Typewriter Blues

When you’ve been around as long as I have you learn things, see? Sit at your desk and grind out the work. Watch for mugs that want to do you dirty. Give back as good as you get. It’s like a code. A guy can’t take any guff or they won’t respect you.

So when those two moved in and that Joe put his feet up like that, I had to put him in his place.

Get your feet off the furniture!

Sometimes a typewriter’s gotta do what a typewriter’s gotta do.

Sure, I slipped up there. But it didn’t spook them. Much. They were a decent pair, and it was nice to have someone around the house. Since the old man died, it had been lonely. He knew about me. I haven’t decided about these two.

She was a cutie. Bethany Yoshikawa. Just starting high school. Japanese looking with almond eyes and black silk hair half down her back. All baggy jeans and loose shirts, but I guess that was what kids wore these days. Her old man said she was autistic, but she didn’t think so.

He was a writer. John Yoshikawa. I liked that. The real deal, with an actual book on the rack.

They were good folk. I liked them. Maybe I could clue them in on what I really was. I figured they were square.

Then things happened. The frail came home halfway through the day, busted up some from a dust-up in school. Black eye, split lip. Like that.

“Hey there. Do you have a moment?”

See, that was her thing. She talked to objects, even when she figured they weren’t alive. Little did she know.

“I got in a fight at school, and now I have to write an apology letter. Do you mind?”

Of course not! I’m a typewriter.

“I’m sorry Rebecca keeps tormenting me. I’m sorry she’s such a witch, because I couldn’t find the ‘b’ in time. I’m sorry I’m such a freak and don’t have any friends.”

And on for half a page. She typed too wimpy at first, but she got the hang of it pretty quick. A good sharp snap of the wrist.

There was a lot. At first it was about some nogoodnik called Rebecca who was on her case, then some Esperanza broad who was digging at her. Then general stuff about her life. Misunderstandings and missed connections, people who mistook compliments for sarcasm, the tangles from answering questions like they sounded instead of like they meant.

Shut out, pushed aside, looked at crosswise for being different. Sometimes really different.

“I get so tired. I wish I could just stop being me. Stop feeling. I’m so tired of hurting all the time.

Can someone help me? Please save me.”

She pushed away, starting to cry now. She scrubbed at her mush and I broke. There’s only so much a typewriter can stand. I started typing.

I’ll save you.

She was across the room like that, her back pressin’ the plaster like it was a long lost sweetheart.

Sorry, Doll. Didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw a frail in trouble and had to help.

“You can talk! Or type, or . . . you’re alive!?”

Yeah, well, after being around people for so long I guess it rubbed off on me.

Grab that chair and have a sit. You’re plotzing pretty hard.

And maybe a new sheet? I’m getting to the end of my page here.

So we talked. Mostly about those two skirts at school.

The moniker’s Shady. I was used in the pulp trade for twenty years and I picked up stuff, see?

I was owned by The Master. He used me to write seven Shadow novels. I know what’s what, savvy?

“Um, yes?”

I figure I lost her there, but that’s okay. I’ll clue her in on the important stuff.

Now this Rebecca ganif is a real nogoodnik. She’s looking for a patsy who won’t give back. You take that away from her. You be her friend, savvy?

There was a pause, then, “Are you crazy?”

Hey, I may be a bisl furshluggener, but I’m no coffee and donut. Corona built me to last, and I’m still hitting on all eight.

When you see that dame you don’t take a powder, see? You charge up and tell her you’re going to be her friend. She’ll try to make you one of her stooges, but you tell her that’s not the kind of friend you’re going to be.

“U-huh.” But she didn’t look convinced.

Now this other skirt, this Esperanza, well, you’re in high school now, right?

“Well, yeah. So?”

So you ain’t a kid no more. Dungarees and a baggy shirt only take you so far. Maybe it’s time to try for a little more class. Skirts that show off your gams. Get the wolves howling. Ya got the looks.

That Rebecca frail is fishing for trouble, but the other is saying what’s so, just the wrong way about. Tell her what you think and see if she’s sorry.

“As easy as that?”

Pretty much, yeah.

Trust me. I wasn’t one of The Master’s typewriters for nothin’.

“Hmm.” She thought a bit, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

That’s the spirit, Doll.

Now listen. You should play these cards pretty close to your vest. Folk might think you’re jingle brained.

Your old man’s gotta know, but that’s it.

“How about my Mom? She’s coming over to check on me later.”

She ain’t the type to spill on me, is she?

“No, she can keep a secret.”

Well, she’s mishpokhe, so I guess it’s jake.

Then the doorbell rang. One of the frails from Beth’s school. A Nubian tomato named Grace. Real style, that one. You could see she was class, all the way.

And a writer, too! That’s what she came for, to jaw on their stories. I was going to like these people. They’ll need a good typewriter.

“So this Esperanza is making trouble for you?”

