“I’m old enough to remember when laws took months or years to make. Now he just makes one up at breakfast, and people are getting arrested for breaking it by lunch. You know that’s wrong. And you and I risk everything anyway running this place legit. Wouldn’t you rather risk getting in trouble for doing something real? Something that’ll make a difference?” |
Günter Grass, Meine alte Olivetti, Sammlung Würth, Inv. 4723.19 © Günter und Ute Grass Stiftung / Steidl Verlag
Raz Darden recrossed San Carlos Street carrying his lunch as he looked at the sign over his shop. “Antiques” was all it said and all it needed it to say. His niece, who lived on the other side of San Jose, always bugged him about making the sign read “Darden’s Antiques,” but he kept telling her the front of the building wasn’t long enough to support all the extra letters. Besides, he worried about having his name attached to the business for other reasons.
He unlocked the front door, removed the handwritten “back in five minutes” sign, and walked to the counter. Raz took a glance at his dark, wrinkled face in the 19th-century mirror that hung on the far side of the shop. That, he thought, still needed to be removed.
The bell at the front door made its cheerful ring. Trev Barkley walked backward through the doorway, pulling a large wagon overloaded with cardboard boxes.
“All this from the Steinmetz place?” Raz asked.
“Yep,” Trev said as he popped open one of the boxes. “Lots of old cameras, a phone from the 1990s, another Atari, and plenty of household items.”
“Anything else?” Raz asked.
“Brother word processor,” Trev said, grinning.
“You know how I feel about white guys calling me that.”
“No. It’s a Brother word processor. Brother is the brand. I think it’s from 1993.”
Raz nodded. “Pre-web, pre-cloud, is it?”
“I swung by my house and tested it,” Trev said. “I think Jenny Steinmetz might have gotten it for high school graduation or something. She just put it in the attic along with two ribbon cassettes and a new floppy disk. Pre-cloud time capsule.”
“I think I remember those,” Raz said. “They have a little one inch-high screen, LCD like a wristwatch, prints a few pages at a time really loud?”
Trev raised a fist and pointed a finger at Raz as though he had won something.
“Okay, I trust you it works,” Raz said.
“I’ll give Stanley Thompson a call,” Trev said as he closed the box. “He just had his author’s license revoked.”
Raz nodded. “Yeah, I knew his column about the tariffs wouldn’t fly. But, uh, you didn’t promise it to him, did you?”
“I just said I’d keep an eye open.”
“Yeah, but someone else might be interested. Someone who isn’t an academic or fiction writer.”
“Who are they and what will they pay?”
“They don’t have a name, and we’ll give it to them for free.”
Trev stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am, Trevor. And I want them to set up in the basement.”
Trev shook his head violently. “Come on, Raz. We have a good thing going selling typewriters to authors who lost their license. Most of them are just writing a perfectly safe novel, stashing the pages, waiting for when he’s not in power anymore.”
“He’s always going to be in power, Trev. Him and his family. The PACE act is just his way to scour the cloud for anything he doesn’t like and punish the person writing it. I can’t let that stand. I know we’re making good money with our antique typewriter side hustle, but it’s time for movable type to get back to its roots.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Trev said. “Selling to authors instead of the resistance gives us deniability. You know what the punishment is for doing business with someone on the Red List?”
“Yeah, I do,” Raz said, taking a few steps closer. “Twenty-four months ago it was a big fine, twelve months ago it was three to five years, and on Tuesday they made it five to ten years and they put the entire burden of proving innocence on the accused. What do you think the punishment’s going to be a year from now?”
Trev took half a step back and looked at the floor.
“You know, my father told me it's pointless knowing the difference between right and wrong if you’re not willing to take action to right a wrong,” Raz continued. “You and me are in a position to make this right.”
“But the law—”
“That don’t matter, either,” Raz said. “I’m old enough to remember when laws took months or years to make. Now he just makes one up at breakfast, and people are getting arrested for breaking it by lunch. You know that’s wrong. And you and I risk everything anyway running this place legit. Wouldn’t you rather risk getting in trouble for doing something real? Something that’ll make a difference?”
Trev stood still and said nothing. Raz stepped back to the counter, withdrew his paper bag, and unwrapped a sandwich. He tore the package at the perforation and slid half of it along the worn wooden surface.
“Still want to eat lunch with me or not?”
Trev hesitantly stepped forward as Raz began eating. He took a bite himself, and the two chewed quietly for several moments.
“Stanley Thompson needs a typewriter.”
“Stanley Thompson needs a world where needing a license to write is dystopian fiction,” Raz said. “The Brother and other typewriters we find from now on go to the group for their fliers and letters so they can’t be traced or deleted by the Washington Cloud Police.”
Trev glared at Raz as he took another bite.
“And you really want to let them use the basement?”
Raz nodded, his mouth full.
“Crazy.”
Raz continued chewing as he ignored the comment.
“I got a desk at home I don’t use anymore,” Trev said.
At that, Raz looked at him.
“I have a couple of chairs, too.”
Raz began to smile. “Keep talking.”
“I don’t want to brag, Raz, but I figured out how to refill old typewriter ribbons by soaking them in ink I made. It’s bright green but untraceable.”
