The Typewriter
bop bop a ba-pow-pow-pow… ka-cane.
No I don’t do cocaine. That’s my mantra when I want to start writing. I also do a little drum beat with my fingers.
I got it from Archer. So I can’t claim originality.
So the other night I was walking home from the GF’s, and sticking out of a garbage can on around 73rd and 3rd was a suitcase looking thing. But not.
It looked old whatever it was. It had that mid-century texture on the outside, and shaped like it came out of Grandma’s closet. I knew instantly whatever was in there was either going to be awesome, or was going to sear my brain and I was going to regret it forever.
It was a typewriter. A fully manual Smith-Corona Galaxie. The brown gave it a grandpa vibe, and it was heavy enough to use to trash the shit out of a cold-water flat on a benny and wine kick.
I instantly knew, I knew, my long hard search for a typewriter of my own was over. So the only thing left to do was to quit my shit job, get goofy, and write my novel in one huge bender. I practically live in a tenement, and I’m filled with angst. I also do have the aforementioned GF that I could yell angry drunk poetry at.
Yeah, I read a lot of Kerouac back in the day.
So I took it home, it was a bit bent up. It was kinda working. The A key would work, then PING it would hit the lid, then get stuck there. The lid would barely move. Also it smelled.
I know I got it out of a garbage can. But this thing stunk like a hoarder’s apartment. But it was broken and unique (like me) and I felt like it deserved a good home (also like me).
So after a Google. Three typewriter repair shops came up. The one in Chelsea where all the rich fucks went to. Then one in Queens, well it’s Queens so it might as well be in another state. Finally, and most surprising, one a couple of blocks from me. Ridgeway Typewriter Co.
So in fact confirming this place exists I pack up the typewriter. But as I do so, I notice a label on the inside lid. It’s kinda peeled, but there’s enough to make out “Ridgeway Typewriter Co.,” with a phone number that’s so old the first three digits are S-H-3. If you’re a brooklynite you know.
But it couldn’t be the same place right? Maybe it’s an homage? Maybe it’s the guy’s son or grandson? There’s no way this place could have been continuously existing. It’s not fucking possible.
So I lug this thing over to 72nd and 5th avenue. The address is a house. No sign of a business, basement or otherwise. But down the alleyway, corner of my eye, I see the sign for it. It looks ancient.
So I go down the alleyway. Sitting out of the garage, in a big puffy coat is an elderly man. He’s friendly, or at least not in the killing mood (you never know in an isolated alleyway). His accent is Russian, or at least slavic but smoothed down from decades of being here.
He sees the case and with a big toothless grin he says “Why do you bring me a Smith-Corona.”
I guess they must be pains in the ass to work with.
He opens it up. Sees the label. “Oh this is from when I have the shop on 73rd.”
Holy shit.
I explain where I got it from, and yes I do want to use it. I am a man of letters after all.
Ok I’m a guy with a ton of student loan debt that “concentrated” in creative writing from The New School with an emphasis on screenwriting because I really wanted to write dialog for Halo. Potato / Po-tah-to.
“Shame someone just throw it in the garbage.” He shakes his head, with that same sadness you see in all the old timers when they recognize time is moving on.
We talk nice for a second. He starts looking at it. Figures out the things I figured out, plus an extra couple of things. When he’s done checking, he does the mental math… “One twenty.”
I get the insane nature of actually taking in a typewriter in 2022. I also get that $120 is $120 and that’s like a bill and some groceries. But it felt right. All of it. Taking it home. The tactile nature of typing on a typewriter. Bringing it back to it’s dad so it can come back to life…
“So next Saturday good for you?” I ask him.
