phone rings and he excuses himself. I walk around, telling myself how I should stop wasting his time, that I should leave since I can’t afford one anyway. Oh hi doctor... he has a customer at the moment… the call ends and I tell him I went to college in town about ten years ago, passed the shop many times, but never went in. Was he the owner back then?
Oh yeah, he’s been here since the 70s.
The best he can do is this Olympia. It's a fine machine. The ribbon lasts a long time, very high quality. Today, he could offer it to me for $175 without the case. Offer for today only. He can’t do much lower or his wife will give him a hard time. He’s got bills. He tells me. But he also needs to make a sale. Because he’s got bills. I want to buy it. For me. For him. This is my trouble with small shops. I want to support them even if it means I won’t be able to support myself. Four days ago we had an offer accepted on our first house. Money is tight as an elastic band wrapped around a hairy wrist. I should not be paying $175 for a tool I don’t need, a toy. Suddenly, though, with a fidgeting baby on my hip and sweat and steam causing a sort of storm inside my denim jacket, I say, ok let's get it. I start to feel a little dizzy then. Still I don’t back down or bow out, instead I ask if he takes checks. He’ll take a check, yeah. Cash or check. He puts the Olympia on the counter and begins showing me all its features. The margins, the roller lever, the ….I don’t know. By this point I’m just trying to sound like I’m listening and remembering and understanding all that he’s teaching me, but really I’m freaking out, wondering how horrible and strange it would be if I just turned and ran out of there with my wallet, baby and the balled up paper towel he’s given me to wipe the spit up from my shoulder. What stops me is knowing that if I turn and sprint through the shop’s sticky door, I’ll never return and I’d like to. I want to buy one of these fine typewriters. I want come back without baby, pick one out, pay in cash and take notes as his fingers press and flip and turn all the levers and rollers and knobs. I want to buy one. I just shouldn’t right now.
He goes around to the other side of the counter and pulls out his carbon copy pad of sales slips.
“I think I'm having a panic attack.” I tell him, breathing fast and reaching for the counter to steady myself. I tell him about the house. That I'm not working. That I don’t want a fight with my husband who might not appreciate the timing of this large purchase.
He understands. He had his first panic attack when he was in his 60s, or was it, the 1960s…(I’m too disoriented to remember later). He was on an airplane and after it landed, everyone stood up, but his seat was in the back so he couldn’t leave right away. He understands, he tells me again. He looks at baby and baby smiles and he smiles and makes mention of her two little teeth.
I will buy one and when I do, it will be from him. I say. I ask him his name. He’s Bob. I tell him my name is Rachel. He asks me the baby’s name and when he says, “Amelia”. She looks at him and smiles another smile. I really like him, I tell him (to prove, I guess, my allegiance) and his shop and I’ve really enjoyed talking to him. I will buy a typewriter from him, maybe in a month or two. I promise. He's still smiling. He understands.
When we get back to the car, 1 minute remains on the meter. Baby and I look up. Drops of rain wet our flushed faces. I pull breath up like a bucket from a deep well. My heart pounds from relief and disappointment. There’s no reason to rush this. I tell myself. I will stamp my words onto soft paper soon enough.
