The Typewriter

“Can I get some help please?" I said out loud.

A short, young man saunters over to me and I immediately point at the empty spot and say: “Tell me you have this ink cartridge in the back.”

Scanning the barcode, he says: “Nope. Sorry.”

“Can you call another store? I really need it. Like, today,” I beg.

Shaking his head, he says: “Nope. That particular brand is out of stock at all of our stores. I’m sorry.”

This is ridiculous, I say to myself.

“I might have a solution for you, though. Could be a long shot…but, you never know, “says the unhelpful employee, “Have you heard of Lee’s?”

“The pawn shop off third?” I reply.

Lee’s Pawn shop is a little run-down shop at the end of a dead-end street. If you’re ever in a tight spot financially, I’ve heard it’s a nice place to go to sell some items and get a spot of cash. Never been there myself, but I’ve seen it plenty of times.

“Yes, “the man responds, “he normally has a lot of the things that we seem to be out of. I always refer people his way if we’re out of something.”

“Yea…ok. Thanks for all your help,” I reply in frustration, turning to exit the store.

The drive to Lee’s Pawn shop wasn’t far. I had time to think about the book I need to finish. That I desperately need to finish.

Dontae’ Cristleon—Treasure hunter. Your modern-day, male version of Lara Croft—minus the long ponytail and tight clothes. On the search for one of the biggest treasures of his “pirating” career. Romance, gun fights, adventure…the story has everything—except for an ending.

Pulling up to Lee’s Pawn Shop, I realize it looks even more run down than it was the last time I drove past here. A small, brick-laid building with a grungy shop sign with the “L” hanging by a nail, a rusted metal door and bars covering dirty windows and a flashing “OPEN” sign—seemingly, the only thing not “run-down”.

As I open the door and walk inside, an old, shaky voice calls out: “Just a second.”

As I look around the shop, I notice shelves of used and vintage items.

“What can I do you for, son?” the old voice asks.

A small, timid, old man walks out from the back door, and leans on the counter.

“Hello, um, I’m looking for ink. For my printer,” I reply, “the guy at the store down the street told me to come here.”

“Ink, huh?” he says, scratching his head full of grey and white hairs and looking around slowly.

“Canon printer. Cartridge 65 black, in case you needed it,” I say as I tap my foot impatiently.

“Must be a writer, huh?” he says cleverly, “either in a hurry to start a book…or finish one.” He turns to look at me, awaiting my reply.

“Yes, I am, “I say surprised, “…and I’m trying to finish one. Kinda need ink to do it.”

The old man grabs a stool and drags it to a tall, wooden cabinet.

Stepping onto the stool and reaching in his pocket, he pulls out a ring of metal keys. As he rustles around to find the right key, I feel my patience running thin.

“You, young people seem to be quite in a hurry nowadays, “he says, obviously referring to my still tapping foot, “sometimes it seems you’re more focused on just accomplishing something…then, partaking in the adventure of it all. It’s a shame, really…life’s so full of journeys, excitement and thrill.”

As he finally opens the drawer with the key, he pauses and turns around, looking straight at me and says, “You see all these clocks, son?”

I look around at all the shelves, mostly holding vintage clocks, all ranging in different sizes.

“Um, sure. I noticed them. What about them?” I ask, confused.

“You can normally tell what’s least important to people by looking at what’s on the shelves of a pawn shop. Whatever you see the most of, that’s normally what people care little about, “he says in a low undertone, “and, by the looks of these here shelves…its clocks. Or time. People nowadays care little about time.”

He slowly shrugs his shoulders and returns to the cabinet. “For some reason…people are in such a hurry. They always must go, go, go. Never taking the time to just breathe in…life.”

As he opens the locked drawer, he pulls out a dark blue box. Struggling a little, he steps off the stool and places the box down on the counter. A cloud of dust puffs up from it.

How old is that box? I wonder.

Whatever ink cartridge is in there, I definitely don’t want it..

“Ya’ know, on second thought, I’ll just go. I think there’s another store about twenty minutes from here I can try, “I say irritably.

Turning to head for the door, I hear a metal clank behind me. I turn back and notice a metal typewriter now sitting on the counter.

“That’s a Corona typewriter!” I burst out, “Where’d you—who—w-why would someone sell a Corona?! That’s the most valuable typewriter in the world!”

The old man leans on the counter and flashes a small smile.

“Impressive, “he says, “it’s not every day I meet a young buck that knows a thing or two about vintage items. Just curious…do you know when the first Corona typewriter was made?”

Walking back to the counter, my eyes glued on it, the metal from the typewriter glistens from the sun’s glare through the dirty windows.

“1907. The first Corona typewriter was made in 1907, “I answer.

The old man claps his hand excitedly, “Excellent! Fine job, son!” he says, overjoyed by the answer.

“Who would sell this?” I ask.

“Oh…ya’ know how people are these days. They don’t quite know the value of anything,” he says, throwing his hands up, “but this is a special piece of equipment.”

The old man runs his fingers across the metal keys, smiling proudly.

