Corona, Corona

I have something phenomenal (an actual phenomenon, in fact) to record, but first things first. On a whim the size of a house, I bought a typewriter.

I’ve always coveted one of those you see in old films, though not for any practical purpose – I have my laptop for most writing tasks, or a pen and paper as back-up when circumstances dictate. But I’ve always liked the aesthetic of a Royal, a Remington, an Underwood. And the clunky sound of them; it seemed like real work was being done with each punch of a key, unlike the practically effortless skimming of fingertips over computer keyboard these days.

A month or so ago, while waiting for a bus, I spotted an old junk shop nearby. It’s funny; I use that bus route a lot and often get on and off at the stop in question, but I’d never noticed the shop before. To be fair, it was pretty non-descript, the only thing setting it apart from other shops in the row being the amount of grime on the windows.

It was raining, and although there was an open shelter, the wind was sending rain in and I was getting soaked. I entered the shop; it had one of those little tinkly bells above the door, which evidently roused a dusty old man who came through from the gloom at the back, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes?” he grunted.

I felt it wise not to admit I was just getting out of the rain.

“Mind if I have a look around?”

“No.”

He was apparently a man of few words, and those were said with an attitude that may have gone some way to explaining why the shop had not quite been a roaring success – if the state of it was anything to go by, at least.

So I began to browse – tricky since objects had been piled up on shelves and ancient tables, and I had to negotiate my way past stuff that had spilled into the aisles. The old man watched me intently, a scowl fixed on his face. He’ll be lucky if I find anything worth nicking, I thought.

But just to humour him, I feigned interest by picking up a paperback and blowing the dust off it. After I’d stopped coughing, I read the title: ‘How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying’, by one Shepherd Mead. I glanced over at the old man and considered the irony of the title.

“Is that the right time?” I asked him, pointing to a clock on the wall above the counter. He nodded without looking up. I had ten minutes before the bus was due. Which was the lesser of the two evils: brave the rain or risk lung damage from the dust?

Rain won the day and I made my way to the door, which was when I saw it. I don’t know why on Earth it caught my eye, stashed as it was at the back of a shelf; kismet perhaps.

I set about removing the objects in the way: an old pair of boots, a wooden tennis racquet, a rusty toaster.

“You’ll have to put that stuff back where you found it,” the old man grumbled, as if he had a careful system for placing his wares. I ignored him and dragged the thing that I’d seen to the front of the shelf.

My hands were already filthy so without caring how much dirtier it would make them, I brushed some of the caked-on dust away with my fingers. From the name on the base, the typewriter was a Corona Special, black, with cream-coloured keys. Even taking into account the muck, it was one of the most elegant objects I’d ever seen. And it was love at first sight.

“Does this work?” I asked.

The old man shrugged but came over anyway, spurred into action no doubt by a potential sale.

“Lovely, innit?” he said, producing a grey handkerchief from his pocket. He spat on it and began to wipe the typewriter down.

“That’s okay,” I said, nudging his hand away; the last thing I wanted was his spittle all over my new love.

“It’s an antique, y’know,” he said, pocketing his handkerchief. He could smell blood now. “Worth a lot of money.”

I ran a cursory check of it. I didn’t know much about manual typewriters, but it appeared to be in one piece, and major parts like the carriage return and roller (which I learned later was called the platen) were present and correct. There was even a ribbon, though it seemed a little frail. While the man looked on, visibly impatient, I started gingerly pressing the keys – not all the way, for fear of ripping the ribbon – to see if they would action the letters; all but a couple did.

In short, it looked like the machine would need some fixing and a lot of cleaning, but even in the event that it didn’t work, I’d fallen in love with the object per se. If nothing else, I could keep it in my living room simply to look at and admire.

“How much do you want for it?” I asked.

I could see the cogs whirring.

“Well, it’s an antique,” the man repeated. “Very much in demand, they are.”

Yeah, I thought. So much in demand that it has what must be decades of dust on it.

I waited while he scratched his chin.

“I couldn’t let it go for less than two hundred quid,” he said, stroking the typewriter as if it was a very dear possession.

I knew that was a wildly extortionate valuation. I wanted the typewriter but I couldn’t afford that much.

