Black Evening

The Typewriter

Eric tingled as if he'd touched a faulty lightswitch or had stepped on a snake. His skin felt cold. He shuddered.

He'd been looking for a kitchen chair. His old one – and the adjective was accurate – in fact, his only kitchen chair had been destroyed the previous night, crushed to splinters by a drunken hefty poetess who'd lost her balance and collapsed. In candor, "poetess" was far too kind a word for her. Disgustingly commercial, she'd insulted Eric's Greenwich Village party guests with verses about cats and rain and harbor lights – "I hear your sights. I see your sounds." – a female Rod McKuen. Dreadful, Eric had concluded, cringing with embarrassment.

His literary parties set a standard, after all; he had his reputation to protect. The Subway Press had just released his latest book of stories, After Birth. The title's punning resonance had seemed pure genius to him. Then too, he wrote his monthly column for the Village Mind, reviewing metafiction and post-modern surreal prose. So when this excuse for a poetess had arrived without an invitation to his party, Eric had almost told her to leave. The editor from Village Mind had brought her, though, and Eric sacrificed his standards for the sake of tact and the continuation of his column. In the strained dry coughing that resulted from her reading, Eric had majestically arisen from his tattered cushion on the floor and salvaged the occasion by reciting his story, "Cat Scat." But when he later gaped at the wreckage of his only kitchen chair, he realized how wrong he'd been to go against his principles.

The junk shop was a block away, near NYU. "Junk" described it perfectly. Students bought their beds and tables from the wizened man who owned the place. But sometimes, lost among the junk, there were bargains, and more crucial, Eric didn't have much choice. In truth, his stories earned him next to nothing. He survived by selling T-shirts outside movie theaters and by taking handouts from his mother.

Leaving the hot humid afternoon, Eric entered the junk shop.

"Something for you?" the wrinkled owner asked.

Sweating, Eric said aloofly, "Maybe. I'm just browsing."

"Suit yourself, friend." The old man sucked a half-inch of cigarette. His yellow fingernails needed clipping. He squinted at a racetrack form.

The room was long and narrow, cluttered with the leftovers of failure. Here, a shattered mirror on a bureau. There, a musty mattress. While sunlight fought to reach the room's back reaches, Eric groped to find his way.

He touched a grimy coffee table with its legs splayed. It sat on a sofa split down the middle. Dirty foam bulged, disintegrating. Pungent odors flared his nostrils.

Kitchen tables. Even one stained kitchen sink. But Eric couldn't find a kitchen chair.

He braved the farthest corners of the maze. Tripping over a lamp cord, he fell hard against a water-stained dresser. As he rubbed his side and felt cobwebs tickling his brow, he faced a dusty pile of Liberty , Colliers, and Saturday Evening Post and saw a low squat bulky object almost hidden in the shadows. That was when he shuddered, as if he'd touched a spider's nest or heard a skeleton's rattle.

The thing was worse than ugly. It revolted him. All those knobs and ridges, curlicues and levers. What purpose could they serve? They were a grotesque demonstration of bad taste, as if its owner had decided that the basic model needed decoration and had welded all this extra metal onto it. A crazed machinist's imitation of kinetic art. Abysmal, Eric thought. The thing must weigh a hundred pounds. Who'd ever want to type on such a monster?

But his mind began associating. Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mai. Oscar Wilde. Aubrey Beardsley. Yes, The Yellow Book!

He felt inspired. An ugly typewriter. He grinned despite the prickles on his skin. He savored what his friends would say about it. He'd tell them he'd decided to continue Baudelaire's tradition. He'd be decadent. He'd be outrageous. Evil stories from an evil typewriter. He might even start a trend.

"How much for this monstrosity?" Eric casually asked.

"Eh? What?" The junk man looked up from his racing form.

"This clunker here. This mutilated typewriter."

"Oh, that." The old man's skin was sallow. His hair looked like the cobwebs Eric stood among. "You mean that priceless irreplaceable antique."

"No. I mean this contorted piece of garbage."

The old man considered him, then nodded grimly. "Forty bucks."

"Forty? But that's outrageous! Ten!"

"Forty. And it's not outrageous, pal. It's business. That fool thing's been on my hands for over twenty years. I never should've bought it, but it came with lots of good stuff, and the owners wouldn't split the package. Twenty years. Two bucks a year for taking space. I'm being generous. I ought to charge a hundred. Lord, I hate that thing."

"Then you ought to pay me to get it out of here."

"And I should go on welfare. But I don't. Forty. Just today. For you. A steal. Tomorrow it goes up to fifty."

Tall and good looking, Eric was also extremely thin. An artist ought to look ascetic, he told himself, although the fact was he didn't have much choice. His emaciation wasn't only for effect. It was also his penance, the result of starvation. Art paid little, he'd discovered. If you told the truth, you weren't rewarded. How could he expect the System to encourage deviant opinions?

His apartment was only a block away, but it seemed a mile. His thin body ached as he struggled to carry his purchase. Knobs jabbed his ribs. Levers poked his armpits. His knees bent. His wrists strained at their sockets. God Almighty, Eric thought, why did I buy this thing? It doesn't weigh a hundred pounds. It weighs a ton.

And ugly! Oh, good Lord, the thing was ugly! In the harsh cruel glare of day, it looked even worse. If that junk man turned his lights on for a change, his customers could see what they were buying. What a fool I've been, Eric thought. I ought to go back and make him refund my money. But behind the old man's counter, there'd been a sign. The old man had jabbed a finger at it: ALL SALES FINAL.

Eric sweated up the bird-dung-covered steps to his apartment building. "Tenement" was more accurate. The cracked front door had a broken lock. Inside, plaster dangled from the ceiling; paint peeled from the walls. The floor bulged; the stairway sagged; the banister listed. A cabbage smell overwhelmed him; onions, and a more pervasive odor that reminded him of urine.

