First Byline

Driving up to Elmira, NY was a sheer act of desperation. The kind of act a newly minted staff news reporter should never consider. But, I had yet to score my first byline. And the clock was ticking. How trivial such worries seem now. My fledgling journalistic forays upstate were about to unlock the vault of the supernatural and place me in mortal peril. But, just maybe, the journey might make me a real writer in the process.

Real writers can afford a Keurig, I thought. This is how one knows they have not yet joined the ranks. I tilted the pot and poured a re-heated cup of Folgers from the night before into my dirty mug. The poured coffee landed with a sludgy thump and rippled like a gelatinous mass. If this was the best part of waking up, I was in trouble.

What I needed most, more than anything, was a lead. As I choked down a gulp of two-day-old re-heated coffee with the consistency of mud, there was a double knock on the door. The dreaded double knock. A sure sign that you do not have a visitor but a message—and double-knock messages are never good. A folded piece of paper slid under the door of my seventh-floor walk-up on Remsen Street. The paper read, “Ben: You’re $1,200 behind! Need by end of week.” My landlord, Sam, missed his true calling as a motivational speaker.

Was this lovely note supposed to cause money to rain down from the heavens like manna and land in my bank account? To remind me of the downsides of homelessness? Sam had also apparently missed the memo about the advent of the internet and instantaneous e-mail messaging that went out in the early 90’s.

I stood with my coffee and no shirt over the corkboard and looked under a piece of ripped paper that said “Assignments.” It was a corkboard desert beneath that heading. Not so much as a clipping. Different colored push pins dotted the landscape like tumbleweeds in an old western. Dry and dusty as far as the eye can see.

Under another ripped paper that read “Wild Cards” was a magazine cutout of a typewriter and an address: “800 Park Pl, Elmira, NY 14901.” And below that was a phone number for “Rose” in “nearby Horseheads.”

My editor, Ravi, at the Brooklyn Eagle, was paying $300 for a pitched feature. I’d only got sign-off on one idea, even though I planned on delivering two. But, of course, my lead ghosted me. Even if I pulled a double bartending at O’Keefe’s on Saturday and Sunday, and even if the Labor Day crowds rushed back early to tie one on at the bar, I would still need to come up with those two feature stories if I wanted to pay rent. And that wasn’t even counting gas and snacks on my way out to Chemung County.

So, like I said, I never would have driven from Brooklyn up to Elmira, NY to meet with some old lady about a hundred-year-old typewriter—it’s like a full day round trip—but I didn’t have any better ideas. And all I’ve got to show for my troubles is one lousy typewriter supposedly owned by Mark Twain in his heyday and zero leads. And a deadline of twenty-four hours to make my first by-line. Right back at square one.

***

Sitting in front of the blank screen of my laptop, I prayed to God for some noise-canceling headphones. There was the rumble of garbage trucks outside, the honking of horns on Court Street, and the rumble of the subway as the interminable parade of 2 trains connecting Brooklyn and Manhattan roared by below ground. But Raf in 6B was the real menace.

This gem of a man was a real-life opera singer who owned a parrot of all things. And he began his morning vocal exercises, which sounded like the world’s most annoying alarm clock, and kept right on going with the endurance of a racehorse until damn near noon. Whenever he took a break, the damned cockatoo gave a warbling rendition of his own.

Distracted, I turned to the typewriter and began a very short, satire. “‘The Departure.’ It was a Monday like any other Monday. Only, on this Monday Raf would receive an urgent call from the Palais Garnier in Paris. The baritone playing Starbuck in their upcoming performance of Moby Dick had backed out due to illness and a replacement was needed at once. Raf Andreus hesitated a moment before belting out in his characteristic baritone, ‘I’ll do it.’” The cockatoo followed suit in a high-pitched screech, “Hal too eet.”

Just then, I heard a familiar thump against my door. It was the newsboy who thought it was funny to hurl my copy of the New York Times like a frisbee from down the hall.

"As I reached for the paper, Raf barreled up the stairs, breathless. 'I'm going to Paris! I’m going to be Starbuck,' he blurted, knocking on Janice’s door without waiting for a response." Bathrobed Janice emerged. Hair still in curlers. She chortled a yelping chortle. “Staaarbuckk!!” She stepped forward. Enveloped the diminutive Raf.

Only a shock of unkempt hair was left shooting out from the folds of the terrycloth robe. I closed my door earnestly, standing for a minute hyperventilating with my back against the door. I stared at the typewriter in horror. What was this madness?

As I packed a bag to chase some leads, I tried to wrestle with what had just happened. Did I have ESP? Had I somehow overheard Raf’s phone conversation? How could I type something so oddly specific, and then it just happens exactly as I wrote it? Did I cause this to happen? It seemed impossible. The events would have had to have been set in motion weeks or months before. But, if I didn’t cause it, how did it happen just as I’d written it? My head was spinning. It was the most unsettling moment of my short, unsettled life.

