IBM Selectric (not fiinished...maybe bigger than originally imagined)
Jamie couldn't help it. Once he saw the typewriter, he knew he had to buy it. He had stopped using his American Express card (because that debt proved near fatal), but having a debit card was even worse. He calculated the price of the Selectric, the amount of his check coming at the end of the week, and found that all in all, he would still have at least two hundred dollars to his name. Enough for food and electric, not enough for fun. He took a small black notebook from his back pocket and turned to a page that had been marked. On it, in small capital letters, was written "Dinner with Sam, 7pm, Sea Dog." He scratched it out with his pen and wrote, "IBM Selectric - Beige."
The store owner turned toward Jamie as he trundled up to the desk carrying the typewriter as if it were a pizza. He placed on the counter, careful not to jostle it, and smiled at the man. "I just love these things," he said.
"You do," the owner replied. The oomph with which he spoke and the way his eyes glowed suggested that he knew he was dealing with a collector; a junkie collector. This also suggested a raise in the price because although the customer would get upset, he or she would still buy it. Jamie tried to backtrack. "Well, we had one before my mother died," he started the old lie, "and they just sort of remind me of her. She used to type on them all the time." He finished the sentence with a sigh, his eyes now wet with moisture as if the memory were too painful. In truth, his mother was alive and well, she hated typewriters, and she never understood his fascination with them.
But at the sound of such a sad story, a remorseful story, the man looked even more hungry. He wasn't just dealing with a collector, he was dealing with a nostalgic collector. The dollar signs kept getting bigger and bigger. Jamie realized that his ploy was backfiring and he made as if to take the typewriter away. "Never mind," he started, "It's just spending money I don't have, anyway. Thanks."
He had taken ten steps when the owner called to him. "Just a minute, son." Jamie stopped and turned around. The man had come from behind the counter and walked toward him, rubbing his hands together. "Put that down for a minute." Jamie did. The man looked at it, sitting on the floor, it's beige body dulling the sunlight coming through the front windows. "My name is Roy Chambers," he said. Jamie held out his hand. "Jamie Currey." The man smiled. His hands were soft and warm, the palms coarse. His nails, yellowed at the ends, were long but not to the length that would make them crude.
Roy smiled at Jamie, his hands going to his lower back where he pressed and stretched. His back let out a few loud reports, and he smiled. "There. Much better." Jamie smiled. "That typewriter was owned by a pretty famous author." Jamie's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Oh, ayuh. Writer by the name of Chuck King. Know of 'im?"
Jamie had to breathe before he spoke. The writer, Chuck King, was his favorite. His hero. His idol. The coincidence was just too much to bear. He looked at the typewriter on the floor, imagining Chuck King sitting in front of it, his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose, his mouth moving as he read the words that he wrote. The writer also lived in his town. He drove by the house, a huge red victorian, every day. He told himself that someday, he would own a house like that. When he was a famous writer. Just like Chuck King.
Jamie tried to hide his excitement. "I know of him. I haven't really read any of his stuff, but...that's still pretty cool that he owned this. I guess it's real expensive, huh?" Jamie thought, personally, that the typewriter should be in a museum. The old man, Roy, smiled.
"I guess it should be, but it's not. I don't care much for making a profit off someone else's stuff. Do you?"
Jamie shrugged. His mind still centered around the fact that the typewriter once belonged to his hero. He had read all of Chuck King's books and his critical books on writing and the process of writing. King had said that he first owned a Royal Arrow typewriter. Jamie had sought out a Royal Arrow typewriter, hoping to gain inspiration from the archaic clack of keys on a black roll bar. The typewriter hadn't brought inspiration. It was fun to type on, but it didnt' make the stories come quicker. Jamie realized that to write, and write well, he would have to write all the time. He had started doing that a year ago, selling a few of the stories he wrote. Most came back with rejection slips which he taped to the walls of his bedroom.
But he had felt the need to look in the antique store today, and he had felt that the typewriter, the beige IBM selectric, was his way toward writing more. And he had found one hell of a typewriter.
Roy stood next to him, hands clasped over each other, waiting for Jamie to answer. "I don't know. I mean, if I were the owner of this store," Jamie noticed the man's gray eyebrows rise when he said this, "I would probably sell it on Ebay for a million bucks. I know it's valuable, you know it's valuable. I guess the real question is can I afford what you're asking."
Roy laughed at this; his laugh was good-natured, chalky and rough. Roy leaned down, his bony knees popping. He loosened the tag from the front of the type writer and held it up to the light, examining the price through his glasses. "This does seem a bit wrong, as far as prices for typewriters go." Jamie nodded and bent down, grunting as he picked up the typewriter. He started shuffling back to the table where he found it. Roy called him again.
"Jamie," he said, the tag dangling from his hand. Jamie looked at him, the typewriter cradled in his arms.
