Tea and Sympathy

By William Teague (c) 2011

It was a very uneventful day; boring in fact. The occasional rain that sprayed against the window offered the only excitement. Even the air inside the house seemed boring and it was quiet, no… silent. The couch that once comforted me was, today, tired and lazy.

I should make a cup of tea and get back to my writing; surely that would spark me, thought I. I did not have writer’s block. In fact, I had many thoughts and ideas in my head but once I had decided to sit at my typewriter to write, my hands seemed paralyzed. What is wrong? I wondered. There are no distractions; what then is wrong with me? Well, it’s not me, it can’t be; it’s my hands. That’s it… it’s my hands. Wringing my hands, I stretched them, bending my fingers and cracking my knuckles. It was clear then, there wasn’t a problem with my hands or fingers.

What then, what is it that keeps me from tapping at this typewriter? What could it be? It must be the typewriter; that’s the only answer. It must be this old dusty relic of a typewriter. But I had typed so many stories on this dear friend. It has seen me through some of the best times and more importantly some of my worst. It has been a faithful friend for so many years. It had at times, been my only friend. It was there through my young beginning years - the formative years. Many a night, I had done my homework on this letter-banger at my desk by the window, which looked out onto the street where my friends played. It traveled with me to the university, and then to SoHo and made me a fortune.

 As I placed my fingers on the home keys, I was sure that any moment, my fingers would start tapping black on white again. But, no, nothing; the keys hadn’t jammed up on me. Just then, the whistle on my teapot called out to me. I lowered the burner and removed the teapot. I let the boil come to calm as it sat on the trivet. Gently, my tea steeped as its eloquent aroma slid through my nostrils. During that moment, as I clothed my teapot within its cozy; my boredom turned to serenity. Had this tea reminded me of Mom, perhaps Grandma? It settled and I emulated. After locating a jar of honey, I abandoned the tea momentarily to rush over and type that experience.

I sat down, touched my fingers ever so slightly and with great anticipation upon those cold glass keys, I made my noble attempt; but still, nothing. My frustration had now turned to horror. What is this that prevents me? What sort of demon has possessed my typewriter? What ghost haunts this machine? But, surely it must be most evil. What a dreaded thing, I cursed, as I grumbled unable to tap a single note.

I became angrier in my protest - you blasted derelict thing. If you continue to be of no use to me I shall destroy you. I shall discard you to the junkyard with the rest of your relatives. I will kill you, you heap of trash. I ranted, until I had become exhausted.

I sat there, still. That stillness had taken over and seized my mind. Silenced was I, still; until a blast of rain assaulted my window, wakening me from my Zen. As I retreated to the safety of my cup of tea, my mind was left with an infected emptiness.

I thought there was an unwritten law between us; that we would always be devoted to one another. We always were, through all the years, faithful and loyal to each other.  I felt somewhat abandoned. How could it do this to me? We were a team.   

I sipped my good tea, and pondered happier times spent with my wordsmith. How I missed its clanking.  Oh how I had taken for granted the sweet sounds my typewriter made and how I had once upon a time, religiously took care of it - changing its ribbons, oiling the keys, keeping it clean and active. All the times it had responded in kind and flew with lightning speed when I had a deadline to meet; or the many other times, when I needed to quickly type out my ideas before they were lost forever. It endured hours upon hours of heavy tapping, and when, on those rare occasions the keys did jam, it would bounce back with fierceness equal to my own.  I guess I took for granted the beauty it brought forth, with its recessed black ink letters that pierced the clean crisp paper with determination of purpose.

Returning again to my desk and realizing how hopeless the situation was, I sat down dwelling there in vain. I sipped; then gently set the warm good cup of tea down near my typewriter - and as the soothing vapors from the tea traversed between us both, we began to type.

Reviews

[roarke]

I used to use one of those typewriter things, ingenious piece of machinery. I rewrite and draft so much, I'd go broke buying paper and ribbon.

You can't force it, and this story moves at a confident pace. Each thought and transition clear and in it's own time. Your story well expresses the elements and relationships surrounding the writer as he creates. Nice work.

[William Teague]

Maybe I'll put, . . . "we began to type."

[William Teague]

My endings sublime objective was to show that the Typewriter wanted the comfort of the tea as well. Any thoughts? Did I achieve the objective, or not? I welcome any suggestions from you guy's that would help to bring out this fact, however; I do want to keep it ever so subtle. Thanks!

[Samuel Dickens]

Relief---a happy ending. I had to chuckle when you threatened the old girl with violence because it sounded like me. (Yes, I've done terrible things to inanimate objects) In fact, I almost expected you to murder it and hide its remains beneath the flooring like in the "Tell-Tale Heart". Ah, but it wasn't so serious as that. Quite an amusing and well-written piece, William.

[William Teague]

Thank you for your kind words and encouragement.