"Well, I'll be damned," I said.
I leaned back, fully expecting some answer from the machine. There was none. I poked my forefinger at the shift key, tapped the space bar tentatively, rolled the roller, swung the carriage, sniffed at the ribbon.
"Have you gone?" I asked the typewriter.
There was no answer. I sighed happily and started to work, typing twelve pages of lousy prose which I tossed into the wastebasket. But I was happier than I'd been since I bought the infernal machine.
After a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a slice of burnt toast the next morning, I tackled the machine again.
This time, I was hot.
There was nothing to stop me. The words ran from my brain to my fingers, onto the keys, spilling onto the clean sheets of paper. I typed furiously, feeling right about my work, knowing I was doing well. It was as if the machine and I were one, as if my fingers had become an extension of the keys. I didn't stop to think once. As soon as I'd taken one sheet of paper from the machine, I rolled in another and kept going. The delay of changing paper was almost too much to bear. The words just tumbled out of me, and they were good words, and it was a good story.
I read it through when I finished it, sitting back and puffing happily on a cigarette. Then I put a clip on the pages, patted them fondly and went next door to see Perry. He was a sculptor, and he had his hands full of clay, and his stand full of what looked like a head.
"Wash your hands," I said.