He trudged up the stairs. The old boards creaked and bent. He feared they'd snap from the weight he carried. Three flights. Four. Mount Everest was probably easier. A group of teenagers – rapists, car thieves, muggers, he suspected – snickered at him as they left an apartment. One of the old winos on the stairs widened his bloodshot eyes, as if he thought that what Eric carried was an alcoholic hallucination.

At last he lurched up to the seventh floor but nearly lost his balance, nearly fell back. As he struggled down the hall, his legs wobbled. He groaned, not just from his burden but from what he saw.

A man was pounding angrily on Eric's door: the landlord, "Hardass" Simmons, although the nickname wasn't apt because his rear looked like two massive globs of Jell-O quivering when he walked. He had a beer gut and a whisker-stubbled face. His lips looked like two worms.

As Eric stopped, he nearly lost his grip on the ugly typewriter. He cringed and turned to go back down the stairs.

But Simmons pounded on the door again. Pivoting his beefy hips disgustedly, he saw his quarry in the hall. "So there you are." He aimed a finger, gunlike.

"Mr. Simmons. Nice to see you."

"Crap. Believe me, it's not mutual. I want to see your money."

Eric mouthed the word as if he didn't know what "money" meant.

"The rent," the landlord said. "What you forget to pay me every month. The dough. The cash. The bucks."

"But I already gave it to you."

Simmons glowered. "In the Stone Age. I don't run a charity. You owe me three months rent."

"My mother's awfully sick. I had to give her money for the doctor's bills."

"Don't hand me that. The only time you see your mother is when you go crawling to her for a loan. If I was you, I'd find a way to make a living."

"Mr. Simmons, please, I'll get the money."

"When?"

"Two weeks. I only need two weeks. I've got some Star Trek T-shirts I can sell."

"You'd better, or you'll know what outer space is. It's the street. I'll sacrifice the three months rent you owe me for the pleasure of kicking you out the door."

"I promise. I've got a paycheck coming for the column I write."

Simmons snorted. "Writer. That's a laugh. If you're so hot a writer, how come you're not rich? And what's that ugly thing you're holding? Jesus, I hate to look at it. You must've found it in the garbage."

"No, I bought it." Eric straightened, proud, indignant. At once the thing seemed twice as heavy, making him stoop. "I needed a new typewriter."

"You're dumber than I thought. You mean you bought that piece of junk instead of paying me the rent? I ought to kick you out of here right now. Two weeks. You'd better have the cash, or you'll be typing in the gutter."

Simmons waddled past. He lumbered down the creaky stairs. "A writer. What a joke. And I'm the King of England. Arthur Hailey. He's a writer. Harold Robbins. He's a writer. Judith Krantz and Sidney Sheldon. You, my friend, you're just a bum."

As Eric listened to the booming laughter gradually recede down the stairs, he chose between a clever answer and the need to set his typewriter down. His aching arms were more persuasive. Angry, he unlocked the door. Embarrassed, he stared at his purchase. Well, I can't just leave it in the hall, he thought. He nearly sprained his back to lift the thing. He staggered in and kicked the door shut. He surveyed his living room. The dingy furniture reminded him of the junk shop where he'd bought the stuff. What a mess I'm in, he told himself. He didn't know where he could get the rent. He doubted his mother would lend him more money. Last time, at her penthouse on Fifth Avenue, she'd been angry with him.

"Your impractical romantic image of the struggling starving artist… Eric, how did I go wrong? I spoiled you. That must be it. I gave you everything. You're not a youngster now. You're thirty-five. You've got to be responsible. You've got to find a job."

"And be exploited?" Eric had replied, aghast. "Debased? The capitalistic system is degenerate."

She'd shaken her head and tsk-tsk-tsked in disappointment. "But that system is the source of what I lend you. If your father came back from that boardroom in the sky and saw how you've turned out, he'd drop dead from another heart attack. I've not been fair. My analyst says I'm restricting your development. The fledgling has to learn to fly, he says. I've got to force you from the nest. You'll get no further money."

Eric sighed now as he lugged the typewriter across the living room and set it on the chipped discolored kitchen counter. He'd have set it on the table, but he knew the table would collapse from the weight. Even so, the counter groaned, and Eric held his breath. Only when the counter stopped protesting did he exhale.

He watched water dripping from the rusty kitchen tap. He glanced at the noisy kitchen clock which, although he frequently reset it, was always a half hour fast. Subtracting from where the hands were on the clock, he guessed that the time was half past two. A little early for a drink, but I've got a good excuse, he told himself. A lot of good excuses. Cheap Scotch from the previous night's party. He poured an ounce and swallowed it, gasping from the warmth that reached his complaining empty stomach.

Well, there's nothing here to eat, he told himself and poured another drink. This albatross took all the money I'd saved for food. He felt like kicking it, but since it wasn't on the floor, instead he slammed it with his hand. And nearly broke his fingers. Dancing around the room, clutching his hand, he winced and cursed. To calm himself, he poured more Scotch.

Christ, my column's due tomorrow, and I haven't even started. If I don't meet my deadline, I'll lose the only steady job I've got.

Exasperated, Eric went into the living room where his old, faithful Olympia waited on its altar-like desk opposite the door, the first thing people saw when they came in. This morning, he'd tried to start the column, but distracted by his broken kitchen chair, he hadn't been able to find the words. Indeed, distraction from his work was common with him.

Now again he faced the blank page staring up at him. Again his mind blocked, and no words came. He sweated more profusely, straining to think. Another drink would help. He went back to the kitchen for his glass. He lit a cigarette. No words. That's always been my problem. He gulped the Scotch. Art was painful. If he didn't suffer, his work would have no value. Joyce had suffered. Kafka. Mann. The agony of greatness.

In the kitchen, Eric felt the Scotch start to work on him. The light paled. The room appeared to tilt. His cheeks felt numb. He rubbed his awkward fingers through his thick blond neck-long hair.

He peered disgustedly at the thing on the kitchen counter. "You," he said. "I'll bet your keys don't even work." He grabbed a sheet of paper. "There." He turned the roller, and surprisingly it fed the paper smoothly. "Well, at least you're not an absolute disaster." He drank more Scotch, lit another cigarette.

