Bang, Bang, Now You're Mine

There's a typewriter convention in Milwaukee tomorrow. Maybe I should go.

I bought a typewriter the other day. A shiny, orange machine I had no clue how to use. The sales associate showed me how to insert the paper, told me not to type when there's no paper inside, and sent me to the checkout counter. I walked out of the shop, excited and nervous. I wanted to learn how to use it. I wanted to make this wonderful, ancient invention mine. 

There was a little coffee shop down the block, hidden behind a corner. I ordered a cold brew tonic and noticed the signs. There must have been 8 stickers that said:

“No Laptops Allowed.” 

“No Laptops Allowed.” 

“No Laptops Allowed.”

As I fiddled with the textured black case, I looked at the guy behind the counter. Some feelings emerged; I felt like protecting this unknown treasure that was about to be mine. I tried to stuff a paper in. It didn't work; maybe the paper was too thick. I did it gently, and it slid right in.

I started pressing letters. Nothing printed, so I pressed a bit harder, and then I pressed harder again. Maybe the inked ribbon was old. I didn't know how to change the margins, so I typed in the middle of the page. Letters started appearing and I was ready to christen it. I was ready to make it mine.

I looked around as the server came up to me with my cold brew tonic. I noticed people were noticing me. They must be checking out the cool, shiny orange typewriter, I thought. I never liked orange until that day.

I started typing my first sentence. I wanted to write a note to the person who inspired me to get this beautiful machine. He had written an essay about a typewriter that he had written on a typewriter. His words were magical— the slowness, the depth, the beauty. I fell in love with the idea of having my own. He spoke about the way the keys hugged his fingers. I wanted to feel that too.

I typed the first "G." I was going to write "Good day, Garrett," and send him a snapshot. We're six hours apart, so it felt fitting—a good morning, old style.

I typed an "O" and then another "O." This time, people were staring. My ears tingled. I realized the coffee shop was silent except for every clack, clack, clack as I banged the letters slowly on the keyboard. I had to get through the sentence, though; I had to make the typewriter mine.

I tried to bang it with directed force. If I didn't press hard enough, it wouldn't print. I typed the "D" and another "D." I typed the "A." I typed the "Y."

For a moment, the server looked at me. I thought he was going to kick me out. "No laptops," but maybe their rules spread to writing instruments too. I kept going. "G," "A," "R," "R" came quickly. Then, an "E." I took a deep breath.

I banged out the final two letters and put my hands down. 

With the typewriter, it seemed, fingers are the instrument and the typewriter is how the instrument plays. Maybe it's like that with other arts, but I’d never experienced that before. The only expression on the paper were my words. No auto correct. No fancy fonts. Just the disjointed letters I typed. I didn't know something so simple could have so much power. 

I swallowed the rest of my cold brew tonic and snapped the case back on. With barely a glance at the “No laptops” sign, I breezed out. The typewriter was now mine. 

If this piece made you feel something, let me know. Click the heart or drop a comment - thank you ❤️ 

Garrett Kincaid

, thank you.