Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk

Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk. Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.

 

Do you know that feeling you get when you are in a light stage of sleep, early in the morning, very early, and you hear something that sounds familiar but you don’t know what it is and you ignore it?

This is what happened.

I’m lying in bed, on the verge of waking up.  Trygg did not wake me up for breakfast in the middle of the night as usual.  As I am lying there, I begin to hear it again.  Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk. Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.

I’ve heard this sound before.  However, from where, I don’t remember.  I get up and head for the kitchen.  Trygg made the coffee. To hear him tell it. (Actually, he doesn’t make the coffee. I set it up the night before he just plugs it in.)

I hear the sound again. Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.

Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.

It is coming from beyond the sofa.  I peek over the arm.  There’s Trygg, sitting on the floor, in front of a Smith-Corona portable typewriter.  I go pour my coffee.  I return, sit down on the sofa, sip my coffee, and then lean over.

“Good morning.”

“Hi.”

“Busy?”

Trygg looks up.  He gives me that bewildered cat look.  “Give me a moment.”

Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk. Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.  Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tik-tik-tak, ding. Click. Zip. Thunk.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“I’m finished.”

“Trygg, why are you typing on a Smith-Corona portable typewriter?”

“Because I found a Smith-Corona portable typewriter in a recycling bucket out at the curb on the next block on recycling day.”

“So you lugged it home.”

“Right.”

Trygg is still being evasive.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Well, you’ve done a pretty good job of editing my blog; however, I thought, now that I’m starting to sell books, it’s bad form for me to have you do so much of the work editing.  Therefore, I decided I would sit down and type out my monographs for you to post on my blog.”

“I see.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Sure.  No problem.”

Trygg hands me the hard copy.

“Now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?  I want you to look it over before I uploaded it to my blog.  By the way, this relic is before my time.  You might have to show me how it works. What do I do to upload my posting?”

“Trygg, it doesn’t work that way.”

“What?”

“You can’t upload what you typed to your blog.”

“Why not?  I have the password—I mean; you have the password.  If you don’t want to do it, fine.  I’ll do it.  Which buttons do I push?”

“Trygg, It’s a typewriter.  Typewriters don’t hook up to the internet.”

“They don’t?”

“No.”

“Then what did people do with them?”
 

 “Type stuff.”

“Directly to a print out?”

“Sort of.”

“Then what?”

“Then, you either put it in an envelope and mail it, or put in a file.”

“Mail. I heard of that.”

“If you want to upload your monograph to your blog, you have to retype it into your computer or your iPad, or scan it, edit it, and upload it.”

Trygg looks down at the typewriter.  He looks back up at me.  He looks back at the typewriter. He looks back up at me.

“I just want to know one thing.  Why did people ever use these things?”

“Because that is all we had before Steve Jobs invented personal computers.  Now I want to know just one thing.  Whatever possessed you to drag that thing all the way home from the next block?”

“All right.  I’ll tell you.  On one condition.”

“What?”

“You tell me why you keep a box of carbon paper in your desk drawer?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.  You were nice enough to plug in the coffee, I’ll make breakfast.”

Even the Cat Winks =^.~=

Sincerely,

Slim

Copyright © 2011 Slim Fairview