His column didn't interest him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't think of any theories about modern fiction. The only thing on his mind was, what would happen in two weeks when Simmons came to get the rent. "It isn't fair. The System's against me."

That inspired him. Yes. He'd write a story. He'd tell the world exactly what he thought about it. He already knew the title. Just four letters. And he typed them: Scum.

The keys moved easier than he'd expected. Smoothly. Slickly. But as gratified as Eric felt, he was also puzzled – for the keys typed longer than was necessary.

His lips felt thick. His mind felt sluggish as he leaned down to see what kind of imprint the old ribbon had made. He blinked and leaned much closer. He'd typed Scum, but what he read was Fletcher's Cove.

Astonishment made him frown. Had he drunk so much he couldn't control his typing? Were his alcohol-awkward fingers hitting keys at random? No, for if he typed at random, he ought to be reading gibberish, and Fletcher's Cove, although the words weren't what he'd intended, certainly wasn't gibberish.

My mind, he told himself, it's playing tricks. I think I'm typing one thing, but unconsciously I'm typing something else. The Scotch is confusing me.

To test his theory, Eric concentrated to uncloud his mind and make his fingers more alert. Taking care that he typed what he wanted, he hit several keys. The letters clattered onto the paper, taking the exact amount of time they should have. Something was wrong, though. As he frowned toward the page, he saw that what he'd meant to type (a story) had come out as something else (a novel).

Eric gaped. He knew he hadn't written that. Besides, he'd always written stories. He'd never tried – he didn't have the discipline – to write a novel. What the hell was going on? In frustration, he quickly typed, The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

But this is what he read: The town of Fletcher 's Cove had managed to survive, as it had always managed to survive, the fierce Atlantic winter.

That awful tingle again. Like ice. This is crazy, he thought. I've never heard of Fletcher's Cove, and that redundant clause, it's horrible. It's decoration, gingerbread.

Appalled, he struck the keys repeatedly, at frenzied random, hoping to read nonsense, praying he hadn't lost his mind.

Instead of nonsense, this is what he saw: The townsfolk were as rugged as the harsh New England coastline. They had characters of granite, able to withstand the punishments of nature, as if they had learned the techniques of survival from the sturdy rocks along the shore, impervious to tidal onslaughts.

Eric flinched. He knew he hadn't typed those words. What's more, he never could have forced himself to type them. They were terrible. Redundancy was everywhere, and Lord, those strained commercial images. The sentences were hack work, typical of gushy bestsellers.

Anger seized him. He typed frantically, determined to discover what was happening. His writer's block had disappeared. The notion of bestsellers had inspired him to write a column, scorning the outrageous decadence of fiction that was cynically designed to pander to the basest common taste.

But what he read was: Deep December snows enshrouded Fletcher's Cove. The land lay dormant, frozen. January. February. The townsfolk huddled, imprisoned near the stove and hearth inside their homes. They scanned the too-familiar faces of their forced companions. While the savage wind howled past their bedroom windows, wives and husbands soon grew bored with one another. March came with its early thaw. Then April, and the land became alive again. But as the warm spring air rekindled nature, so within the citizens of Fletcher's Cove, strong passions smoldered.

Eric stumbled toward the Scotch. This time he ignored the glass and drank straight from the bottle. He shook, nauseous, scared to death. As the tasteless Scotch dribbled from his lips, his mind spun. He clutched the kitchen counter for support. In his delirium, he thought of only three explanations. One, he'd gone insane. Two, he was so drunk that, like the wino on the stairs, he was hallucinating. Three, the hardest to accept this wasn't an ordinary typewriter.

The way it looks should tell you that.

Good God.

The telephone's harsh ring jolted him. He nearly slipped from the counter. Fighting for balance, he teetered toward the living room. The phone was one more thing he'd soon lose, he knew. For two months, he'd failed to pay the bill. The way his life was going, he suspected that this call was from the telephone company, telling him it was canceling his service.

He fumbled to pick up the phone. Hesitant, he said, "Hello," but those two syllables slurred, combining as one. "… Lo," he said and repeated in confusion. "… Lo?"

"Is that you, Eric?" a man's loud nasal voice told him. "You sound different. Are you sick? You've got a cold?" The editor of Village Mind.

"No, I was working on my column." Eric attempted to control the drunken thickness in his voice. "The phone surprised me."

"On your column? Listen, Eric, I could break this to you gently, but I know you're strong enough to take it on the chin. Forget about your column. I won't need it."

"What? You're canceling my – " Eric felt his heart skip.

"Hey, not just your column. Everything. The Village Mind is folding. It's kaput. Bankrupt. Hell, why beat around the bush? It's broke."

His editor's clichés had always bothered Eric, but now he felt too stunned to be offended. "Broke?" Terror flooded through him.

"Absolutely busted. See, the IRS won't let me write the magazine off. They insist it's a tax dodge, not a business."

"Fascists!"

"To be honest, Eric, they're right. It is a tax dodge. You should see the way I juggle my accounts."

Now Eric was completely certain he'd gone insane. He couldn't actually be hearing this. The Village Mind a fraud, a con game? "You can't be serious!"

"Hey, look, don't take this hard, huh? Nothing personal. It's business. You can find another magazine. Got to run, pal. See you sometime."

Eric heard the sudden drone of the dial tone. Its dull monotony amplified inside his head. His stomach churned. The System. Once again, the System had attacked him. Was there nothing sacred, even Art?

He dropped the phone back on its cradle. Hopeless, he rubbed his throbbing forehead. If he didn't get his check tomorrow, his phone would be disconnected. He'd be dragged from his apartment. The police would find his starved emaciated body in the gutter. Either that or – Eric cringed – he'd have to find a steady – here he swallowed with great difficulty – job.

He panicked. Could he borrow money from his friends? He heard their scornful laughter. Could he beg more money from his mother? He imagined her disowning him.

It wasn't fair! He'd pledged his life to Art, and he was starving while those hacks churned out their trashy bestsellers and were millionaires! There wasn't any justice!

