_The day was crisp and clear, with the promise of a mild afternoon
in the air. It was the beginning of April, and Spring rustled her
greenness and yawned leisurely. I walked along happily._
"Well, I'll be damned," I said.
I leaned back, fully expecting some answer from the machine. There
was none. I poked my forefinger at the shift key, tapped the space bar
tentatively, rolled the roller, swung the carriage, sniffed at the
ribbon.
"Have you gone?" I asked the typewriter.
There was no answer. I sighed happily and started to work, typing
twelve pages of lousy prose which I tossed into the wastebasket. But I
was happier than I'd been since I bought the infernal machine.
* * * * *
After a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a slice of burnt
toast the next morning, I tackled the machine again.
This time, I was hot.
There was nothing to stop me. The words ran from my brain to my
fingers, onto the keys, spilling onto the clean sheets of paper. I
typed furiously, feeling right about my work, knowing I was doing well.
It was as if the machine and I were one, as if my fingers had become
an extension of the keys. I didn't stop to think once. As soon as I'd
taken one sheet of paper from the machine, I rolled in another and kept
going. The delay of changing paper was almost too much to bear. The
words just tumbled out of me, and they were good words, and it was a
good story.
I read it through when I finished it, sitting back and puffing happily
on a cigarette. Then I put a clip on the pages, patted them fondly and
went next door to see Perry. He was a sculptor, and he had his hands
full of clay, and his stand full of what looked like a head.
"Wash your hands," I said.
"Why?" He gouged his thumb at the blob of clay on his stand, and an eye
socket magically appeared.