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Fiction: Spirit in the Typewriter
While he was crossing the street, a car slammed into Stanley and left him with a broken leg and some broken fingers.
A month later, he resumed his work as a typist. But his fingers clamped up whenever he pressed the typewriter keys. While changing the ribbon, he glanced at the yellow smily sticker on the corner of the typewriter which his wife had stuck there when he first brought it home. She insisted it needed something to cheer him on while he worked. Eight month later, after his writing career failed, she left him for a lawyer. He had tried rubbing it and using solutions but the sticker wouldn't come off.
He took a break and strolled his neighborhood. But walking with crutches was tiring so he returned home shortly. All three manuscripts had been typed and neatly stacked on his table beside the typewriter. He checked his entire apartment but couldn't figure out how that happened. There was an empty box with Freddy's Pizza Place in his trash but he had not eaten any pizza. But he gave the manuscripts to his clients, got paid and didn't think about it.
For three months, the manuscripts got done and he never witnessed it. He was sure no one broke into his apartment and he didn't subconsciously typed them.
On the fourth month, he stayed by the typewriter with five manuscripts and waited. For two days, he didn't leave the typewriter except to use the bathroom. Then on the third day, he fell asleep and when he woke up in the morning, the five manuscripts were typed and stacked and beside it were an empty box with Freddy's Pizza Place and a coffee mug.
The next week, he tried again. He left three manuscripts on the table beside the typewriter and went out of his apartment and waited in the hallway for a bit and then came back in.
The typewriter was doing its work but there was someone behind it - a man with a full beard and a crowd of curly hair. His hands were flying as he typed. Papers flew in and out of the typewriter and landed in a neat stack beside him. As he worked, he was consuming slices of cheese pizza from a box with Freddy's Pizza Place. The whole thing was over before Stanley could react. When the man noticed Stanley, he got up and said, "Hello."
They stared at each other unblinking and then the man smiled.
Stanley said, "Hello. Thanks for helping me but who are and are you related to me?"
"Name's Daemon. No relations."
"Then why do you look like me?"
The man shrugged. "Just prefer it."
"But why are you helping me with the manuscripts?"
Daemon veered his eyes to the side. "This is my penance."
"For what? And what are you? Ghost? Elf? God?"
Daemon laughed with a snort at the end. "God? That is rather above me. No, I'm just a spirit." He grinned and dissipated into a cloud of white smoke and sailed into the typewriter. "By the way, you're out of orange-pineapple juice," he added.
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Four months after, Stanley went to the hospital to get his leg cast removed. That morning, after his physical therapy, he returned home to find several apartments in his building had been burglarized including his.
Standing in his kitchen by the table where the typewriter usually sat, Stanley had a moment of panic. Will Daemon come now that there was no typewriter?
To continue his work, Stanley rented a typewriter and brought new boxes of paper. His hands still clamped up but he kept on. During a break at the park, he was walking along and watching children ran like herds of sheep everywhere when he spotted a teenage boy sitting on a bench, munching on potato chips with a typewriter beside him with a For Sale sign.
"Where did you get that typewriter?" asked Stanley.
The teenager sneered. "Do you wanna it, Mister? Four hundred bucks and it's yours."
Stanley wanted to curse the boy. Calmly, he said, "That typewriter is stolen from my apartment. The police knew all about it. But if give it to me for twenty bucks, I will not call the police." Stanley pursed his lips and hoped he looked furious.
The boy laughed, dumped his bag of chips at Stanley, picked up the typewriter and ran. Clumsily, Stanley chased after the boy. Just a few feet away, the boy stumbled on a piece of trash and and the typewriter toppled out of his arms and onto the grassy lawn. Stanley caught up and tackled him to the ground. "Should I call the police?" said Stanley.
The boy shouted, "No, please, you can have the damn typewriter! Don't call the police!"
Stanley let go of the boy and was about to take out his wallet when the boy sprinted away.
When he got home, Stanley cleaned the typewriter. There was not a dent on it but the sticker was still as stubborn as before so he left it. He hoped Daemon would come back now.
After finishing typing two manuscripts, he was exhausted and went to bed. When he woke the next morning, all the manuscripts had been typed and neatly stacked on the table. And sitting there, was Daemon, eating pizza.
Stanley smiled. "You came back," he said.
"Just don't let me get stolen again," said Daemon and finished his slice and picking up the last one.
"I've been meaning to ask you. You said this is your penance. What did you do?" Stanley had been uneasy about Daemon's help when the man didn't demand anything in return.
Daemon stopped chewing. "I... did something horrible to you, Stanley. I hit you with my car and disappeared."
"You're the one who hit me? Why didn't you tell me before?" Stanley couldn't give any information for the police to find the driver.
Daemon shrugged. "I was feeling a little guilty. I am terribly sorry for hurting you. It's why I'm here to help until they deemed I've done enough."
"Who's they?"
"I can't say. But you're stuck with me for a bit." Daemon grinned and placed the last bit of pizza into his mouth. "By the way, you're out of orange-pineapple juice." Then he dissipated and returned into the typewriter.
Stanley decided as long as the man was helping even if he was forced to do so, he will accept it.
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"To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it."
- Kurt Vonnegut