***

While riding on the subway, the woman next to me was drinking a lemon Tazo tea. The smell transported me back to nearby Horseheads, back to what Rose had said the other day.

“Mark Twain was famous for his premonitions,” Rose had said as a pot of tea whistled on the stove. The smell of lemon, ginger, and pungent rose wafted from the cup as she sat down across from me. My mind replayed the whole episode.

“What kind of premonitions?” I asked as I took notes on my tablet.

“He’d set his brother Henry up as a mud clerk on the Pennsylvania. One night he’d seen Henry in a metallic burial case, in one of Samuel’s own suits (his real name was Samuel Clemens, you see). Clear as day he saw an elderly lady bring a bouquet of white roses with one red rose and place it on Henry’s chest. Until his dying day, Twain said the dream was more real than real, like stepping into a moving picture.”

“Are you going to tell me his brother died right after?”

“A few weeks later. The ship’s boilers exploded at Ship Island, below Memphis. A terrible, terrible business those steam ships.”

Rose handed me a volume that related the incident, which happened on June 13, 1858. I read with interest the newspaper clippings. Next, Rose handed me Mark Twain’s Autobiography, which told the same tale.

“The difficulty, from a journalistic standpoint is the same as I would have for a person claiming to be a medium or to have predicted some future event, telling us about it after it happened. How do we know Mark Twain didn’t just make the whole thing up? After all, he was a novelist. I mean, fiction writers are basically professional liars, right?”

“I thought you’d ask that,” Rose said. She ran her hands through her gray and straggly hair, pulling it back and placing it into a bun. Oh dear, to explain?” Rose started counting on her fingers.

“My namesake, Rosie, was my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great—that’s five Greats—Grandmother—she was the woman that laid the flowers, the woman that arranged the metal casket… and a young Samuel Clemens came to see her at her home… dripping with tears and asking questions…. Where is it now?”

I waited while Rose rummaged through a stack of books.

“Rosie’s family bible. Right here. In these back pages, she explained that she’d taken money she’d been saving to tithe and started a collection for the burial of the dead. She couldn’t bear to see these victims buried in plain pine boxes.”

I did my best to read Rosie’s scritch-scratch on the yellowing pages that smelled of dust.

“Were there other premonitions?”

“So many! The old man predicted his own death at the time Haley’s Comet came passed in the sky. As a boy, he’d predicted his sister’s death. And who knows how many others.”

“What does this have to do with that old typewriter?” I asked, pointing to the rusty red metal object she’d placed on the kitchen table.

As I asked the question, a piece of paper fell out of Rosie’s old family bible and floated over onto the keys of the typewriter. The script seemed to glow off of the page and I read its contents with interest:

“Samuel swears all his premonitions were first written out on this typewriter, and so he swore off using it and left it in my care. It is an ungodly business, and I wouldn’t dare! But, I’ve saved it all these years and it is of such historical interest, that it must be passed down. Please warn anyone who comes into possession of this abomination that it nearly drove the old man mad.”

“I see.”

“Well, boy. It’s all yours now. We are about to hold an estate sale, and I’ve got to get rid of this old hunk of junk. I tried to donate it to Elmira College, but they don’t want it.”

As I was leaving, after I’d stuffed the object, covered in Rose’s old newspaper, into my backpack and said my goodbyes. Rose grabbed my arm and pulled me close. Her raspy voice echoed in whispers and the beginnings of a sob.

“I’ve used it. It works. Works like you can’t believe. Anything you type comes true. Just as you wrote it. But there’s a catch son… be very careful… nothing comes out like you plan it. God knows it’s ruined everything for me.”

And then Rose became hysterical. Tears welled in her eyes. She began pulling her hair back again, a patch of it falling out and floating through the air like a leaf wafting to the ground, seemingly turning to dust as it fell. Rose’s skin grayed and her eyes widened. She laughed and screamed, “I’m free! Free!!”

As I finished stuffing the typewriter into my backpack, a part of me itched to try it out. Just one little sentence, I thought. But Rose’s haunted eyes made me promise myself to never tempt fate and to get rid of the relic at the local pawn shop as soon as I got back to Brooklyn.

As I started the engine of my Toyota Tacoma and hit the accelerator, I could still hear Rose screaming and jumping. All I wanted was to get as far away from Horseheads and Elmira as possible. After all, if I didn’t come up with some story ideas and earn some money, I had eviction to look forward to.

***

The movers were hauling Raf’s belongings into the hallway and cursing as they navigated down the seven floors. My mind was still racing. I grabbed the typewriter, stuffed it in my backpack, and went outside for a walk. My mind cycled between story ideas for my article and the mystery of the typewriter.

