Glass (Small Press Distribution (All Titles)) by Sam Savage Read Free Book Online Page A

typewriter, I mean I have not actually typed on one for some considerable length of time, long enough to find out how reliable they really are, but Brodt had one just like it at work that he used for typing up reports at the end of the day, and on a couple of occasions while he was patrolling the upper floors I walked over and typed on his. I had assumed it would be a man’s name on the tag, given the magnitude of the machine, though obviously it could just as well have been the name of a strong woman or a woman with a strong, possibly male, friend, or even a friend of just average strength, now that I reflect on it, since they could carry it up the stairs together. Potts and I would be able to carry it up the stairs together, one on each side, as we did the fern, stopping now and then to catch our breath. The other tag I managed to read was attached to a truly ancient machine, a typewriter so obviously antique that I had to wonder if anyone still typed on it, though someone must have now and then, since they had left it to be repaired. The name Underwood was painted across the front in ornate gold script so chipped and worn that if you happened not to remember that this was the name of a once-famous manufacturer of typewriters you would never guess what it said. This machine was the property of someone with a long name that I have now forgotten. It was Poniatowski, I want to say, though that might just be another long name I happen to recall from somewhere. While I was looking at the typewriters and thinking the things I have just mentioned, though obviously not in those exact words, since I was not typing at the time but only thinking vaguely while trying to read the names on the tags, not trying to do that either after a minute or two, just halfheartedly gazing up at them, the man, as I mentioned, was in the back of the store rummaging for a match to my ribbon. I could hear him shifting things around back there. He was not a pleasant-seeming man, but I tried not to dislike him from the outset on account of the typewriters. He was small-eyed and cheeky and had a darting manner that reminded me of a small unpleasant animal, a hamster maybe. He was bald though, which is something one does not expect in a hamster, unless it is a sick one. But he did not look sick, he looked disappointed, which of course many people do, so that is not really a distinguishing trait. A police report, for example, would not bother mentioning it. If you are wanted by the police, how else would you look? Frightened, I suppose.
    One would think that just the fact of coming into the store and asking for a typewriter ribbon, an item that scarcely anybody has the slightest use for nowadays, would by itself establish a rapport. I am sure that I for my part was emanating as much warmth as one possibly can emanate during a transaction of that type, even exclaiming “marvelous” several times while he was showing me how to attach the new ribbon to my old spools. I murmured it, actually. I am not an effusive person, just the opposite, and exclaiming “marvelous” exceeds my power. I was, however, because of the typewriters, prepared to become fond of this man, despite the unattractive rodent-like appearance, had he made the least effort in my direction—fond, that is, in the distant way one can become fond of people from whom one buys things on a regular basis. I used to look forward, for example, to buying milk and eggs at my little grocery, because of the large woman at the cash register, whom I have known for years, though I have never in fact said anything to her except sometimes “hello” and “thank you,” so perhaps known is not the word—when it comes to people obviously known is not ever the word. The woman’s name is Elvie, something I learned from hearing other people address her in that way, and she grew up on a dairy farm, I once overheard her tell a customer in front of me in the queue. I was expecting something else when I saw the