I have been idly dreaming about having
a small, vintage manual typewriter, as if that would help. I don't
even know if I can still type on a manual machine and if I started
using one would it wind up crippling me and what about that day job?
I still spend eight hours a day on the computer and get paid for it.
No matter how I lust after the sleek, shiny black vintage machines
for sale all over the web, I'm not going to get one until I actually
put my fingers on the keyboard and whack away for awhile; see how
it feels.
Although I had an ancient manual typewriter as a kid, I
never learned to touch type until the late eighties on a computer
keyboard. The whole notion is probably a pipe dream fueled by
watching a couple of episodes of Band of Brothers last weekend. There
were several scenes of a soldier pecking away at portable typewriter,
so incongruous yet so ubiquitous during World War II.
I spent a lot of time over the weekend
looking for an archive of the music that used to be on my Ipod. Last
week I accidentally gave the poor little thing a lobotomy and thought
that restoring it would be a click or two away. Hah! That restoration
took the better part of the weekend but mission accomplished. I'm
finding that sleeping with earbuds in and the volume turned way, way
down on the playlist sinisterly entitled “sleepingpod” is has a
canceling effect on my increasingly aggravating tinnitus. Some
interesting dream trains have left the station as well.
In the middle of that file search I
came across a long lost short story that I started back in the early
'90s. To my surprise it still had legs, crookedy and wobbling, but
legs. What started out as a harmless and common fantasy tale rolled
quickly into Twilight Zone/Stephen King territory, no surprise to
anyone who knows me. This file was created and saved in an ancient
program called Lotus Word Pro (I still have the floppy discs
somewhere) and had been clumsily converted to a more universal file
type. There were many errors in that conversion; formatting was lost
and a myriad of crazed hieroglyphs were randomly inserted in the
text. It was also obvious that there was no spell checker in the
house and/or the writer was somehow impaired.
Dropping this file into OpenOffice and
starting to edit it just for typos and formatting was good for most
of yesterday morning. What with the side trips and diversions that
are all too available when working on a laptop with a great internet
connection, the morning evaporated with little to show for it and
now, Tuesday morning is well on it's way to history too. All this
brought me back to thinking about what it would be like to use an old
typewriter with just enough interference between the brain and the
paper to check my pace and keep my thoughts in order, without the
distractions.
My first typewriter was a behemoth from
the thirties or forties that my mother dragged home from a yard sale.
I really can't recall the make, something common like Remington or
Underwood, but due to it's advanced age, ribbons for it were
impossible to find. I bought fresh, replacement ribbons for
whatever brand I could get cheap and then wind them by hand onto the
large metal spools of my machine – messy but effective. It had
trapdoors on the side for access to the ribbons and at some point, I
allowed my pet rat to hide out inside the machine. We
won't talk about the day that I idly tapped a key and snipped off the
tip of his tail.
I typed my homework for fun which
probably bothered my teachers. I don't know what they were expecting
when they came across my typed papers in a stack of hand scrawled
assignments but I rarely delivered if my grades were any measure of
success. When I figured out that a C or B would keep me out of jail
or the doghouse with my parents, that was good enough for me. Grading
should be kept secret from kids as long as possible.
I also wrote letters, specifically,
begging letters to all the missions to the United Nations for every
flyspeck country that belonged to the UN and a few that didn't. I'm
sure my name got on some government lists when I was eight or nine.
What I was begging for was canceled postage stamps from their home
countries and, man, where they happy to oblige. I think I must have
created at least a handful of jobs for people working at carefully
tearing off the colorful, beautiful stamps from letters sent from all
over the world. I didn't really even have a collection – I had a
hoard! I started out with the best intentions, like all those
skipping down the road to hell, but the response to my letters was so
overwhelming that I quickly became blasé about the stack of fat,
brown envelopes that would be waiting for me when I got home from
school. After a quick perusal for anything new or different,
everything got tossed in the desk drawer but I kept pounding out
letters and spending my allowance on postage.
Once I got tired of getting duplicates
of stamps that I already had too many of, I turned to typing papers
for classmates who would dictate to me over the phone or give me
chicken scratch notes on legal pads. Bigger brains than mine who
didn't have access to a typewriter abounded. Then again there
were the papers that I corrected and finally, rewrote, until a couple
of teachers twigged and recognized my style scattered throughout the
three fifth grade history and English classes. My career as a
copywriter/editor was squashed by a short meeting with the principal
where I promised to stop giving it away and promised myself to
charge more and work more carefully.
All these years later and I'm still
giving it away and someplace in a second hand store or, more likely,
a landfill, there is a hulking, golden typewriter with the mummified
remains of a rat's tail tip deep in it's bowels.