If Mark Twain had this typewriter in his possession from his youth, how much of his life story was his, and how much was the typewriter’s? Where was the line between fiction and reality? Do we react to the circumstances of life and choose our path, or do the circumstances of life react to our choices and direct us where they will? It was a real chicken-and-egg dilemma.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I realized I’d grabbed the backpack and had brought the typewriter.

I sat on a park bench with the typewriter propped up on my lap. What story did I want to tell? What events did I want to bring into existence? I thought of Mark Twain sitting in his study in upstate New York with this very same typewriter, puzzling over his next masterpiece. I could see him staring into the corner where the typewriter was growing dust. Knowing that its keys held the power to fulfill any wish. Why had he decided to part with the typewriter?

I thought of Rose. What horrible fate had she dredged up? Why was she so eager to rid herself of the object?

I began typing, “Ben was approached by a strange woman. She had an undeniable appeal. Learning of Ben’s journalistic ambitions, she trusts him with a major lead. It is a career-making scoop, but she warns him to handle this story delicately.”

I sat back on the bench and thought, “Let’s see what happens next.” But nothing happened, so I returned home.

***

Sirens blared down Joralemon. That was not unusual. Crowds were gathered in the street. Not out of the ordinary. But as I reached the bodega across from St. Peter’s College, the ambulance pulled up outside my apartment building.

A tough-looking Spanish woman with jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail rushed into the apartment building with a stretcher. Her partner ran in after her. In the commotion, Raf’s damn cockatoo, Aida came flying out the front entrance and squawking, “I’ve fallen!! I’ve fallen! Help!! Help!”

As the two EMTs came out with Raf on the stretcher, the picture began to come together. Janice was out on the street, still wearing her curlers, and sobbing routinely. I asked her what happened.

“Terrible. Terrible. The movers scared Aida, and she got out of her cage and flew up by the cupboard. Poor Raf tried to climb on the counter to get her down and he fell. I found him unconscious. There was so much blood.”

I could feel my hand start to tremble as my system flooded with adrenaline. Sweat glistened on my forehead. What had I done?

I grabbed the Spanish woman’s arm. “Can I come to the hospital to make sure he’s okay?”

Her gaze met mine and she said, “You got a car?”

“Not nearby,” I said.

“Come on, kid. You can ride with us.”

***

In the back of the ambulance, Victoria took inventory. Raf was slowly moaning, and she was putting goodies into his IV. Her partner, George was calling ahead and writing up a chart for poor Raf. Victoria was a thin, attractive woman. George was a tall, spry kid, new on the job.

“I hope we get paid for this,” Victoria said.

“You’re all business, aren’t you Vic?” George said.

“Well with the hospital headed for bankruptcy who knows if our bill gets paid,” Vic said.

“The ambulance company is good for it.”

“Not if they go under too.”

“Hey,” I said. “I never heard the hospital was in financial trouble.”

Vic looked me in the eye, “That’s because you weren’t supposed to. What are you, a reporter? You trying to break a story or what?”

I blushed a bit and said, “That kind of hits the nail on the head, actually. I just got hired at the Brooklyn Eagle, but my job is on the chopping block if I don’t come up with a story. And quick.”

“Well, I’d be careful before you start kicking that hornet’s nest,” Vic said. George laughed and hit her arm.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“You know who finances the hospital… who stands to lose millions?”

“I guess not.”

“Well know who before you go sticking your nose in this thing, if you know what’s good for you.”

***

In the waiting room area, Vic brought me a coffee and we talked about the situation with the hospital. She talked about how the ambulance company she worked for hadn’t been paid in months.

This was a real story, and it seemed like there was more behind it.

“Hey,” I asked. “If you could be certain that the hospital would survive, but there would be unknown on consequences, would you do it?”

“Hard to tell the cost and benefit on that one, you know,” she said. “It’s like a domino effect, and you never know where it ends up.”

I had the typewriter in my bag. It felt like it was calling to me to intervene. I had my story. Vic was somehow going to help me with my lead. My days of sludge-flavored coffee and quad cramps getting into my apartment were soon to be in the past.

I felt drawn to the typewriter. It was a nearly irresistible pull. I could almost hear it calling out to me. And Rose’s words rang out in my mind: “I’m free! Free!!”

***

Outside the hospital entrance, I sat on a bench watching the ambulances pulling up to the ER. My mind was still spinning.

Finally, I called Ravi. “What is it, kid? You finish your story, yet? Where is it?”

“I’ve got a new idea to pitch,” I said.

“What is it kid? Time is money.”

“What if I told you that Mark Twain had a cursed typewriter that he left to some lady in upstate New York, and her relative wants to tell the story.”

“Not exactly breaking news, kid.”

“Sure isn’t, but it’s a true story.”

"Write it up. I’ll take a look.”