"I'll sell it to you for half."
Jamie smiled. He smiled so hard that he thought his lips would break at the corners and his cheeks would burst.
Had he known what the typewriter held, all the pain, fear, and suffering it would cause, he would've burned it when he got home.
Had he also known Roy Chambers knew about the typewriter, he never would have set foot in the shop.
The store owner turned toward Jamie as he trundled up to the desk carrying the typewriter as if it were a pizza. He placed on the counter, careful not to jostle it, and smiled at the man. "I just love these things," he said.
"You do," the owner replied. The oomph with which he spoke and the way his eyes glowed suggested that he knew he was dealing with a collector; a junkie collector. This also suggested a raise in the price because although the customer would get upset, he or she would still buy it. Jamie tried to backtrack. "Well, we had one before my mother died," he started the old lie, "and they just sort of remind me of her. She used to type on them all the time." He finished the sentence with a sigh, his eyes now wet with moisture as if the memory were too painful. In truth, his mother was alive and well, she hated typewriters, and she never understood his fascination with them.
But at the sound of such a sad story, a remorseful story, the man looked even more hungry. He wasn't just dealing with a collector, he was dealing with a nostalgic collector. The dollar signs kept getting bigger and bigger. Jamie realized that his ploy was backfiring and he made as if to take the typewriter away. "Never mind," he started, "It's just spending money I don't have, anyway. Thanks."
He had taken ten steps when the owner called to him. "Just a minute, son." Jamie stopped and turned around. The man had come from behind the counter and walked toward him, rubbing his hands together. "Put that down for a minute." Jamie did. The man looked at it, sitting on the floor, it's beige body dulling the sunlight coming through the front windows. "My name is Roy Chambers," he said. Jamie held out his hand. "Jamie Currey." The man smiled. His hands were soft and warm, the palms coarse. His nails, yellowed at the ends, were long but not to the length that would make them crude.
Roy smiled at Jamie, his hands going to his lower back where he pressed and stretched. His back let out a few loud reports, and he smiled. "There. Much better." Jamie smiled. "That typewriter was owned by a pretty famous author." Jamie's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Oh, ayuh. Writer by the name of Chuck King. Know of 'im?"
Jamie had to breathe before he spoke. The writer, Chuck King, was his favorite. His hero. His idol. The coincidence was just too much to bear. He looked at the typewriter on the floor, imagining Chuck King sitting in front of it, his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose, his mouth moving as he read the words that he wrote. The writer also lived in his town. He drove by the house, a huge red victorian, every day. He told himself that someday, he would own a house like that. When he was a famous writer. Just like Chuck King.
Jamie tried to hide his excitement. "I know of him. I haven't really read any of his stuff, but...that's still pretty cool that he owned this. I guess it's real expensive, huh?" Jamie thought, personally, that the typewriter should be in a museum. The old man, Roy, smiled.
"I guess it should be, but it's not. I don't care much for making a profit off someone else's stuff. Do you?"
Jamie shrugged. His mind still centered around the fact that the typewriter once belonged to his hero. He had read all of Chuck King's books and his critical books on writing and the process of writing. King had said that he first owned a Royal Arrow typewriter. Jamie had sought out a Royal Arrow typewriter, hoping to gain inspiration from the archaic clack of keys on a black roll bar. The typewriter hadn't brought inspiration. It was fun to type on, but it didnt' make the stories come quicker. Jamie realized that to write, and write well, he would have to write all the time. He had started doing that a year ago, selling a few of the stories he wrote. Most came back with rejection slips which he taped to the walls of his bedroom.
But he had felt the need to look in the antique store today, and he had felt that the typewriter, the beige IBM selectric, was his way toward writing more. And he had found one hell of a typewriter.
Roy stood next to him, hands clasped over each other, waiting for Jamie to answer. "I don't know. I mean, if I were the owner of this store," Jamie noticed the man's gray eyebrows rise when he said this, "I would probably sell it on Ebay for a million bucks. I know it's valuable, you know it's valuable. I guess the real question is can I afford what you're asking."
Roy laughed at this; his laugh was good-natured, chalky and rough. Roy leaned down, his bony knees popping. He loosened the tag from the front of the type writer and held it up to the light, examining the price through his glasses. "This does seem a bit wrong, as far as prices for typewriters go." Jamie nodded and bent down, grunting as he picked up the typewriter. He started shuffling back to the table where he found it. Roy called him again.
"Jamie," he said, the tag dangling from his hand. Jamie looked at him, the typewriter cradled in his arms.
"I'll sell it to you for half."
Jamie smiled. He smiled so hard that he thought his lips would break at the corners and his cheeks would burst.
Had he known what the typewriter held, all the pain, fear, and suffering it would cause, he would've burned it when he got home.
Had he also known Roy Chambers knew about the typewriter, he never would have set foot in the shop.