A thought gleamed. An idea clicked into place. A trashy bestseller? Something those hacks churned out? Well, in his kitchen, waiting on the counter, was a hideous contraption that a while ago had churned like crazy.

That horrific word again. Like crazy? Yes, and he was crazy to believe that what had happened in his drunken fit was more than an illusion.

Better see a shrink, he told himself.

And how am I supposed to pay him?

Totally discouraged, Eric tottered toward the Scotch in the kitchen. Might as well get blotto. Nothing else will help.

He stared at the grotesque typewriter and the words on the paper. Although the letters were now blurred by alcohol, they nonetheless were readable, and more important, they seemed actual. He swigged more Scotch, tapping at keys in stupefaction, randomly, no longer startled when the gushy words made sense. It was a sign of his insanity, he told himself, that he could stand here at this kitchen counter, hitting any keys he wanted, and not be surprised by the result. No matter what the cause or explanation, he apparently was automatically composing the outrageous saga of the passions and perversions of the folks in Fletcher's Cove.

"Yes, Johnny," Eric told the television personality and smiled with humble candor. "Fletcher's Cove burst out of me in one enormous flash of inspiration. Frankly the experience was scary. I'd been waiting all my life to tell that story, but I wasn't sure I had the talent. Then one day I took a chance. I sat down at my faithful battered typewriter. I bought it in a junk shop, Johnny. That's how poor I was. And Fate or Luck or something was on my side for a change. My fingers seemed to dance across the keys. The story leapt out from me toward the page. A day doesn't go by that I don't thank the Lord for how He's blessed me."

Johnny tapped a pencil on his desk with practiced ease. The studio lights blazed. Eric sweated underneath his thousand-dollar sharkskin suit. His two-hundred-dollar designer haircut felt stiff from hairspray. In the glare, he squinted but couldn't see the audience, although he sensed their firm approval of his rags-to-riches wonderful success. America was validated. One day, there'd be a shrine to honor its most cherished saint: Horatio Alger.

"Eric, you're too modest. You're not just our country's most admired novelist. You're also a respected critic, not to mention a short story of yours won a prestigious literary prize."

Prestigious? Eric inwardly frowned. Hey, be careful, Johnny. With a word that big, you'll lose our audience. I've got a book to sell.

"Yes," Eric said, admiring his host's sophisticated light-gray hair. "The heyday of the Village Mind. The good old days in Greenwich Village. That's a disadvantage of success. I miss the gang down at Washington Square. I miss the coffee houses and the nights when we'd get together, reading stories to each other, testing new ideas, talking till after dawn."

Like hell I miss them, Eric thought. That dump I lived in. That fat-assed Simmons. He can have his cockroach colony and those winos on the stairs. The Village Mind? A more descriptive title would have been the Village Idiot. And literary prize? The Subway Press awarded prizes every month. Sure, with the prizes and a quarter, you could buy a cup of coffee.

"You'll admit success has its advantages," Johnny said.

Eric shrugged disarmingly "A few more creature comforts."

"You're a wealthy man."

You bet I'm wealthy, Eric thought. Two million bucks for the hardback. Four million for the paperback. Two million for the movie, and another million from the book club. Then the British rights, the other foreign rights in twenty countries. Fifteen million was the total. Ten percent went to his agent. Five percent to his publicity director. After that, the IRS held out its hand. But Eric had been clever. Oil and cattle, real estate – he coveted tax shelters. His trips to Europe he wrote off as research. He'd incorporated. His estate, his jet, his yacht, he wrote off as expenses. After all, a man in his position needed privacy to write, to earn more money for the government. After taking advantage of every tax dodge he could find, he pocketed nine million. Not bad for a forty-buck investment, although to hedge against inflation Eric wished he'd found a way to keep a few more million. Well, I can't complain.

"But Johnny, money isn't everything. Oh, sure, if someone wants to give it to me, I won't throw the money in the Hudson River." Eric laughed and heard the audience respond in kind. Their laughter was good-natured. You can bet they wouldn't turn down money either. "No, the thing is, Johnny, the reward I most enjoy comes when I read the letters from my fans. The pleasure they've received from Fletcher's Cove is more important than material success. It's what this business is about. The reading public."

Eric paused. The interview had gone too smoothly. Smoothness didn't sell his book. What people wanted was a controversy.

Beneath the blazing lights, his underarms sweated in profusion. He feared he'd stain his sharkskin suit and ruin it, but then he realized he could always buy another one.

"I know what Truman Capote says, that Fletcher's Cove is hardly writing – it's mere typing. But he's used that comment several times before, and if you want to know what I think, he's done several other things too many times before."

The audience began to laugh, but this time cruelly.

"Johnny, I'm still waiting for that novel he keeps promising. I'm glad I didn't hold my breath."

The audience laughed more derisively. If Truman had been present, they'd have stoned him.

"To be honest, Johnny, I think Truman's lost his touch with that great readership out there. The middle of America. I've tasted modern fiction, and it makes me gag. What people want are bulging stories filled with glamour, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing Dickens wrote."

The audience applauded with approval.

"Eric," Johnny said, "you mentioned Dickens. But a different writer comes to mind. A man whose work was popular back in the fifties. Winston Davis. If I hadn't known you wrote Fletcher's Cove, I'd have sworn it was something new by Davis. But of course, that isn't possible. The man's dead – a tragic boating accident when he was only forty-eight. Just off Long Island, I believe."

"I'm flattered you thought of Davis," Eric said. "In fact, you're not the only reader who's noticed the comparison. He's an example of the kind of author I admire. His enormous love of character and plot. Those small towns in New England he immortalized. The richness of his prose. I've studied everything Davis wrote. I'm trying to continue his tradition. People want true, honest, human stories."

Eric hadn't even heard of Winston Davis until fans began comparing Eric's book with Davis 's. Puzzled, Eric had gone to the New York public library. He'd squirmed with discomfort as he'd tried to struggle through a half dozen books by Davis. Eric couldn't finish any of them. Tasteless dreck. Mind-numbing trash. The prose was deadening, but Eric recognized it. The comparison was valid. Fletcher's Cove was like a book by Winston Davis. Eric had frowned as he'd left the public library. He'd felt that tingle again. Despite their frequent appearances throughout Fletcher's Cove, he'd never liked coincidences.