Raz nodded and held up his half of the sandwich. He looked into Trev’s face. His friend returned the gaze, and they bumped their sandwiches together in a mock toast.
He unlocked the front door, removed the handwritten “back in five minutes” sign, and walked to the counter. Raz took a glance at his dark, wrinkled face in the 19th-century mirror that hung on the far side of the shop. That, he thought, still needed to be removed.
The bell at the front door made its cheerful ring. Trev Barkley walked backward through the doorway, pulling a large wagon overloaded with cardboard boxes.
“All this from the Steinmetz place?” Raz asked.
“Yep,” Trev said as he popped open one of the boxes. “Lots of old cameras, a phone from the 1990s, another Atari, and plenty of household items.”
“Anything else?” Raz asked.
“Brother word processor,” Trev said, grinning.
“You know how I feel about white guys calling me that.”
“No. It’s a Brother word processor. Brother is the brand. I think it’s from 1993.”
Raz nodded. “Pre-web, pre-cloud, is it?”
“I swung by my house and tested it,” Trev said. “I think Jenny Steinmetz might have gotten it for high school graduation or something. She just put it in the attic along with two ribbon cassettes and a new floppy disk. Pre-cloud time capsule.”
“I think I remember those,” Raz said. “They have a little one inch-high screen, LCD like a wristwatch, prints a few pages at a time really loud?”
Trev raised a fist and pointed a finger at Raz as though he had won something.
“Okay, I trust you it works,” Raz said.
“I’ll give Stanley Thompson a call,” Trev said as he closed the box. “He just had his author’s license revoked.”
Raz nodded. “Yeah, I knew his column about the tariffs wouldn’t fly. But, uh, you didn’t promise it to him, did you?”
“I just said I’d keep an eye open.”
“Yeah, but someone else might be interested. Someone who isn’t an academic or fiction writer.”
“Who are they and what will they pay?”
“They don’t have a name, and we’ll give it to them for free.”
Trev stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am, Trevor. And I want them to set up in the basement.”
Trev shook his head violently. “Come on, Raz. We have a good thing going selling typewriters to authors who lost their license. Most of them are just writing a perfectly safe novel, stashing the pages, waiting for when he’s not in power anymore.”
“He’s always going to be in power, Trev. Him and his family. The PACE act is just his way to scour the cloud for anything he doesn’t like and punish the person writing it. I can’t let that stand. I know we’re making good money with our antique typewriter side hustle, but it’s time for movable type to get back to its roots.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Trev said. “Selling to authors instead of the resistance gives us deniability. You know what the punishment is for doing business with someone on the Red List?”
“Yeah, I do,” Raz said, taking a few steps closer. “Twenty-four months ago it was a big fine, twelve months ago it was three to five years, and on Tuesday they made it five to ten years and they put the entire burden of proving innocence on the accused. What do you think the punishment’s going to be a year from now?”
Trev took half a step back and looked at the floor.
“You know, my father told me it's pointless knowing the difference between right and wrong if you’re not willing to take action to right a wrong,” Raz continued. “You and me are in a position to make this right.”
“But the law—”
“That don’t matter, either,” Raz said. “I’m old enough to remember when laws took months or years to make. Now he just makes one up at breakfast, and people are getting arrested for breaking it by lunch. You know that’s wrong. And you and I risk everything anyway running this place legit. Wouldn’t you rather risk getting in trouble for doing something real? Something that’ll make a difference?”
Trev stood still and said nothing. Raz stepped back to the counter, withdrew his paper bag, and unwrapped a sandwich. He tore the package at the perforation and slid half of it along the worn wooden surface.
“Still want to eat lunch with me or not?”
Trev hesitantly stepped forward as Raz began eating. He took a bite himself, and the two chewed quietly for several moments.
“Stanley Thompson needs a typewriter.”
“Stanley Thompson needs a world where needing a license to write is dystopian fiction,” Raz said. “The Brother and other typewriters we find from now on go to the group for their fliers and letters so they can’t be traced or deleted by the Washington Cloud Police.”
Trev glared at Raz as he took another bite.
“And you really want to let them use the basement?”
Raz nodded, his mouth full.
“Crazy.”
Raz continued chewing as he ignored the comment.
“I got a desk at home I don’t use anymore,” Trev said.
At that, Raz looked at him.
“I have a couple of chairs, too.”
Raz began to smile. “Keep talking.”
“I don’t want to brag, Raz, but I figured out how to refill old typewriter ribbons by soaking them in ink I made. It’s bright green but untraceable.”
Raz nodded and held up his half of the sandwich. He looked into Trev’s face. His friend returned the gaze, and they bumped their sandwiches together in a mock toast.
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Michael K Norris is a writer of fiction and will never refer to that career in the past tense. He has been a senior aide for a California politician, a communications manager for a San Jose nonprofit, and a publishing industry analyst at Simba Information – where he made regular presentations at the London Book Fair and was frequently quoted in The New York Times, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. Michael is also the creator of the #ThursdayTrashFlashFiction social media campaign and a member of South Bay Writers. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, artist Suma CM.
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