The Typewriter
He stared at the dreary morning sky, sucking the last bit of nicotine from a small cigarette butt. The floor was littered with similarly sized butts, strewn between bottles of liquor and crumpled papers that had been filled with sub-par prose. He flicked the butt onto the cold floor, sitting back down at his desk. Aside from the desk, the room also featured a small sink, a bare-bones kitchenette featuring a broken hot plate, and a lonely bed.
The fog settled over the city, hiding all but the tallest building in the San Francisco skyline. The fog that settled over his mind felt thicker and denser. Suffocating. This was his last shot. An approaching deadline and the uncertainty of any subsequent assignments weighed on his anxiety-riddled mind.
One deep inhale. Stale apartment air filling his lungs. He began. His fingers moved across the weathered typewriter, an awkward flurry of movement. Uninspired. Uncertain. Hesitating at each new line.
It wouldn’t ever be the same. He pushed on.
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The metallic keys echoed through the drafty room. He reached the end of the page and ripped the paper from the typewriter's carriage. His clear brown eyes danced across the page, digesting his efforts. Another crumpled paper fell to the littered floor. He could already hear the curses of an enraged editor. A small groan involuntarily left his lips.
He began packing his scant possessions, pausing periodically to confirm that all the wine bottles lying on the floor were actually empty. He pulled an oily rag from a drawer and slowly and methodically began to wrap up the old typewriter. The process was meticulous and meditative.
He emerged from the rickety boarding house holding a small burlap bag in his right hand and tightly gripping the typewriter under his left. He started walking down the street with a fleeting sense of purpose.
A quarter hour later, he emerged from the door of a Cisco pawn shop. In his right hand, he held his bag. In his left, was a small wad of dirty bills and coins.
He stuffed the small sum into his breast pocket. He felt guilty, as if he’d betrayed an old friend. The sun began to set over the Pacific as he wandered down the crowded street.