"One last question," Johnny said. "Your fans are anxious for another novel. Can you tell us what the new one's about?"

"I'd like to, but I'm superstitious, Johnny. I'm afraid to talk about a work while it's in progress. I can tell you this, though." Eric glanced around suspiciously as if he feared that spies from rival publishers were lurking in the studio. He shrugged and laughed. "I guess I can say it. After all, who'd steal a title after several million people heard me stake a claim to it? The new book is called Parson's Grove." He heard a sigh of rapture from the audience. "It takes place in a small town in Vermont, and – Well, I'd better not go any farther. When the book is published, everyone can read it."

"Totally fantastic," Eric's agent said. His name was Jeffrey Amgott. He was in his thirties, but his hair was gray and thin from worry. He frowned constantly. His stomach gave him trouble, and his motions were so hurried that he seemed to be on speed. "Perfect. What you said about Capote – guaranteed to sell another hundred thousand copies."

"I figured," Eric said. Outside the studio, he climbed in the limousine. "But you don't look happy."

The Carson show was taped in the late afternoon, but the smog was so thick it looked like twilight.

"We've got problems," Jeffrey said.

"I don't see what. Here, have a drink to calm your nerves."

"And wreck my stomach? Thanks, but no thanks. Listen, I've been talking to your business manager."

"I hear it coming. You both worry too damn much."

"But you've been spending money like you're printing it. That jet, that yacht, that big estate. You can't afford them."

"Hey, I've got nine million bucks. Let me live a little."

"No, you don't."

Eric stared. "I beg your pardon."

"You haven't got nine million dollars. All those trips to Europe. That beach house here in Malibu, the place in Bimini."

"I've got investments. Oil and cattle."

"The wells went dry. The cattle died from hoof-and-mouth disease."

"You're kidding me."

"My stomach isn't kidding. You've got mortgages on those estates. Your Ferrari isn't paid for. The Lear jet isn't paid for, either. You're flat broke."

"I've been extravagant, I grant you."

Jeffrey gaped. "Extravagant? Extravagant? You've lost your mind is what you've done."

"You're my agent. Make another deal for me."

"I did already. What's the matter with you? Have you lost your memory with your mind? A week from now, your publisher expects a brand new book from you. He's offering three million dollars for the hardback rights. I let him have the book. He lets me have the money. That's the way the contract was arranged. Have you forgotten?"

"What's the problem then? Three million bucks will pay my bills."

"But where the hell's the book? You don't get any money if you don't deliver the manuscript."

"I'm working on it."

Jeffrey moaned. "Dear God, you mean it isn't finished yet? I asked you. No, I pleaded with you. Please stop partying. Get busy. Write the book, and then have all the parties you want. What is it? All those women, did they sap your strength, your brains, or what?"

"You'll have the book a week from now."

"Oh, Eric, I wish I had your confidence. You think writing's like turning on a tap? It's work. Suppose you get a block. Suppose you get the flu or something. How can anybody write a novel in a week?"

"You'll have the book. I promise, Jeffrey. Anyway, if I'm a little late, it doesn't matter. I'm worth money to the publisher. He'll extend the deadline."

"Damn it, you don't listen. Everything depends on timing. The new hardback's been announced. It should have been delivered and edited months ago. The release of the paperback of Fletcher's Cove is tied to it. The stores are expecting both books. The printer's waiting. The publicity's set to start. If you don't deliver, the publisher will think you've made a fool of him. You'll lose your media spots. The book club will get angry, not to mention your foreign publishers who've announced the new book in their catalogues. They're depending on you. Eric, you don't understand. Big business. You don't disappoint big business."

"Not to worry." Eric smiled to reassure him. "Everything's taken care of. Robert Evans invited me to a party tonight, but afterward, I'll get to work."

"God help you, Eric. Hit those keys, man. Hit those keys."

The Lear jet soared from LAX. Above the city, Eric peered down toward the grids of streetlights and gleaming freeways in the darkness.

Might as well get started, he decided with reluctance. The cocaine he'd snorted on the way to the airport gave him energy.

As the engine's muffled roar came through the fuselage, he reached inside a cabinet and lifted out the enormous typewriter. He took it everywhere with him, afraid that something might happen to it if it was unattended.

Struggling, he set it on a table. He'd given orders to the pilot not to come back to the passenger compartment. A thick bulkhead separated Eric from the cockpit. Here, as at his mansion up the Hudson, Eric did his typing in strict secrecy.

The work was boring, really. Toward the end of Fletcher's Cove, he hadn't even faced the keyboard. He'd watched a week of television while he let his fingers tap whatever letters they happened to select. After all, it didn't make a difference what he typed. The strange machine did the composing. At the end of every television program, he'd read the last page the machine had typed, hoping to see The End. And one day, finally, those closing words appeared before him.

After the success of Fletcher's Cove, he'd started typing again. He'd read the title Parson's Grove and worked patiently for twenty pages. Unenthusiastically. What he'd learned from his experience was that he'd never liked writing, that instead he liked to talk about. it and be called a writer, but the pain of work did not appeal to him. And this way, when his mind wasn't engaged, the work was even less appealing. To be absolutely honest, Eric thought, I should have been a prince.

He'd put off typing Parson's Grove as long as possible. The money came so easily he didn't want to suffer even the one week he'd calculated would be necessary to complete the manuscript.

But Jeffrey had alarmed him. There's no money? Then I'd better go back to the gold mine. The goose that laid the golden egg. Or what was it a writer's helper used to be called? Amanuensis. Sure, that's what I'll call you, Eric told his weird machine. From now on, you'll be my amanuensis. He couldn't believe he was actually a millionaire – at least on paper – flying in his own Lear jet, en route to New York and the Today show. This can't be really happening.

