Another One
Randall Douglas Matson

Under the dim light of her favorite Tiffany lamp, Eve Chambers beamed lovingly down at the Remington Portable typewriter. Immaculate in every imaginable way, it grinned fiendishly up into her hazel eyes; its baked gray finish with the polished steel name plate silently beckoning her.  Smiling quickly at her husband Dan as he past the doorway, waving with just his index finger, Eve reached above the small writing desk and opened a new ream of paper.

Everything is right, she thought. And if everything is right, then nothing can go wrong. This is so perfect!

Grinning to herself, Eve slowly pushed a clean sheet of paper into the carriage and secured the lock. All was prepared. The midnight oil was ready to be burned. Louise was already snug in her bed, clutching her beloved plush Eeyore. Remy had already put in his "good son" call from the dorm. And Dan was just reaching the bottom of the stairs, en route to the television.

Carefully rolling the white parchment up just far enough to create a proper margin, Eve closed her eyes and prepared herself; all the while delighting in the sweet aroma of the coffee issuing from her favorite mug on the edge of the desk.

It had been the first dry Sunday of the rainy season when Eve spotted the Remington in the store window. She was walking home from Carmazzo's with a half pound of freshly roasted coffee in her hand, carefully avoiding the oil-filled puddles on the sidewalk when she stopped at the window. Yet one more ignorable, nondescript antique/curio store in the town square, Eve had had every intention of simply walking by without a second look. But the Remington had nearly leaped out of the window at her, and when she saw the enthusiastically written sign beside it that read, "$20 WORKS!!" she scrambled to the door.

Grimacing at the overbearing scent of mildew as she entered the small shop, Eve walked hastily to the counter and tapped the Ring For Service bell. Thirty seconds later, a scruffy-looking young man appeared wearing a Pearl Jam t-shirt and smoking a foul-smelling cigarette. He walked slowly to the counter and scowled at Eve as he snubbed out his cigarette in a huge a ceramic ashtray next to the cash register.

"Help you?" he growled, not looking at her. This must be the son, Eve thought to herself. Typical Sunday help.

"The typewriter in the window," she said quickly, hoping to appear oblivious of the boy's surly demeanor. He rolled his eyes and turned around to retrieve the Remington from the window display. Picking it up with one hand, the carriage lock opened and the body of the typewriter rocketed towards the floor, making Eve's heart sink immediately to her shoes. Shaking her head, she thought, I won't even get it out of here in one piece! Visibly annoyed, the boy secured the machine with his other hand and finally banged it down on the Formica countertop.

"Twenty-five even," he said.

"The sign in the window says twenty," Eve retorted sharply.

"Tax... you know."

"Five dollars tax?"

The boy hesitated and then said irritably: "Fine. Twenty."

Eve glared at the boy and then reached into her purse. Little prick, she thought, handing him $21.50. Shaving off the top when mom and dad are away.

Wanting to get back to his skin magazine, the young man snatched the money and shoved it into the cash register.

"I don't know why the hell you'd want that thing," he said with a snotty tone.

"Thank you," Eve responded, picking up the typewriter with both hands and smiling at him. The boy snorted contemptuously and Eve walked quickly out the door.

Safe , Eve thought as she headed to her car. You, my friend, are finally safe.

Lyndburgh called again when Eve got home. He was whining once again about another call that had come in, regarding yet one more supposed "inaccuracy" in that morning's edition. Eve sighed heavily to herself and assured the incurable worrywart that the world was not coming to an end and that she would take care of it as soon as possible. As senior editor of the small town's newspaper, Eve did not exactly appreciate the neurotic little bookworm that had recently become her superior. As many men in his position did, he meant well but inevitably came across as little more than a passive-aggressive monarch.

"Lyndburgh?" Dan asked as Eve hung up the phone.

"Of course," she said resignedly.

"Jesus, he's uptight."

"Yes, my love, he is," she agreed, thinking about christening the Remington.

"Louise's game is at 2:00," Dan said, picking up his car keys.

"What? Where are you going?"

Dan paused momentarily, cocking his head to one side. "Honey, I'm going over to mom's to fix her gutter. Remember? I told you about it Thursday night?" Eve thought for a moment and could remember no such thing. At the moment, she couldn't think of anything but the sweet clickety-clackety sounds that would soon be issuing from under her fingers.

