“Five dollars.”
“You were taken.” He pursed his lips. “Forty-five. If my wife ever finds out I made such a deal she will divorce me.”
“Let’s keep it between us, then.”
One thing about the Hermes 2000, it was a lot heavier than the toy. The green carrying case banged against her legs as she carried it home. She stopped twice, putting the machine down not because she needed to rest but because her palm had gotten sweaty.
In her apartment, she did as she had been instructed, as she had promised. The seafoam green typewriter went on her little kitchen table, a stack of printer paper next to it. She made herself two pieces of toast with avocado and sliced a pear into sections, her dinner. She pulled up her iTunes on her phone and hit PLAY, putting the phone into an empty coffee mug for amplification, letting Joni sing her old songs and Adele her new stuff as she nibbled at her meal.
She wiped her hands of crumbs and, finally, in the blush of ownership of one of the finest typewriters ever to come down from the Alps, she rolled two sheets into the carriage and began to type.
TO DO:
STATIONERY—ENVELOPES & LETTER PAPER.
WRITE MOM ONCE A WEEK?
Groceries: yogurt / honey/ 1/2 & 1/2 .
Juice variety
Nuts (variety)
olive oil (greek)
tomatos & Onions/scallions. CUKES!
Cheap record player/HiFi. Methodist Church?
Yoga mat.
Waxing.
Dental appointment
Piano lessons (why not?)
“Okay,” she said aloud, to herself, alone in her apartment. “I done me some typing.”
She pushed herself away from the table, from the seafoam green of the Hermes. She pulled the to-do list from the machine and put it on her refrigerator door under a magnet. She pulled the ice pop mold from the freezer and ran it under warm water in the sink, thawing free one of the pineapple pops. Knowing she would have another, she put the Tupperware into the refrigerator to remain cold until she was ready for seconds.
In her living room she opened the windows to get a bit of breeze. The sun had set, so the first fireflies of the evening would begin to flare in a bit. She sat on the windowsill and enjoyed the cold, shaped pineapple and watched as squirrels ran along the telephone wires, perfect sine waves with their bodies and tails. Sitting there, she had her second ice pop as well, until the fireflies began to float magically above the patches of grass and sidewalk.
In the kitchen, she rinsed her hands and returned the Tupperware to the freezer. Six ice pops would be hers tomorrow. She eyed the typewriter on the table.
An idea came into her head. How is it, she thought, that the standard version of a woman, single, after a breakup, has her drinking wine alone in a sad, empty apartment until she passes out on the couch with, she didn’t know, Real Housewives on the television? She didn’t own a television, and her one remaining vice was homemade ice pops. She had never passed out from wine in her life.
She sat back down at the table and rolled two more pieces of paper into the Hermes 2000. She set the margins in close, like a newspaper column, and the spacing at 1½.
She typed
then returned the carriage and started a paragraph. Her nearly noiseless typing echoed softly around her apartment and out her open window until long after midnight.
==============
Our Town Today
with
Hank Fiset
==============
BACK FROM BACK IN TIME
OCCASIONALLY THE TYRANTS (did I say “tyrants”? I mean “Titans”) who publish the Tri-Cities Daily News/Herald pay me for taking my wife on trips that mix business with pleasure—paid vacations to the likes of Rome (Ohio), Paris (Illinois), and the Family Compound (hers) on the shores of Lake Nixon, short trips that I then turn into a thousand words or so of A-One quality journalism, or so my staff tells me. This past week I went off on a doozy of a salaried adventure. I went back in time, you see! Not to the age of the dinosaurs, nor to witness the fall of the czars or to talk some sense into the captain of the Titanic. Rather, I time-slipped back into my own past, my hazy self-conscious, transported by a certain simple, yet magical machine…
INNOCENCE BREEDS ADVENTURE: I had set out to provide you readers with a column on the workings of the weekly swap meet at the old Empire Auto Movie Drive-In in Santa Alameda, a monster of a flea market, now in its thirty-ninth year and chockablock with sentimental debris and used hard goods. Old kitchen utensils, old clothes, old books, millions of objets d’art, both nice and rather crummy, piles of used tools and racks and racks of new ones, toys, lamps, odd chairs, and a display of hundreds of brand-new sunglasses now bring in cash where carloads of moviegoers once parked to see, say, Krakatoa, East of Java on a distant billboard of a screen. They heard the movie from toaster-size speakers that hooked onto the car’s window. Movies in mono…
IMAGINE THE LARGEST yard-attic-estate sale in the Western World combined with the Going out of Business Blowout of every Sears store in the country and you’ll have an idea of the scope of the Swap, as the regulars call it. All day, you can wander the rows of stalls, set on the hillocks between speaker posts, nibbling on chili dogs and kettle corn, wanting to buy everything the eye fancies, limited only by the cash in your pocket and the cargo space of your car. Had I wanted to, I could have paid less than two hundred dollars for a redwood burl table, a 1960s Amana refrigerator-freezer, or the front and back seats yanked out of a Mercury Montego. Luckily, I already have those things at home!
I WAS ABOUT to retire to the snack bar for a lime shave ice when I set my eyes on an old typewriter, an Underwood portable of ebony that, I kid you not, gleamed in the sun like a Springsteen hot rod. A quick inspection showed the ribbon was good once you advanced the spool a few inches, and the broken-handled case held a small supply of erasable onionskin paper. Even though a man needs a typewriter these days like he needs a timber ax, I offered the kid running the stall all of “forty dollars for this old typewriter with the broken case,” and he said, “Sounds good.” Should have offered a twenty. Or a fiver.
ONCE HOME, I set the machine out on the kitchen table and gave it the quickbrownfoxjumpedoverthelazydogs test. The D key stuck some, and the A key had a slight drop in it. The numbers all worked, and with some repetitive strikes the punctuation keys loosened up. I typed, 
when the bell at the end of the line sounded out clear and clean—and just like that, I was whooshed into the space-time continuum for a voyage back in time which lasted either a wink of an eye or for each moment of the last forty-nine years…
DING! First stop was the back room of my dad’s old auto parts store, which is now the site of Public Parking Lot Number 9 at Webster and Alcorn. He had a big old typewriter in there though I never saw him use it. On weekends as a kid I’d poke out my name on it with my little fingers. When I grew into a teenager I avoided the store as much as I could because if I showed my face at the shop, Dad would put me to work doing inventory for the rest of the day…