It was, though. And if Eric wanted to continue his fine life, he'd better type like hell for one week to produce his second book.

The jet streaked through the night. He shoved a sheet of paper into his amanuensis. Bored, he sipped a glass of Dom Perignon. He selected a cassette of Halloween and put it in his VCR. Watching television where some kid stabbed his big sister, Eric started typing.

Chapter Three… Ramona felt a rapture. She had never known such pleasure. Not her husband, not her lover, had produced such ecstasy within her. Yes, the milkman…

Eric yawned. He watched a nut escape from an asylum. He watched some crazy doctor try to find the nut. A babysitter screamed a lot. The nut got killed a half dozen times but still survived because apparently he was the boogey man.

Without once looking at the keyboard, Eric typed. The stack of pages grew beside him. He finished drinking his fifth glass of Dom Perignon. Halloween ended. He watched Alien and an arousing woman in her underwear who'd trapped herself inside a shuttle with a monster. Somewhere over Indiana – Eric later calculated where and when it happened – he glanced at a sheet of paper he'd just typed and gasped when he discovered that the prose was total nonsense.

He fumbled through the stack of paper, realizing that for half an hour he'd been typing gibberish.

He paled. He gaped. He nearly vomited.

"Good God, what's happened?"

He typed madly, Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep.

Those words were what he read.

He typed, The quick brown fox.

And that was what he read.

He scrambled letters, and the scramble faced him.

By the time he reached LaGuardia Airport, he had a stack of frantic gibberish beside him, and to make things worse, the typewriter jammed. He heard a nauseating crunch inside it, and the keys froze solidly. He couldn't make them type even gibberish. It's got a block, he thought and moaned. Dear God, it's broken, busted, wrecked.

We both are.

He tried slamming it to free the keys, but all he managed to do was hurt his hands. Jesus, I'd better be careful. I might break more parts inside. Drunkenly, he set a blanket over it and struggled from the jet to put it in the limousine that waited for him. He wasn't due at the television interviews until the next day. As the sun glared blindingly, he rubbed his haggard whisker-stubbled face and in panic told the chauffeur, " Manhattan. Find a shop that fixes typewriters."

The errand took two hours through stalled trucks, accidents, and detours. Finally, the limousine double-parked on Thirty-Second Street, and Eric stumbled with his burden toward a store with Olivettis in the window.

"I can't fix this," the young serviceman informed him.

Eric moaned. "You've got to."

"See this brace inside. It's cracked. I don't have any parts for something strange like this." The serviceman looked horrified by the sheer ugliness of the machine. "I'd have to weld the brace. But buddy, look, a piece of junk this old, it's like a worn-out shirt. You patch an elbow, and the shirt tears at the patch. You patch the new hole, and the shirt tears at the new patch. When you're through, you haven't got a shirt. You've just got patches. If I weld this brace, the heat'll weaken this old metal, and the brace'll crack in other places. You'll keep coming back till you've got more welds than metal. Anyway, a weird design like this, I wouldn't want to fool with it. Believe me, buddy, I don't understand this thing. You'd better find the guy who built it. Maybe he can fix it. Maybe he's got extra parts. Say, don't I know you?"

Eric frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aren't you famous? Weren't you on the Carson show?"

"No, you're mistaken," Eric told him furtively. He glanced at his gold Rolex and saw that it was almost noon. Good God, he'd lost the morning. "I've got to hurry."

Eric grabbed the broken typewriter and tottered from the building toward the limousine. The traffic's blare unnerved him.

" Greenwich Village," Eric blurted to the bored chauffeur. "As fast as you can get there."

"In this traffic? Sir, it's noon. This is midtown."

Eric's stomach soured. He trembled, sweating. When the driver reached the Village, Eric gave directions in a frenzy. He kept glancing at his watch. At almost twenty after one, he had a sudden fearful thought. Oh, God, suppose the place is closed. Suppose the old guy's dead or out of business.

Eric cringed. But then he squinted through the windshield, seeing the dusty windows of the junk shop down the street. He scrambled from the limousine before it stopped. He grabbed the massive typewriter, and although adrenaline spurred him, his knees wobbled as he fumbled at the creaky junk shop door and lurched inside the musty narrow shadowed room.

The old guy stood exactly where he'd been the last time Eric walked in: hunched across a battered desk, a half-inch of cigarette between his yellowed fingers, scowling at a race-track form. He even wore the same frayed sweater with the buttons missing. Cobweb hair. Sallow face.

The old guy peered up from the racing form. "All sales are final. Can't you read the sign?"

Off balance from his burden, Eric cocked his head in disbelief. "You still remember me?"

"You bet I do. I can't forget that piece of trash. I told you I don't take returns."

"But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why'd you bring that damn thing back? Good God, it's ugly. I can't stand to look at it."

"It's broken."

"Yeah, it figures."

"I can't get it fixed. The serviceman won't touch it. He's afraid he'll break it even more."

"So throw it in the garbage. Sell it as scrap metal. It weighs enough. You'll maybe get a couple dollars."

"But I like it!"

"Have you always had bad taste?"

"The serviceman suggested the guy who built it might know how to fix it."

"And if cows had wings – "

"Look, tell me where you got it!"

"How much is the information worth to you?"

"A hundred bucks!"

The old man looked suspicious. "I won't take a check."

"In cash! For God's sake, hurry!"

"Where's the money?"

The old man took several hours. Eric paced and smoked and sweated. Finally the old man came groaning up from his basement with some scribbles on a scrap of paper.

"An estate. Out on Long Island. Some guy died. He drowned, I think. Let's see." The old man struggled to decipher what he'd scrawled on the scrap of paper. "Yeah, his name was Winston Davis."

Eric clutched the battered desk; his stomach fluttered; his heart skipped several beats. "No, that can't be."

"You mean you know this guy? This Winston Davis."

Eric tasted dust. "I've heard of him. He was a novelist." His voice was hoarse.

"I hope he didn't try to write his novels on that thing. It's like I told you when you bought it. I tried every way I knew to make them keep it. But the owners sold the dead guy's stuff in one big lump. They wouldn't split the package. Everything or nothing."

