"Yes. But...."
"All right, take the machine. A case goes with it. Believe me, young man, this is a bargain."
"Five dollars?" I asked again.
"Five dollars. You want it? Yes or no? I got other things to do."
"I'll take it."
The old man smiled. "Good, you'll never regret it."
He slid the machine off the counter and put it into its case. He snapped the case shut then, locked it, and handed me the two keys.
"Keys even," he said, still smiling. "A good buy. If I had five dollars, I'd buy it myself." His smile widened in appreciation of his own humor, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was immensely relieved about something. I handed him the five dollar bill reluctantly, scooped up the case, and left the shop—glancing back over my shoulder to see him still grinning behind the counter.
I stopped at the grocer's to pick up some salami and a loaf of bread, and then I went back to my apartment. I lived in a small, one-room flat in the Village. I'd migrated there because I wanted to be surrounded by creative people. I'd been surrounded by them for close to six months now, but none of it had rubbed off on me. I'd finally been forced to sell my old typewriter to pay the rent, so that finding this one today—and at the ridiculous price of five dollars—had really been a godsend. I was almost happy as I prepared the salami sandwiches for my supper. When they were ready, I took them, together with a quart of milk and a glass, over to the small table that served as my desk. I carefully took the typewriter out of its case and rested it on the table. I closed the case then, brought it to the closet, and put it on the top shelf alongside my rainy-day hat. I went back to the table, sipped a little milk, munched a little of the salami sandwich, and put a sheet of paper into the machine.
I knew exactly what I wanted to type, mind you.