“I’ll give you fifty,” I said.

The man shook his head vigorously and spluttered.

“Oh no, no, no.”

I’m not bad at haggling and played my trump card.

“Okay, never mind.”

I made to leave the shop, but he grabbed me by the sleeve.

“Fifty it is, then.”

I paid him – I’d just been to the bank so had notes on me – and asked for a cloth to wrap the typewriter up. The thing he gave me was almost as dirty as the machine itself, but at least it provided some kind of protection.

When I got it home, I placed the Corona on the kitchen table and just sat gazing at it. In proper light it was even more beautiful than I’d thought. I determined there and then to restore it to its former glory.

It took me almost a month to clean it up and repair the letters that didn’t work; a neighbour who’s a model train enthusiast helped me with that. There were also some screws and other bits that needed replacing, including the ribbon – I found a shop specializing in antique restoration that supplied parts. (I could have just asked them to restore the typewriter I suppose, but then I really wanted to do the work myself; call it a labour of love.)

Finally, the Corona was ready for action. After work one evening, I set it up on the desk in my study, looking immaculate now. I rolled a sheet of A4 into it and sat with fingers poised. What should the first words be? I smiled to myself.

It was a dark… I typed, feeling the pleasure of the extra effort needed to depress the keys, and the slight delay before the letters hit the ribbon.

… and stormy night.

Then it happened. No sooner had I punched the full-stop at the end of the sentence than the lights went out in my house.

Swearing profusely, I felt my way to the kitchen to get candles. As I was groping around in the cupboard, I heard a distant rumble, and by the time I’d returned to the study with a candle flickering on a saucer, flashes of lightning were illuminating the room, followed almost immediately by deafening claps of thunder. Rain lashed against the window.

I sat in front of the typewriter and stared at the page, at the sentence I’d written. I shook my head.

Nah! Couldn’t be.

Or could it?

I turned over in my head what I was about to type, then went ahead.

The storm abated as quickly as it had arrived, and the lights came back on.

I waited. Nothing.

What was I think––?

The lights came back on. I listened. There was no thunder. I went to the window, streaked with the rain that had been hitting it just minutes before. I opened it and stuck my head out; it was a clear night, the stars twinkling away happily.

I was starting to get a bit excited. I hurried back to the typewriter.

I’d really like a pepperoni pizza.

I sat back. Seconds later, there was a knock at the door.

“Is this 42?” the boy asked, a square box under his arm.

“No, 47,” I said. “Number 42 would be on the other side of the street.”

“I’ve tried that,” he said, “But I don’t think there is a number 42.”

We stood there looking at each other for a few moments.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m going off duty now. Do you want this pizza? It’s paid for. Just … instead of wasting it.”

“Why don’t you have it?”

“I don’t like pepperoni,” he said, handing me the box and walking back down the path.

I took the pizza through and sat at the typewriter again, munching away; it was a very good pizza, made even more delicious by the circumstances.

I win the lottery, I typed.

This one would have to wait until next week, I thought, but then I realized I’d bought a ticket for that very night. I looked up the winning numbers on my phone and checked them against my ticket.

Sure enough, I’d won! Only twenty-five euros, admittedly, but then I hadn’t specified the amount.

Now I was extremely excited. If this machine – this exquisite Corona – had some kind of magical power, then the world would be, as they say, my oyster. But I’d have to be careful what I typed.

I took a pen and paper and began to list all the things I wanted from life. Near the top was good health, for me and my friends and family, then money, then a good woman... all personal wants, to my shame; there was no ‘peace in the world’ – not yet, anyway.

In no time at all, I’d filled a page of A4. But there was something missing.

I stood up and paced the room. What was it? What was it? Then it hit me.

I sat at the typewriter and punched away.

I’d like to spend some time with my mother and father, as they were thirty years ago.

This was a step further than I’d gone before; all the other typed messages had led to more or less feasible, explicable results. Asking for a reunion with late parents, well…

As the seconds passed, I slumped in my chair, feeling the disappointment of discovering the limitations of the machine. I looked back at the handwritten page and was about to type something from there when there was another knock. I knew who it was.

I rushed to the door, my heart bursting with love and joy.