THE BIG PICTURE

“Now I’ll never work again. Not without my typewriter.”

            “Fredrick, you’ll work again,” Herb said, “You’re just into this idea of old things. Typewriters just seem more charming because they’re old. When typewriters came out, writers thought ink-quills were charming. Fifty years from now people will fire up old desktop computers because they’ll say they have more character.”

            “Don’t be a smartass,” I said.

            “I’m not,” Herb laughed, “You just have to admit you’re being nostalgic for the sake thereof. It’s just a typewriter.”

            “It’s what it feels like that counts. There’s love that has to go into typewriting. You have to really punch that sucker to get a letter on the paper. That counts for something.”

            “Okay, I get it.”

            “Well they got it, whoever the fucks are. They really got it!” I said, raising my voice loud enough to make everyone in the cafe uncomfortable.

            “Fredrick, I’m sorry you lost your typewriter, but I’m sure it’ll reappear.”

            “Where would it turn up? I left it somewhere between here and the apartment, and it’s missing. It’s not at the pawnshop. It’s not in any dumpster from here to Twelfth Avenue. Someone took it and I’ll never finish my story now!” I felt like crying.

            “I’m sorry. What were you working on?”

            “A story about the meaning of life.”

            “Christ,” Herb sighed.

            “No, he wasn’t in it.”

            Back at the apartment, I sat down and thought for a while. Herb didn’t get it. I couldn’t work without my typewriter; the worst part was that the pages to my meaning of life story were all in the case with the typewriter. It was called ‘The Big Picture’ and I had rewritten it three times. Now it was missing and I couldn’t remember a word of it. I was usually pretty well gone when I worked on the story, but how couldn’t you drink before writing about the meaning of life? I’d rewritten it so many times.

            Rewritten, I realized.

            I ran into the kitchen and turned the trash-can over on the floor. I always burnt or ripped up whatever I threw away, but there might still be enough pieces from the earlier drafts to re-piece the story. I searched through the garbage, picking up receipts and coupons until I finally saw a scrap of paper from the story. It looked like it was from the last page.

            Why did I have to be drunk when I wrote? Why did I have to tear everything up? I searched for more scraps, but the few I found were scribbled over or X’ed out or burnt. It was gone. The typewriter was gone and the story was gone. Now I’d never know what the meaning of life was.

            I sat for a while and thought. Then I realized that, in the end, we all endure a lot of bullshit that we have to tolerate and think about for a while. Everything I had ever written revolved around that idea.

            I still wanted to write the story, even without the typewriter. I had a ten year old desktop computer in my closet; I grabbed all the parts, plugged them in, and fired it on. I wanted to retype my story regardless. It felt strange at first, but the old desktop didn’t seem so bad after a bit. It had some character.