Grandpa Smiled

The boy sat in the paneled office, along with his parents, listening to the reading of the will. He yawned. While he liked his grandfather, there was nothing in the will for him—until the attorney came to the last item.

“Finally, to my grandson, Thomas Bernard, who loves video games and hates to write, I bequeath my 1956 Smith Corona Sterling typewriter. I trust he will find the machine in good working order, and have included two extra ribbons and one ream of manuscript paper.”

With that, twelve-year-old Thomas rolled his eyes, slouched, and sighed. The attorney cleared his throat and continued.

“And for Thomas, a stipend of $100,000 is also available with the following conditions.”

When the boy heard the $100,000 figure, his posture improved.

“He must compose an original story of his choosing. The story must be written on the typewriter and must be at least 5,000 words in length. It must be accepted for publication by any legitimate concern within two years from today’s date. Thomas, since I know math is not your strong suit, I’ve broken things down for you. The $100,000 payment for 5,000 words equates to about $20 per word. So, I suggest you choose your words carefully. To that end, I’m also leaving you my American Heritage dictionary. You should find it quite useful.”

The attorney looked up, smiled, and continued reading the will.

 “I used to read to you quite often when you were a little boy, and reading and learning new words were among your favorite pastimes before you got hooked on those awful video games and addicted to Satan’s cell phone. So, here is your chance to repent, to do something creative, and to earn some real money in the process. I know you can do it, Thomas, if you put your mind to it. I wish you all the luck in the world—Your Papa.”

The attorney placed a large box on the desk.

He removed the lid. Everyone leaned forward to take a peek.

“Your grandfather’s typewriter, ribbons, paper, and his dictionary as promised,” he said.

Thomas looked at his parents, then at the lawyer.

“But I don’t know anything about writing stories.”

The attorney moved to a bookcase and returned with a book. He handed it to Thomas, who read the cover.

“How to write short stories that sell?” said Thomas.

“Your grandfather was a good friend of mine, Thomas. So, please consider the book my gift to you.”

The boy frowned. “Thank you,” he said.

And with that, carrying their box of treasure, the family left the office and headed home.

That evening, Thomas cleared off the dining room table and carefully unpacked the box. He set up the typewriter, placed the dictionary next to it, and opened the box of paper.

It took him ten minutes and a phone video to figure out how to insert a sheet of paper into the typewriter, set it against the platen, and adjust the rollers so the page was lined up. Then he played with the return handle, watched the paper advance, and enjoyed the ding of the little bell as he slid the carriage.

Finally, with the paper aligned, he was ready to go. So, he did what many writers do.

He fetched a cold root beer from the refrigerator, took a swig, and sat back down at the typewriter. Writing isn’t so bad, he thought. I can do this!

And he faced what writers have faced for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years—the blank page. His blank page.

He took another drink of root beer and, hungry now, returned to the refrigerator to fix himself a ham sandwich.

Then he sat down at the table and consumed the sandwich—all the while, thinking.

“Now, I’m ready to go,” he said, and took another swig of root beer.

He set the can down and flexed his neck—side to side, a few times, to get all of the kinks out.

“Alright,” he said.

He stared at the blank page.

It stared back at him.

Ready when you are, Thomas, said the page. Let her rip.

“I need a title,” he said.

Good idea!

“I’ll call it… Grandpa’s Typewriter.”

He flexed his fingers, hovered them over the keys, and typed.

“GRANDPA’S TYPEWRITER”

As each letter snapped onto the page, he remarked, “I like the sound of this thing. Okay, that’s two words so far, so let’s see.”

And picking up his calculator, he keyed in: 5,000 minus 2.

“4,998 more to go. And… two words, times $20 each—I just made 40 bucks!”

His parents sat in the living room, watching TV.

“Mom," he shouted, "I just made forty bucks.”

“You started already?”

“Yeah. It’s not so hard.”

“What’s your story called?”

“It’s called Grandpa’s Typewriter.”

“Wow, that’s a good title. What’s it about?”

“It’s about Grandpa’s Typewriter.”

“No, that’s your title. I mean, what’s the story about—what happens in it?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t worked that part out yet.”

“You should probably figure that out first.”

“What do you mean?”

She walked into the dining room and sat across from him.

“I mean, Thomas, you should come up with a beginning, a middle, and an end. You should at least know those main parts first.”

“That sounds like a waste of time, Mom.”

“Oh, really? Well, let me ask this—who’s your main character?”

“My main character?”

She nodded.

He sat there, wrung his hands a few times, and shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it’s called Grandpa’s typewriter. Who did he give it to?” she asked.

He thought.

And with that one little spark, a light came on.

He smiled. “Me… I’m the main character.”

“Good,” she said, smiling. “Now, what’s the first thing that happens to you in your story?”

And just like magic, the kid who hated writing, was addicted to video games, and was glued to his cell phone began to use his imagination.

From somewhere high above, a single tear rolled down his cheek, and Grandpa Smiled.