“I know how special it is. My grandfather used to have one. Not like this and not as old, but similar,” I say, seeing the memory in my mind, “I used to love to hear him tapping away, creating short stories and mystery novels in the middle of the day. I used to wait ‘till he took his evening nap to sneak into his office and play with it. I typed gibberish of course—I was five—but I felt like I was a writer. I used to tap away until the paper came flying out and then, grabbed it and ran to my room. I made all my toys sit up and listen as I read my story out loud—from faraway lands and daring dragons to treasure maps and pirate adventures–that typewriter made me a writer. I fell in love with storytelling because of it.”

The old man looks up at me and smiles. Grabbing the sides of the typewriter, he spins it around to face me.

“And, what about now? You still love it? Or is it more about churning out stories just to reach a deadline or make a profit?” he asks in a low, solemn tone.

“Yeah…it is,” I admitted, “I honestly can’t remember the last story I wrote that I actually…enjoyed. That I got lost in. It’s like I’m writing just to…write.”

I drop my head down in embarrassment.

The old man reaches his hand out and lays it on my shoulder. “Sounds like you could use a bit of adventure then, huh, son?” he says, smiling.

He lifts the typewriter back into the box. Placing the lid on top, he says: “Unfortunately, I don’t have the ink you’re looking for. But…I have a better solution for you.”

He pushes the box toward me. “Finish your story with this,” he says, looking up at me.

“No, “I say solemnly, “I know how expensive this thing is. I can’t afford it.”

The old man chuckles and turns to grab the chair next to him. Sitting down, he says: “Actually…it’s not for sale. But it is…for rental.”

Surprised, I ask: “Rent? Pawn shops don’t rent. Besides, I’m sure the fee for something as priceless as this, is still out of my budget.”

Leaning forward on the counter and smiling, he says: “Actually…we have a special promotion going on right now. Just for writers who’ve lost their passion.”

Intrigued, I lean in and ask: “What’s the deal?”

“For a limited time only,” he says, pausing, “it only costs you…an adventure.”

He lets out a chuckle and stands up.

Walking over to the banged-up cash register, he taps away at the keys. Suddenly, a paper prints and he reaches out to grab it. Ripping it, he hands it to me and says: “Your receipt for the rental.”

I reach out and grab the paper and turn it over.

“What? There’s nothing on this receipt,” I say, confused.

“Oh yeah…I’m out of ink, too, “the old man says, chuckling.

I couldn’t help but flash a smile back.

He pushes the box closer to me.

“Take it. Go…have an adventure!” he says gleefully, a huge smile growing on his face.

Smiling hard, I reach out for the box. As I lift it, I realize how solid and heavy it is.

I can’t wait! I exclaim to myself.

* * * *

Focus. You must finish this story.

Paper in. Typewriter ready. Coffee warm and creative juices flowing.

Here I go…

“…raging waters crash against the wooden ship. Rain pouring down unforgivingly on the pirates, pummeling against the lone ship sailing on the horizon. Loud singing by the crew, while beer bottles roll around on the wooden floor. Celebrating loudly of their last haul–five treasure chests full of pirate gold—”

CLANK!

Jumping back from the typewriter, I flinch at the loud, metallic sound.

What was that?

Looking down on the floor, I notice a…gold…coin?

“Where did this come from?” I say aloud, confused.

Picking up the coin, I realize its real! Real gold!

CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!

I jump once again, this time at something hitting my foot.

Looking down, I notice a brown, beer bottle by my feet.

Old Man’s Ale, I read, staring at the bottle’s label.

Suddenly, a bright light appears, blinding me!

As I cover my eyes, I squint to see where the light is coming from.

The typewriter—the keys are glowing!

Hesitantly, I reach out to touch the keys and suddenly the light flashes brighter and I feel the room begin to spin.

“What’s happening?!” I yell, as the floorboards underneath me begin to shake.

Suddenly, the room goes black.

“ALL HANDS-ON DECK! ALL HANDS ON DECK!” a voice yells out.

As I open my eyes, the sounds of running footsteps cloud my ears.

I sit up slowly as my vision starts to clear.

“The captain says ‘all hands on deck’! On 'yer feet, boy!” a strange man yells, standing over me.

I go to stand up, and the feeling of lightheadedness comes over me.

Stumbling, I grab the window behind me.

I stand and look out of it.

Why am I looking at a body of water right now?! I yell to myself.

A man comes running past me, I reach out and yell: “Hey! Where am I?”

He looks at me confused, his face dirty and beard long and unkept, “At sea, mate! At sea!” he yells.

I clumsily run behind the man, climbing the steps with shaky legs.

As I reach the top, I push open a heavy wooden door and climb onto the deck.

Suddenly, I drop to my knees as I look out around me.

…I AM at sea!

“You, there!” a stern, voice yells out.

As I turn around to see its source, I gasp even louder.

“All hands on deck, young man! We’ve almost reached land!”

…i-i-its him.

…Dontae’ Cristleon—and I’m on HIS ship!