Uncommon Type: Some Stories

============== Our Town Today with Hank Fiset ============== YOUR EVANGELISTA, ESPERANZA

CUPPA JOE, PAL? Addicted to the stuff! Coffee, that is. I’m a newsman, you see, and the newsroom that doesn’t run on coffee puts out a lousy paper, I’ll bet. The pots here at the Tri-Cities Daily News/Herald are filled to the brim, even as most of the staff head out for the ubiquitous high-end spots, the ones with baristas and flavor shots for six bucks a throw. A tour of the caffeine parlors in our three conjoined metropolises will prove that good wake-’em-up is roasted, brewed, pressure-steamed, and poured in damn fine style. Try Amy’s Drive-Thru, a converted taco stand on the Miracle Mile. She’ll pop your eyes wide with a triple-bang espresso with a hot-pepper stirrer…. The Corker & Smythe Coffee Shop in the old Kahle Mercantile Building on Triumph Square just recently offered takeout, and reluctantly at that. Better to sit at the counter and sip that nectar d’noir out of those deep porcelain mugs…. Kaffee Boss has three stores—one at Wadsworth and Sequoia—serving the locals in leather-sleeved mason jars. Whatever you do, don’t ask for milk or creamer. They are coffee purists and make a point of telling you why. Java-Va-Voom on Second Boulevard at North Payne in East Corning has something no other coffee place can match—a unique sound. There is the whissh of the frother, the chitter-chatter of the staff and customers, and music, soft, in the background, like the musical score of a movie playing next door. Occasionally, there is also the click-clack made by a typist, but in no ordinary sense of the word.

ESPERANZA CRUZ-BUSTERMENTE, born and raised in nearby Orangeville, is an Account Adviser for a local bank, though, to many people, that is her second job. Many folks know her as an evangelista, a typist who uses her words-per-minute skills for other people. In Old Mexico, educated nuns served their flocks by typing important documents—applications, receipts, official papers, tax records, sometimes even love letters for the illiterate and those who lacked access to the once-technological marvel that is a typewriter. Esperanza’s parents, like many others, learned touch typing from the evangelistas, then made a living by typing the messages, missives, and memoranda needed by the public. No one got rich, but sentences got stamped into paper.

ESPERANZA HAS A table at a Java-Va-Voom, where, with her large drip-with-soy, she works from a stack of blank, naked pages at the ready beside her typewriter. She’s been using the place for a while now. For those unfamiliar with the sound and rhythm of a typewriter in use, Esperanza’s clacking took some getting used to. “There were complaints at first,” Esperanza told me. “I’d be typing away and get asked why I wasn’t working on a laptop, which is quieter and easier. Once, two policemen walked in and I thought, Have they called the cops on me? Turns out, they were just coming in for lattes.”

WHY GO ANALOG? “My email was hacked,” Esperanza told me. By who? “The Russians? The NSC? Fake Nigerian princes? Who knows? My data was stolen. My life was such a mess for months.” These days she uses the Internet sparingly and has an old-style flip phone, with which she can text but which she prefers to use the old-style way—by getting and receiving actual telephone calls. She never has to ask for the wi-fi password. And as for Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, et al.? “Gave them up,” she says, almost bragging. “When the hack happened and I went off social media, my day gained, like, six hours! I spent so long checking my phone every few minutes. Never mind how much time I wasted playing SnoKon, catching colored balls of ice in a little triangle cup for points.” The only negative? “My friends had to be taught how to get ahold of me.” What is written, exactly, on that typewriter of hers? “Lots! I have a big family. Birthdays, the nieces and nephews get a letter and a five- or ten-dollar bill. I write memos for work that I either copy or rewrite and email at the office. And here…” She held up a page filled with the neatest, most perfectly formatted document you could ask for. “This is my grocery list.”

OTHER CUSTOMERS SEEK Esperanza for her Little Nun services. “The kids are fascinated by my typewriter. I let them peck out their name as Mom waits for her order. Older ones type out raps and poems.” Grown-ups seek her services, too. “No one has typewriters anymore, none that work. But typewritten letters are special. Some folks come with letters they’ve composed on a computer they want me to type out for them and make one of a kind. Before Valentine’s or Mother’s Day, I could sit here for hours and type notes for folks lined up around the block. If I charged, I’d be as rich as a good florist.” For such personal service Esperanza may accept a free coffee. Regular in the mornings. Decaf in the afternoon.

“THIS ONE FELLOW was waiting for his coffee and started telling me about an old typewriter he had thrown out. He wished he still had it. He was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. If he did so in a typed letter, it and the moment would last forever. What could I do but roll in a new sheet and let him dictate? I was his Steno-of-Love. We did six different drafts.” What did he say to pop the question? I asked. “None of your business.” Did the girlfriend say yes? “I have no idea. He read over the letter a dozen times to make sure the words fit the occasion. Then he left with it and a vanilla-shot cappuccino and has not been seen since.”

HER PORTABLE TYPEWRITER allows Esperanza to take her keyboard services anywhere, but Java-Va-Voom is her faux Plaza Centrale. “This place puts up with me and gets my mind churning. I like having people around,” she said. “And, some of them have come to need me.” Oh, more than you may know, Evangelista Esperanza!