"On Long Island?"

"The address is on this paper."

Eric grabbed it, frantically picked up the heavy typewriter, and stumbled toward the door.

"Say, don't I know your face?" the old man asked. "Weren't you on the Carson show last night?"

The sun had almost set as Eric found his destination. All the way across Long Island, he'd trembled fearfully. He realized now why so many readers had compared his work with that of Winston Davis. Davis had once owned this same machine. He'd typed his novels on it. The machine had done the actual composing. That's why Eric's work and Davis 's were similar. Their novels had the same creator. Just as Eric kept the secret, so had Davis, evidently never telling even his close friends or his family. When Davis died, the family had assumed that this old typewriter was nothing more than junk, and they'd sold it with some other junk around the house. If they'd known about the secret, surely they'd have kept this golden goose, this gold mine.

But it wasn't any gold mine now. It was a hunk of junk, a broken hulk of bolts and levers.

"Here's the mansion, sir," the totally-confused chauffeur told Eric.

Frightened, Eric studied the big open gates, the wide smooth lawn, the huge black road that curved up to the massive house. It's like a castle, Eric thought. Apprehensively he told the driver, "Go up to the front."

Suppose there's no one home, he thought. Suppose they don't remember. What if someone else is living there?

He left his burden in the car. At once both hesitant and frantic, he walked up the marble front steps toward the large oak door. His fingers shook. He pressed a button, heard the echo of a bell inside, and was surprised when someone opened the door.

A gray-haired woman in her sixties. Kindly, well dressed, pleasant looking.

Smiling, with a feeble voice, she asked how she could help him.

Eric stammered, but the woman's gentle gaze encouraged him, and soon he spoke to her with ease, explaining that he knew her husband's work and admired it.

"How good of you to remember," she said.

"I was in the neighborhood. I hoped you wouldn't mind if I stopped by. To tell you how I felt about his novels."

"Wouldn't mind? No, I'm delighted. So few readers take the time to care. Won't you come in?"

The mansion seemed to Eric like a mausoleum – cold and echoing.

"Would you like to see my husband's study? Where he worked?" the aging woman asked.

They went along a chilly marble hall. The old woman opened an ornate door and gestured toward the sacristy, the sanctum.

It was wonderful. A high wide spacious room with priceless paintings on the walls – and bookshelves, thick soft carpeting, big windows that faced the white-capped ocean where three sunset-tinted sailboats scudded in the evening breeze.

But the attraction of the room was in its middle – a large gleaming teakwood desk, and like a chalice on its center, an old Smith-Corona from the fifties.

"This is where my husband wrote his books," the old woman told him proudly. "Every morning – eight until noon. Then we'd have lunch, and we'd go shopping for our dinner, or we'd swim or use the sailboat. In the winter, we took long walks by the water. Winston loved the ocean in the winter. He… I'm babbling. Please, forgive me."

"No, it's quite all right. I understand the way you feel. He used this Smith-Corona?"

"Every day."

"I ask, because I bought a clunky typewriter the other day. It looked so strange it appealed to me. The man who sold it told me your husband used to own it."

"No, I…"

Eric's chest cramped. His heart sank in despair.

"Wait, I remember now," the gray-haired woman said, and Eric held his breath.

"That awful ugly one," she said.

"Yes, that describes it."

"Winston kept it in a closet. I kept telling him to throw it out, but Winston said his friend would never forgive him."

"Friend?" The word stuck like a fishbone in Eric's throat.

"Yes, Stuart Donovan. They often sailed together. One day Winston brought that strange machine home. 'It's antique,' he said. 'A present. Stuart gave it to me.' Well, it looked like junk to me. But friends are friends, and Winston kept it. When he died, though…" The old woman's voice changed pitch, sank deeper, seemed to crack. "Well, anyway, I sold it with some other things I didn't need."

Eric left the car. The sun had set. The dusk loomed thickly around him. He smelled salty sea air in this quaint Long Island coastal village. He stared at the sign above the shop's door: DONOVAN'S TYPEWRITERS – NEW AND USED – REBUILT, RESTORED. His plan had been to find the shop and come back in the morning when it opened. But amazingly a light glowed faintly through the drawn blind of the window. Although a card on the door said CLOSED, a shadow moved behind the shielded window.

Eric knocked. A figure shuffled close. An ancient gentlemen pulled up the blind and squinted out toward Eric.

"Closed," the old man told him faintly through the window.

"No, I have to see you. It's important."

"Closed," the man repeated.

"Winston Davis."

Although the shadow had begun to turn, it stopped. Again pulling the blind, the ancient gentleman peered out.

"Did you say Winston Davis?"

"Please, I have to talk to you about him."

Eric heard the lock snick open. The door swung slowly inward. The old man frowned at him.

"Is your name Stuart Donovan?"

The old man nodded. "Winston? We were friends for many years."

"That's why I have to see you."

"Then come in," the old man told him, puzzled. Short and frail, he leaned on a wooden cane. He wore a double-breasted suit, a thin silk tie. The collar of his shirt was too large for his shrunken neck. He smelled of peppermint.

"I have to show you something," Eric said. Hurrying back from the limousine, he lugged his ugly typewriter toward the shop.

"Why, that's…" The old man's eyes widened in surprise.

"I know. It was your gift to Winston."

"Where…"

"I bought it in a junk shop."

Wearied by his grief, the old man groaned.

"It's broken," Eric said. "I've brought it here for you to fix."

"Then you know about…"

"Its secret. Absolutely. Look, I need it. I'm in trouble if it isn't fixed."

"You sound like Winston." The old man's eyes blurred with memories of long ago. "A few times, when it broke, he came to me in total panic. 'Contracts. Royalties. I'm ruined if you can't repair it,' he'd say to me. I always fixed it, though." The old man chuckled nostalgically.

"And will you do the same for me? I'll pay you anything."

"Oh, no, my rate's the same for everyone. I was about to leave. My wife has supper waiting. But this model was my masterpiece. I'll look at it. For Winston. Bring it over to the counter."