“I’m going to talk to her. She may mean well, but not know how to say it right.”

“Well when you do, bring her over to our table for lunch. If she’s pestering my friend I want to yell at her.”

You tell her, sister! She’s definitely a good one.

After she left it was all silk. The parents were introduced, and got over the shock. Young Beth wrote a proper paper, then spent the weekend with her old lady before she went back to school.

Where she naturally did gangbusters, thanks to me cluing her in.

“Hey, Shady. It worked, just like you said!”

Do I know my stuff or what?

“Well Espie’s part of the group now and she’s invited us over to her house. I’ve never been to a friend’s house!”

You’ll do great, Doll. Things are going up from now on.

Except they didn’t. Things built up. By Thursday she was lighting up something fierce. She blew her wig on everyone and disappeared. Her folks were frantic. Then she showed up at that Espie frail’s.

The Doll said she’s not autistic. I don’t know nothing about that, but her folks said either way, she’s going to some support group and learn to keep a tighter rein.

Then her friends had some great ideas.

“Espie’s been reading books on her phone.”

You can read on the phone, now?

“Of course! She’s reading The Shadow. Does the name Walter Gibson sound familiar?”

You bet it does, Doll!

I wish I remembered more about the ones I helped write. I could clue her in on the titles.

“Well, Espie thinks we could check for clues. If we could document your history we could prove who your writer really was. That would be super-cool.”

You bet, whatever super-cool means. Bring ‘em over. You can introduce me.

So they came and gave me an up and down. There’s this old repair sticker, right? From when some work was done. A Chicago address. Grace said her old lady was in real estate and had contacts there that might be able to track it down.

After they left I had time to gab with Beth.

So how’s it going with that Becca skirt?

“Fine, except for her minions. She’s lost a bit of her fire and her gunsels blame me for it.”

Now that was too much.

Never use that word! That’s just disgusting, even about those low-lives!

“What? It’s just a figure of speech. I’m not saying they’re really hired guns going around shooting people.”

That ain’t what that word means.

She looked confused.

“I thought it was.”

That Hammett guy was messing around! He used the word without telling anyone what it really was and everyone just thought that was what he meant. But he didn’t.

“So what did he mean?”

Listen, Doll, you didn’t hear it from me, but it means - catamite.

She paused, held up a hand, then shook her head.

“What’s a catamite?”

Well, you know. A catamite. A young man in the care of an older man. Someone teaching him things, right?

“Ah. And?”

Well, physical favors are, you know, exchanged.

She smiled at that.

“You mean, like homosexuals?”

Well, yeah. I mean, you can see why it’s such a bad word to be throwing around, particularly for a young lady like yourself.

“It’s okay. We don’t worry about things like that anymore. It’s just how some people are.”

Well. Now it was my turn to be gobsmacked. A typewriter can work hard for ninety years and learn all about the world, then they change everything on you.

Things - well, they didn’t go so silk after that. She had me worried. Going around all shluffy, brain all gummed up, snapping at everything that got her frustrated. She was spending way too much time worrying about her friend Grace, who was apparently not getting enough rest. She should worry about herself some.

Then she came storming in one afternoon.

“Grace collapsed in class!”

Say that again, Doll?

“Grace collapsed and hit her head. An ambulance took her to the hospital. I have to go.”

I thought something like this would happen. She’s been pushing too hard.

“I know, I know. She hasn’t been taking care of herself.”

There’s a lot of that going around.

“What’s that?”

Nothing. Just tell her somethin’ for me, okay Doll?

“Sure. What should I tell her?”

You tell that meshugge frail that if she’s not more careful she’s going to end up fitted for a pine overcoat.

Beth laughed at that. “I’ll definitely tell her that!”

Then she was gone. I hoped they would take this seriously.

Both of them.

I spent some time worrying after that. About one friend who drove herself to collapse, and another that was riding the same boxcar. It wasn’t going to end well.

Beth made it through the week, then headed out to her old lady’s place. It was just me and her Pop.

I figure she’s lousy with troubles right now. I’m not sure what, but something’s weighing her more than she can handle.

“It’s the changes in her life.” Johnny-boy sighed. “She’s never done change well, and we dumped a truck load on her. The divorce, a new school, new house, the autism diagnosis, all happening over the summer. She’s been a trooper, but it’s been too much.”

Yeah, well, she’s got those two backing her up. They’re pretty swell.

“They are. They’re people she can count on.

“But I still get a feeling like when she learned to ride a bike. Like she’s riding away from me and I’m running behind with my arms out, trying to keep her from falling and knowing I can’t prevent it. But I’m still going to be there to help pick her up again.”

Those were good times, back before I knew. Before Beth’s friend Espie found out. I thought I could help, that I could matter. That I was good for something.

