I’m not much of a
shopper.
I despise clothes
shopping, mostly because nothing fits and clothing companies don’t make things
consistently true to size. I’m not one
to window shop in a mall. As a matter of
fact, the last time I went to the mall, I was on a mission. Every time someone tried to stop me and give
me free samples, I brusquely said, “I don’t have the time,” and waved each one
away. Far away.
Grocery shopping bores me
to tears. On days I know I’ll be grocery
shopping, I am agitated all day long. I
don’t relax until I have all the bags loaded into the car and I am pulling out
of the parking space. I can’t stand
weaving around incompetent people who don’t understand that aisles are made for
all of us, not just them and their stupid carriages.
Shoe shopping is better
since I had my foot rebuilt, but I know what I’m looking for. I’m in and I’m out. I’m an efficient shoe shopper probably since
I went years without being able to wear much other than sneakers and hiking
boots.
Book stores, though, are
another story. When I see a book store,
I have to go inside. I don’t care if
they’re new books, used books, old books, rare books, resale books, estate sale
books, fire sale books … It just doesn’t matter. I’m there.
It wrenches my heart to
think the local bookstore may be going out of business soon. As a writer, I know that online book sellers
are undercutting authors’ earnings. As a
consumer, I buy from those places online quite a bit. To temper my guilt, I try to patronize local
book stores whenever I can. Recently
while pretending to be a tourist in Portsmouth, I drag my sister into one such
local book shop.
The books, however, are
not the main attraction for me. No, something
far more compelling hits me square in the fingers the moment I walk through the
doorway. Immediately to my right is a
display of vintage typewriters.
Yes, typewriters! For anyone born after 1990, typewriters are
like keyboards with ink ribbons attached.
Typewriters print while you’re actually typing the words! Surprise!
There is a message by the
typewriters, handwritten, ironically enough, to leave a message using one of
the older machines. My eyes grow wide, I
can feel them inside my skull, and my fingers start twitching. The winter gloves come off and get tucked
into a coat pocket. I can feel the electricity
radiating from my hands, and I know it’s all in my brain because the typewriter
on which I will be typing is unpowered by electrical current.
It’s a Royal manual
typewriter, circa 1949 (or so).
I start typing and forget
I cannot type too fast or the keys will strike each other and jam, which they
do. I pick them apart with my index
finger and start again. Slowly. Deliberately.
I type a quick message that is something along the lines of this being
the coolest thing ever. After I’m done
typing, my sister and I peruse the store.
It’s tempting to buy, but I’m still a few books behind. Buying another one now would just be folly.
Besides, this gives me
good reason to come back in a few weeks … or months … when I’m caught up on my
reading. Perhaps the typewriters will
still be there, but, even if they’re not, patronizing the local bookstores
might help to keep them open.
Maybe that’s the message I’ll
type the next time I encounter a 1949 manual Royal in a small shop that
specializes in keeping writers like me in business because it’s all about
returning the favor.
