when i was a little kid,
like maybe seven or so,
my parents had an old pink typewriter.
it came in an attached hard case.
dragging it out of the closet
akin to carrying a rock with a plastic handle.
sometimes i’d drop it on my foot.
i wrote my first short story on that pink typewriter.
well
my first short story that made actual sense,
wasn’t about giant horses,
wasn’t scrawled on old-school vanilla paper that ripped if you scrawled on it.
the story was titled “it”.
(before stephen king. i’m old.)
“it” was about some sort of creeping sludge.
“it” lived in a country river.
people started disappearing because “it” was “getting them”,
“eating them”,
and sometimes “spitting their bones up out of the river.”
(at the tender age of seven, already a horror fan.)
today, i came across a vendor.
it – but not “it” – was online.
they sell old typewriters.
of course, yes, why not, this has been around for ages!
seeing the image of a pink typewriter made me nostalgic:
dragging that thing out the closet,
dropping it on my foot,
plopping down in the middle of the living room,
snapping open the case,
fingertips at the ready.
pink typewriter even had a SMELL – inky and metallic.
(and slightly bloody from my foot.)
sometimes, i’d pretend i was a really good typist. just like on television.
but i wasn’t.
so i flailed my fingers around on the keys,
very loud and fast,
and created masterpieces:
“asklnl893jfkdkbvnbrhj”.
oh, pink typewriter, how i miss you!
image via mytypewriter.com