He slid the machine off the counter and put it into its case. He
snapped the case shut then, locked it, and handed me the two keys.
"Keys even," he said, still smiling. "A good buy. If I had five
dollars, I'd buy it myself." His smile widened in appreciation
of his own humor, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was
immensely relieved about something. I handed him the five dollar bill
reluctantly, scooped up the case, and left the shop--glancing back over
my shoulder to see him still grinning behind the counter.
I stopped at the grocer's to pick up some salami and a loaf of bread,
and then I went back to my apartment. I lived in a small, one-room flat
in the Village. I'd migrated there because I wanted to be surrounded by
creative people. I'd been surrounded by them for close to six months
now, but none of it had rubbed off on me. I'd finally been forced
to sell my old typewriter to pay the rent, so that finding this one
today--and at the ridiculous price of five dollars--had really been a
godsend. I was almost happy as I prepared the salami sandwiches for
my supper. When they were ready, I took them, together with a quart
of milk and a glass, over to the small table that served as my desk.
I carefully took the typewriter out of its case and rested it on the
table. I closed the case then, brought it to the closet, and put it on
the top shelf alongside my rainy-day hat. I went back to the table,
sipped a little milk, munched a little of the salami sandwich, and put
a sheet of paper into the machine.