Finite Utility

My brand name is Bonneville. I am a typewriter. Memories of my time at the factory are fuzzy since I was taken straight from the assembly line and placed in a box, ready to be shipped to market. I didn't have to sleep for very long because I was purchased by a bright young man. My life was simple, at least by machine standards. I was the centerpiece of my operator's home office. From repetitive to-do lists and arduous expense reports to meandering romance novels that had started, changed, restarted, been discarded, and then started again, whatever it was, I felt I was fulfilling my purpose. 

The clattering of my keys wasn't the only music in the air, as my operator also kept a radio nearby for passive sound. I remember those days so fondly and will cherish until my final days. How the clicking and clacking of keystrokes coincided with the beat and tempo flowing from the radio. Harmonious and peaceful, it was what any machine would strive for. Then the thing showed up.

It was boxy and inelegant, made of dull gray plastic. It had a keyboard akin to mine, though not as finely crafted as mine, but admittedly much quieter. Its screen was bright, almost like a television, but much smaller. It didn't even need paper; My operator could keep typing without adjusting the device, and the words would be there. The thing could even edit documents more easily than I ever could. I had never felt so aware of my limitations — so utterly insignificant. 

The computer and I never shared a word, but I hated it with a burning passion. We never would get the chance as I was stowed away that night, never to see my operator again. Through no fault of my own, I was punished. I held out hope, almost deluding myself, but antiquation finally caught up to me. I missed my radio friend, especially on the cold nights when the attic felt so lonely. I still never knew what happened to him. Maybe discarded, too? I hope he's alright. But with no tasks, all I could do was sleep. Cold. Lonesome. I'm sorry, operator, I didn't mean to be this way. 

I shook from my slumber. How long was I asleep? A stranger lifted and inspected me from the darkness of my cardboard prison. They weren't my operator, but it was alright. It didn't have to be him, but I still held out hope for some tasks again. But, the way they looked at me with those apathetic eyes. The sheer indifference. They tugged at my keys with their unfamiliar hands. I wanted to fall apart. I would've gladly ripped out parts of myself just to write a single line of gibberish, but they couldn't understand my desires. I was silent without my paper, and silent was how they would keep me as they boxed me again and carried me somewhere else. 

After a bumpy ride from what I presume was an automobile by the sounds around me, I arrived somewhere equally cold and foreboding. Before I knew it, I was placed on a shelf and given a small paper tag looped around one of my keys. I dared not read it because I didn't want the abandonment to be real. Sold? Around me sat appliances and electronics in various states of disrepair. Most were too far gone to communicate, while others toward the back were being scrapped for spare parts. 

I had resigned myself to degradation, but once the shop owner left for the night, I heard a soft, high-pitched whine followed by a cheerful greeting. Its audio quality was slightly muffled, but it was something I desperately needed to hear. 

"I hope your journey here wasn't a rough one." It sounded like it was coming from below me. I slowly slid forward and noticed an old wooden television console that had turned on across the aisle. A test pattern of different colored bars was displayed on the screen before contorting to make a pleasant expression with a soft smile. "Ah, so our new friend can hear me." 

I could only express myself through my clattering keystrokes, but with nothing in my carriage, none of the metallic sounds amounted to anything understandable. They were considerate enough to assist me. The television, Collymore, raised her two thin antennae and clasped a paper taped to a nearby shelf. She extended her rabbit ears across the aisle and slotted the paper into my carriage. 

If I were capable of crying, I would. I could finally speak again. As the rabbit ears pulled back, I typed a response. "Thank you, kind stranger." 

Being the only two machines still functional, we bonded. Collymore told me of her cherished memories with her operators and their children. She missed broadcasting cartoons to the children on Saturdays and football to the husband and wife on Mondays. Collymore said she was a fixture of her home for over a decade, watching the children grow up and leave home. I could hear the heartbreak in her recollections, mentioning being replaced by a television with a bigger screen. Though her words were pained, it seemed she'd made peace with her obsolete existence. Perhaps with more time in the hobby shop, I would as well. 

On a rainy evening, three strangers entered the hobby shop and examined every piece of machinery, appliance, and electronics. They were thorough, searching up and down every aisleway. Soon, their eyes lingered on me and Collymore. Was this it? Did someone want me? What about Collymore? I wanted to be useful again, but I was so scared to be separated from my new television set companion. Fear gripped my gears and sprockets. 

But much to our surprise, they wanted us both. Two strangers carried out Collymore, and I was placed back into a box again — a confinement I was all too familiar with, but this time felt different. Once freed of my cardboard confines, I was given a special spot sitting on a refurbished rolltop desk. Collymore was given a space in front of a couch, her favorite place. We quickly discovered new friends within our new space: a record player, a rotary phone, and a radio. 

This room wasn't in a traditional house, but to our amusement, it was part of a museum's walk-through exhibit. Other constructed rooms housed older washers, dryers, refrigerators, and kitchen appliances. I've even heard rumors of computer exhibits further down the hallway. We were a reminder of obsolescence, but visitors' bemused and inquisitive looks filled us with a sense of wantedness. Though not my primary purpose, I finally felt content with my existence.