Eric set it down and rubbed his aching arms. "What I don't understand is why you didn't keep this thing. It's worth a fortune."

"I had others."

Eric stiffened with surprise.

"Then too," the old man said, "I've always had sufficient money. Rich folks have too many worries. Winston, for example. Toward the end, he was a nervous wreck, afraid that this typewriter would break beyond repair. It ruined him. I wish I hadn't given it to him. But he was good to me. He always gave me ten percent of everything he earned."

"I'll do the same for you. Please, fix it. Help me."

"I'll see what the problem is."

The old man tinkered, hummed, hawed, and poked. He took off bolts and tested levers.

Eric bit his lips. He chewed his fingernails.

"I know what's wrong," the old man said.

"That brace is cracked."

"Oh, that's a minor problem. I have other braces. I can easily replace it."

Eric sighed with relief. "Then if you wouldn't mind…"

"The keys are stuck because the brace is cracked," the old man said. "Before the keys stuck, though, this model wasn't typing what you wanted. It wasn't composing."

Eric feared he'd throw up. He nodded palely.

"See, the trouble is," the old man said, "this typewriter ran out of words. It used up every word it had inside it."

Eric fought the urge to scream. This can't be happening, he told himself. "Then put more words inside it."

"Don't I wish I could. But once the words are gone, I can't put new ones in. I don't know why that happens, but I've tried repeatedly, and every time I've failed. I have to build a brand new model."

"Do it then. I'll pay you anything."

"I'm sorry, but I can't. I've lost the knack. I made five successful models. The sixth and seventh failed. The eighth was a complete disaster. I stopped trying."

"Try again."

"I can't. You don't know how it weakens me. The effort. Afterward, my brain feels empty. I need every word I've got."

"God dammit, try!"

The old man shook his head. "You have my sympathy."

Beyond the old man, past the counter, in the workshop, Eric saw another model. Knobs and levers, bolts.

"I'll pay a million dollars for that other one."

The old man slowly turned to look. "Oh, that one. No, I'm sorry. That's my own. I built it for my children. Now they're married. They have children of their own, and when they visit, my grandchildren like to play with it."

"I'll double what I offered."

Eric thought about his mansion on the Hudson, his estates in Bimini and Malibu, his yacht, his jet, his European trips, and his Ferrari.

"Hell, I'll triple what I offered."

Six more days, he thought. I've got to finish that new book by then. I'll just have time to do it. If I type every day and night.

"You've got to let me have it."

"I don't need the money. I'm an old man. What does money mean to me? I'm sorry."

Eric lost control. He scrambled past the counter, racing toward the workshop. He grabbed the other model. When the old man tried to take it from him, Eric pushed. The old man fell, clutching Eric's legs.

"It's mine!" the old man wailed. "I built it for my children! You can't have it!"

"Four! Four million dollars!" Eric shouted.

"Not for all the money in the world!"

The old man clung to Eric's legs.

"Dammit!" Eric said. He set the model on the counter, grabbed the old man's cane, and struck his head. "I need it! Don't you understand!"

He struck again and again and again.

The old man shuddered. Blood dripped from the cane.

The shop was silent.

Eric stared at what he'd done. Stumbling back, he dropped the cane and put his hands to his mouth.

And then he realized. "It's mine."

He wiped his fingerprints from everything he'd touched. He exchanged the models so his broken one sat on the workshop table. His chauffeur wouldn't know what had happened. It was likely he'd never learn. The murder of an old man in a tiny village on Long Island – there was little reason for publicity. True, Mrs. Davis might recall her evening visitor, but would she link this murder with her visitor? And anyway, she didn't know who Eric was.

He took his chance. He grabbed his prize, and despite its weight, he ran.

His IBM word processor sat on the desk in his study. For pure show. He never used it, but he needed it to fool his guests, to hide the way he actually composed. He vaguely heard the limousine drive from the mansion toward the city. He turned on the lights. Hurrying toward his desk, he shoved the IBM away and set down his salvation. Six more days. Yes, he could do the job. A lot of champagne and television. Stiff joints in his aching fingers after all the automatic typing. He could do it, though.

He poured a brimming glass, needing it. He turned the Late Show on. He lit a cigarette, and as The Body Snatcher's credits began, he desperately started typing.

He felt shaky, scared, and shocked by what had happened. But he had another model. He could keep his yacht, his jet, his three estates. The parties could continue. Now that Eric thought about it, he'd even saved the four million dollars he would have paid the old man for this model.

Curious, on impulse Eric glanced at what he'd typed so far.

And began to scream.

Because his random typing had become something different, as he'd expected. But not the gushy prose of Parson's Grove. Something far more different.

See Jack run. See Jill run. See Spot chase the ball.

("I built it for my children. Now they're married. They have children of their own, and when they visit, my grandchildren like to play with it.")

He screamed so loudly he couldn't hear the clatter as he typed.

See Spot run up the hill. See Jill run after Spot. See Jack run after Jill.

The neighbors half a mile away were wakened by his shrieks. They feared he was being murdered, so they called 911, and when the state police broke into the house, they found Eric typing, screaming.

They weren't sure which sight was worse – the man or the machine. But when they dragged him from the monstrous typewriter, one of the state policeman glanced down at the page.

See Jill climb the tree. See Jack climb the tree. See Spot bark at Jack.

Then farther down – they soon discovered what it meant – See Eric murder Mr. Donovan. See Eric club the old man with the cane. See Eric steal me. Now see Eric go to jail.

Perhaps it was a trick of light, or maybe it was the consequence of the machine's peculiar keyboard. For whatever reason, the state policeman later swore – he told only his wife – the damned typewriter seemed to grin.

Dennis Etchison is both a gifted fiction writer and a respected editor of short story anthologies. In 1991, for the third volume of his Masters of Darkness series, he asked me and a number of other contributors – Clive Barker, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Joyce Carol Oates, and more – to choose a favorite from the stories we had written. He also requested that we compose an afterword, explaining our choice. The following is what I submitted.