"Yeah," she lied. "What time is the game?"

"Eve," Dan said deliberately, "2:00."

"Okay."

He smiled, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and walked out the door.

The soccer field was a mud pit but Louise's team played well and was eventually victorious. Eve sat in the stands during the game, politely chatting with the obnoxious group of other soccer moms; wishing she were at home, creating her masterpiece. It was not that the thought of supporting her daughter was so belaboring, but more so that being there only added to the frustration she had been feeling for the past few years. She loved her children and felt truly blessed by the whole experience of having a family. Nevertheless, she couldn't deny the fact that she had only intended to work as an editor "for a short time." She had indeed taken the practical, safe route, going to college and getting a degree in journalism, and then landing a good job as assistant editor at the newspaper. And at first, there had been plenty of extra time to write; evenings, weekends, holidays. Whenever she could. But after marriage, two children, and twenty years of working for the same paper, she had come to the realization that more of her time had been spent on other people, and their work.

Louise was beaming at the victory, and Eve - not wanting to disappoint her - took her over to Ernie's for a malt.

As the two of them sat at the bar, Ernie approached them, smiling and wiping his hands with a filthy towel.

"Hey there, sugar pie!" he said, rustling Louise's hair. He looked at Eve and snickered. "That was a doozie of a mix-up this morning."

"Excuse me?" Eve said.

"The story about that accident," he said matter-of-factly. "The article said it was only a three-car pileup out there on route 15 last night, when it was actually a seven-car pileup!"

"Yeah," Eve fake-laughed, "Somebody messed up."

"Messed up?" Ernie gasped, chuckling. "That Darcy boy broke both his legs and it didn't even mention him! I'd say somebody messed up!"

Eve shook her head in disgust as Ernie walked away to wipe the counter. Jesus Christ, Ernie, let it go, she thought, the correction will be in there tomorrow morning.

After dinner, Eve received yet another phone call from Lyndburgh. Overcome by frustration with his constant whining, she drove into work and spent a grueling four hours ascertaining that everything was truly, "in order." No matter how good the pay was, or how nice the yearly bonuses were, Eve was beginning to think it was no longer worth the irritation.

Eve sat up suddenly and grabbed the back of her neck, wincing at the stiffness and pain. She looked up slowly at the clock on the shelf above the desk.

3:16 am.

Startled, she looked down at the Remington; the white plastic keys still reflecting back the dim, incandescent light; the worn ribbon still tautly stretched into place; and the same blank page still staring up at her. More than three hours had passed, and she hadn't typed one word.

How? Eve thought feverishly. Oh Christ, how could this have happened? How, when I had the Tiffany lamp, and the coffee, and the new ream of paper, and there was nothing to distract me? She wondered furthermore, if she had actually fallen asleep, or if she had just been daydreaming.

But it was very much nighttime, and she had fallen asleep. And once again, she had fallen prey to the inevitable existence that continually haunted her. She had played by the "rules." She had done the "responsible" thing. Earned the degree and the house and the husband and the kids and the dog and the goddamn white picket fence. She was textbook definition of "practical." And why? she thought wildly. What do I have to show for it?

Eve reached up and savagely ripped the blank page out of the Remington, crumpled it into a ball and threw it onto the floor. Beginning to sob, she said softly to herself: "I guess this is... who I am."

Attempting to calm herself so Dan wouldn't hear, she stood up slowly and lifted the Remington off the desk and walked to the closet. Her body trembling, she pulled open the door and placed the Remington on the floor between the Hermes 10 and the Smith Corona Power Return Electric, just in front of the coveted Olympia Traveler, and behind the massive antique Royal Desktop. Safely out of sight. Sniffling, she closed the door and turned off the Tiffany lamp. And with one last mournful look around her "writing den," she walked out into the hall.

Crawling into bed, she clutched her pillow and wept silently.

Dan immediately rolled over and spoke soothingly in her ear, stroking her hair.

"Another one?"

"Another one," she softly concurred, between hitched breaths. "Another one."

 

~~~~~

Randall Douglas Matson is an honest-to-goodness published novelist. (To the best of our knowledge, we've never had one of those types write for us before). We highly encourage you to pick up his novel Serendipity, and help support an aspiring talent.