Typewriter and Author

Shafts of light streamed in through the wide window, warming the mahogany-stained desk and casting a spotlight on the ancient typewriter. Its black and red ribbons are brittle and crumbling, its alphanumeric keys eroded beneath decades of keystrokes. A yellowing sheet of paper remains wound around its return bar. What is written on the page has long since passed from the typewriter’s recollection. He had memorized it once, but now all he could recall were the final keystrokes as several remained jammed. The author had neglected to repair him, so here he lay, gathering rust and dust.

In his state of disrepair, the typewriter often reminisced about the old days. He could see his replacement on the side table from this vantage point. It was something called a /computer/a beastly sight significantly large, a screen that lit up as bright as the window. It had a keyboard, but it was much quieter than his keys. Jealousy burned within him when he witnessed the writer's long nights at this new machine.

“What use am I?” He lamented, “Why bother to keep him?”

Brooding, he would have wept if he had eyes or frowned if he had lips. Disillusion had long since worn down the typewriter’s optimism. In his youth, he had often pondered retirement on those late, hard nights when his keys were pressed endlessly, but when he imagined it, it had never looked like this. Life had become unnerving and bereft of joy. He had thoughts and ideas but no way to record them, but they were often forgotten. Oh, to again feel the pound of key hammers upon the page. He had his mind but no control, a maddening existence– his kind of hell. Praying to the manufacturer, he saw little hope in anything improving.

Rust, his archnemesis, the typewriter had rust in places he had never thought he would have rust. At the beginning of his relationship with the author, he had given him a few drops of oil and replaced his ribbons. The typewriter could not retain motion. He lamented the moisture in the air as it bound his delicate parts.

One unexpected day, when the author had grown old and gray, he sat at the computer with his back to the typewriter. The typewriter was startled as he felt little fingers play across his keys. It tickled in a way he did not remember and relieved an eternity of itching. He was getting attention; the typewriter could hardly believe it.

A pair of little blue eyes stood on her tiptoes to see over the edge of the mahogany-red table. It was summer, judging by the window outside and somewhere early in the afternoon. Her hair was dark and pulled into pigtails.

“Pappa, what’s this?” She questioned, scratching her head and screwing up her face as she struggled to read a card, “First typewriter?”

“Yes, it is,” the old man replied, stretching and standing, looking back at the girl and his beloved old machine.

“You don’t use it anymore?”

“Let me tell you a story about this little old typewriter. I was a teenager working three jobs when I scrimped and saved enough money to buy that little typewriter.” He picked up the girl, pulling her up on his knee in a velvet armchair, “I carried it with me everywhere, used it to draft every manuscript I wrote in my youth officially.”

“What does its paper say?” She questioned.

The old man scratched his head and grinned, “When the old beauty stopped working, I used my computer to type out an epitaph of sorts.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“Yes, but by the time it busted, the cost of replacement prices and the advancement of technology, it wasn’t practical. I needed to advance with the times, like you will, Ladybug.” He reached over and tickled the little girl, who heartily giggled.

"Read it to me," she insisted between giggles.

“Alright, alright,” He chuckled, pulling the sheet from the back of the old typewriter. He frowned as it groaningly protested. Adjusting his spectacles and clearing his throat, he read–

Dear friend,

You have grown with me and given me the best years of your life. You’re almost as old as I am, beginning this journey with me. I am sad that you cannot continue. I can no longer afford your upkeep. Your replacement parts get more expensive every year, but I cannot depart from the memories we share.

I intend, one day, to have enough money to restore you, but it has yet to happen. My novels are selling, but I need more. But, no matter how long it takes, old friend, one day. When the restoration comes, it needs to be delicate and methodical.

I want you to retain as many of your current parts as possible. You are filled with memories. Where one might see worn-out keys, crumbling ribbons, and jammed keys– I see them as memories.

Each warning key is a memory of sleepless nights spent recklessly burning the midnight oils. Though we are parting, you will always be my friend and first love.

~ George

“That’s nice.” The little girl he called Ladybug said as she hopped off George’s lap.

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Can I play with it?” Her eyes brightened as she walked over to it.

“I don’t see why not. I don’t think you can break it; it would probably appreciate the use. Let’s get a little oil for it first, though.

The little girl grinned. She followed George to his garage, where he rummaged through his workbench for the correct oil. Returning with the ancient lubricant bottle, he began work.

The oil felt so good on the poor typewriter’s joints, smoothing presses, and his return slide. If he could, he would have sighed in relief. Once done, the little girl sat on a wooden stool and began clicking away. Every time the return reached the end, it gave a nostalgic ring. The sound of it sliding into place took George and the typewriter back.

As George returned to his computer work to direct the little girl on what to do every time the keys jammed and the room had no life, she entertained herself by pretending to write like her grandfather.