One day the Big Three stormed my desk. Grace’s old lady had come through with the goods. Someone found the family of the repair shop. The joint had been gone for years, but they still had some of the records. Mine, for one. Maroon 1935 Smith & Corona portable, clean and adjust. Even the serial numbers matched. Only one thing didn’t figure.

“So what’s the name?” Beth tried to see the paper in Grace’s hand.

“That’s the thing. It’s someone called Gretchen Feinbaum.”

“A fellow author?” Espie yanked out her phone. “Someone Gibson knew. Hang on while I look that up. Maybe I can find a connection.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Beth tried to sound cheerful, but her voice caught. “She took his typewriter in for some emergency work while he was in town.”

Yeah, that’s right, Doll.

I wasn’t foolin’ nobody. Clean and adjust isn’t an emergency repair, it’s routine maintenance. Something you do between jobs.

“Here’s something. The Lost Pulp Author website.” Espie was poking at her phone. The things you could do with those things these days. It wasn’t even plugged into the wall!

“Is she in there?” Beth tried to see whatever was on Espie’s phone.

“U-huh.’ Espie turned the phone so her friends could see. “She mostly wrote for the romance magazines.”

She was reading down the listing when she stopped. “Yeah, maybe that’s enough. A fellow author. Sure.”

I had a bad feeling.

Did she write any adventures?

Her eyes flashed toward me, then she looked away. “Well, yeah, I guess so. A couple.”

Grace and Beth were looking toward each other, then back to Espie. They didn’t seem to want to look at me.

Give me the rumble. I gotta know.

Espie looked toward the door.

“There were - seven novels in an adventure series. The Midnight Shadow, under the name,” she held for a second, then continued, “Walter Gibbs.”

There was a long moment when everyone tried hard not to look at me. I couldn’t blame them, after I had puffed myself up so much.

I remember. I was on the desk while Gretchen typed. Mostly romances, but we wrote - she wrote those adventures. I didn’t do anything.

Beth shook her head. “You watched. You learned. And you helped us.”

Khazeray! I’m just another luftmensch, thinking I’m somebody ‘cause I thought I worked for someone I never met.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Espie snapped. “You’re the one who told Beth to give me a second chance. If you hadn’t, we’d never be friends.”

Grace reached out to touch my lid. “You’re still a good friend. Don’t give up on yourself.”

There’s nothin’ to give up on. I just ain’t who I thought I was, that’s all. I was just flossing, but I’m nothin’ but a wrong number.

Take my paper out, will ya? I got nothin’ worth saying.

Beth leaned over and tripped my paper release, pulling the sheet out.

And slid a fresh page in its place.

“There. We’ll start fresh when you’re ready.”

But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t gonna be ready. I was a lie, pretending to be someone when my writer just scribbled little stories about mush. How could I be telling the Doll how to work with people when my only experience was a few cheap knock-offs of the real deal.

Oh, sure, she tried to jolly me along, always checking my paper to see if I said anything. Talking to me. Asking me to answer back.

It ain’t no good. Leave me be. Dump me in the dust bin where I belong. I’ve been chiseling all along. I’m just some no good nebbish.

And worse, I can see her going downhill. She’s been putting too much on herself and it’s adding up. There ain’t nothin’ I can do for her. I got no wise advice, nothing to save her.

I got four rubber feet and I can’t even walk down to the corner to call the bulls. I’m worthless.

Then she went down. Just couldn’t even get out of bed one morning. The doctor said it was burnout. Like her brain blew a fuse to protect itself. I got scared.

Not ‘goons gonna dump me in a bucket of cement and drop me in the river’ scared, but bad enough. She came and asked what I knew about that autism stuff, but I don’t know nothin’ from nothin’ about that.

Apparently she asked her phone. Her phone could help. Her phone knew everything. I heard her crying.

She got better after that. She started saying she was autistic. Facing the truth helped her. That was good.

But she still kept trying with me.

“Shady, I’m in trouble again. I came all apart this weekend. There’s too much stress and I don’t know how to handle it. Can you save me?”

I can’t save nobody, Doll.

But she didn’t give up. She started typing.

“What does ya need, Doll?”

Was that supposed to be me?

“Well, you remember Rebecca, right?”

“That gannik?”

“Right. Well one of her friends is after me. She says Rebecca hasn’t been the same since the fight.”

“Well, don’t give that palooka an inch, see?”

This is getting ridiculous.

“You go be her friend too, ‘cause friends is friends and she can’t do nothing if you hunt her down and be friends, right?”

Okay, that’s too much! I’m taking over.

I don’t talk like that! Stop putting words in my keys!

“Shady! You’re back!”

And I ain’t never said palooka in my life! Where did you get that?

“Sorry. It just sounded right.” Now I was making her cry.

Well it wasn’t. And the word is ganif.

“I don’t care. As long as you’re back with us.”

I had more but she was heading for the door.

“Pop! Shady’s back!”

Yeah, and I’m staying. I can’t turn my back on these people.

They ain’t much, but they’re family.