The Great Typewriter
Object

At the age of twelve, I inherited my first typewriter from a brother returning home from college. Someone had painted the typewriter green. It felt like it weighed about twenty pounds, of a good thick metal.
The keys needed cleaning. Its letters were choked with grime and dust. One key, p, always stuck, and I looked forward to the momentary pause to help it back in place. Instead of replacing the ribbon which had had its day, I’d rewind it with my fingers, the activity of which required dexterity. I enjoyed rewinding the ribbon. I had plenty of dexterity from years of classical piano and again, I could pause from writing and enjoy myself doing something ordinary. I liked feeling useful; I didn’t care if I was lazy.
After the ribbon was rewound, I’d lick the ink from my fingers (it tasted great), and resume writing. I wrote poems. I was pretty bad and was even worse when it came to cleaning the keys — because I never did — and I wrote anyway.
