Walpuski’s Typewriter

Frank Darabont

“Yes? May I help you?”

Howard froze in the open doorway, letting the wind howl through the long, narrow shop like a wounded beast. The scabrous old man behind the counter was grinning—not smiling, but grinning and rubbing his hands together with predacious glee like John Carradine in a bad movie. He was positively ancient, a bald fossil in green tweed, sporting a pink road map of eczema on his scalp. He reminded Howard of a praying mantis.

A rumble of thunder rolled down Hollywood Boulevard and rattled the windows in their frames. Howard stepped inside and shut the door against the gale. It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, not yet, but it was getting there in a big, ugly way.

“May I help you?” the proprietor persisted.

“I hope so.” Howard hefted the battered black typewriter case onto the counter and opened it to reveal the equally battered and black IBM Selectric II within. “I’m afraid my typewriter broke down this morning.”

Broke down, hell. It had self-destructed with an oily belch of smoke and a prolonged, wheezing death rattle. The sound it made as it expired was that of an old dog farting. Howard saw no point in relating all the sorry details. “I’m not really sure what the trouble is.”

“How tragic,” murmured the old man, and he leaned over the carcass of the machine with a look of overwhelming sadness. Then his grin returned, so sudden and unexpected that Howard took a nervous step back. “You’re a writer,” he croaked. It wasn’t a question so much as the accusation of a hooded Inquisitor.

“Well, yes,” Howard admitted.

“I spotted it right off, didn’t I? I am Cyril Pratt. And you are . . . ?”

“Howard. Howard Walpuski.”

“Feel free to browse around, Mr. Walpuski. See what strikes your fancy. Will you be using the dearly departed”—he nodded at Howard’s IBM with the solicitous air of an undertaker—“as a trade-in?”

Howard shrugged, noncommittal. The truth of the matter was he had the sum of his worldly wealth riding around in his wallet in the form of five wrinkled dollar bills and an MTD bus pass. He noticed the faded repairs made on credit sign mounted on the wall and gestured vaguely in its direction. “Actually, I wondered if you might be able to—”

“Affect repairs?” spat the old man. Again, an accusation: Zoo, you vant your typewriter repaired, schweinhunt? Und on credit, no doubt! Hmmm . . . you haff relatives in Argentina, perhaps? Howard felt his face redden, suddenly sure that Pratt knew he had only five bucks to his name, knew about the phone company threatening to disconnect him for nonpayment, knew about the nasty letters his bank was sending him with the words insufficient funds and overdrawn screaming at him from every paragraph, knew . . . well, everything.

“Yes,” Howard stammered. “Affect repairs.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? We’ll just have to see if repairs are in order.”

Pratt removed the carriage housing cover and poked his nose into the IBM, prodding around with his index finger, whistling and grunting softly under his breath.

Howard turned away and pretended to browse the typewriters that lurked in the shadows on musty shelves and pedestal displays, hating himself for letting the old man make him feel ashamed and small, praying that the Selectric could be Mickey-Moused into functioning again. He had a deadline to meet, rent to pay.

Howard glanced at the counter and was shocked to find the old man staring at him. He was suddenly sure Pratt had been watching him all along, studying him instead of the typewriter. He