ANTIQUE TYPEWRITER

The Janky Keyboard

Writer finds relic typewriter hiding under a bed. Read all about it- Oh, my lucky 🍀 giddy day 2/4/22

This hid for at least 40 years under the guest bed in my mother-in-law’s house. It weighs the same amount as a copper clawed bathtub circa late 1800s. A writer almost died moving it.

“Hey!” A husband yelled, “We’re not keeping it.”

The writer tightened their arms and pressed the prize closer to their chest. Feral sounds erupted from its throat as it turned and ferreted it away.

With the reverence of a white gloved librarian archivist, the writer set it on the table. They stood back and assessed. During the span of a few breaths, they fantasized, planned, and plotted. A book began blossoming in their mind.

Let’s see what we have here. They took a deep breath and whipped off the cover.

Electric. A few wobbly keys. One missing. The writer peeked inside and rummaged around. The missing key wasn’t there.

They plugged it in. Nothing happened. Loud sounds of nothing emitted from it. Silence reigned the moment.

The author ran to the printer, grabbed a handful of blank pages, and glided back to the antique. They laid the pile down on the table next to the relic, pulled out a chair, and sat before it. A single sheet was placed into the feed. They turned the plastic handle and fed the waiting white paper to the starting line.

The author retrieves 36-year-old memories from a junior high school typing class. Okay, maybe add a few more years, but who’s counting and does it really matter?

Way back then, students fought over two electric typewriters in a room full of manuals. The teacher promised the manuals were the more desirables. They would be the key to make hands, fingers, muscles, stronger. Students, as they always have and will forever more, scoffed at the adult. They knew better.

Electric paved the way to the future.

Back to the present, the author felt around the edges of the machine. Fingers caressed and reached for the power button. They found nothing but cold flat smoothe metal. The fingers reached around the back. Seeking. Searching. Only to find more of the same blank metal wilderness.

The author stood and prodded with eyes, the front, left and right sides. No buttons emerged.

They turned the machine 45 degrees and prodded the back with more eyes. Nothing.

They heaved the machine up with hands backed by willpower and sought the needed button. Nothing.

Setting it back down, they turned the machine back into position, and sat before it. Puzzled. This will not defeat them.

They pushed down keys, left, right, top, bottom. Blue, red, white, and black. Nothing happened.

How do you turn this damn thing on?

An unmentionable amount of time passed. The author tried once more. With a frantic face leading the charge, pushing down buttons, harder, faster, dammit, where are you?

A groggy beep emerged and a red light appeared!

The author heard something else. “You have three wishes.”

Oh! That should have been obvious. The author laughs at themself. Could have happened to anyone, they reassure themselves.

The author gathers calm, lifts hands into position, and prepares to make magic.

The first key is struck. It moved and struck the paper as designed. The ribbon failed its mission. Dried out, it failed to transmit the F.

Ignoring this, the author continues typing, knowing that with enough words, the ribbon will rotate out of the desert and into black ocean territory and produce type!

A jam occurs. The author pulls back the jammed metal arms with dangling letters, the typebars. They fall back into place. The author laughs with them. I know, I was so excited too. I’ll proceed a little slower. I know you’re rusty. Not rusty, but been in retirement for a while. No offense meant.

The author resumes typing and rejoices in the sound long lost but now heard again.

Oh, yeah, though I walk through the valley of electronic keyboards, I will fear your loss no more. You comfort me and prepare — oh, the return key doesn’t work. The author hits it again. Nothing, zilch, natta.

Note: The author intends no disrespect to Psalm 23. No, they are moved by the moment, and pull words from the ether.

Dead return key. That’s okay. I can manually return the carriage, if I remember correctly, by tapping this long arm. The carriage releases back to the left. The author resumes… and prepare — oh, I need to feed the roll forward one row.

Not a problem. The author rotates the roll forward one notch so they’re not typing over what they just typed.

*ou comfort me and prepare — -there’s no y key. Even after the author hits the metal prongs that would hold the y key if it was there, the typebars don’t move and no y is produced.

That’s okay. I can work around this.

I will fear no — -fingers stumble to a stop. Not only have the typebars jammed into one space above the ribbon, but keys popped off and exposed their metal prongs that once held them. They also stabbed the authors' fingertips. Crap. The machine's golden glow fractures and recedes.

With weary sighs, the author releases the jammed typebars, picks up blue keys thrown about, and squashes them back onto the keyboard. The k key is stuck under the i and o keys. The author tugs but k doesn’t release. Heavier sighs emit into the air.

With two hands and multiple fingers, the author tugs, pulls, and curses. Damn you i and o. In a last attempt, the author yanks i and o straight up and off the keyboard and drops them on the table in disgust.

I’m sorry k. They weren’t playing nicely. With gentle fingertips, the author releases k from the nasty grips of the naughty i and o’s grasp. They place k onto her prongs. I and o follow suit. Now behave, whispers the author.

Like a conductor preparing to conduct, the author's hands hover over the keyboard. This time. All will work. The author begins slowly typing with care. Pulling creation from the ether.

A few rows later, black letters emerge. Excitement builds again. But then, an epic 10 car collision in the typebars accompanied by a freight train derailment on the keyboard hits the typewriter. Blinding it. Binding it. Death throughs wreathe in despair.

The budding book curls its petals, withering. No, they whispered. The author types a few last words.

The Janky Keyboard by Wendy Snyder.

With one last glance, goodbye sweet dreams and typing bliss, the cover falls and settles back in to snuggle its home.

Epilogue: The author found an ad for the Remington 711 from 1972. That makes this a 50-year-old typewriter. Sadly, it’s in better condition than the author, who is, coincidently, missing one key.

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