"I'll give it back to you," I told him. "Free. It's yours."
"No, thank you. You can keep it."
"I'll give you another five," I pleaded.
He went to the cash register, opened the drawer. "Here," he said. "This is the five you paid for it. Take it. Keep it. Keep the machine. You'll get used to Poe."
"And Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare, too. They're nice writers."
I banged my fist on the counter. "I won't! I'll break that damned habit if it's the last thing I do!"
"That's the spirit," the old man said unenthusiastically.
"It's only a typewriter," I said. "If it learned a habit, it can learn to break the habit."
"Certainly," the old man said, smiling.