Smith Corona

I was roaming the flea market on Sixth and 17th Saturday when a piece of my childhood popped up and hit me in the face. No, I didn't see my old rubber duck or Apollo 11 Snoopy doll. Sitting on a table was a Smith Corona typewriter. Not just any old Smith Corona, a late sixties-early seventies model that my father owned. Even the big bulky black case was the same.

I just stared at the thing for a long time. It is just a typewriter, but I remember my Dad lugging it around. I remember him working on it. I remember me playing with it. It was in great shape. And apparently there are still some stores that sell ribbons for these things.

But I didn't buy it to type with it. I'm not sure why I bought it. I may give it to my father, although I'm pretty sure he still has his in his little office in his house upstate. I may keep it myself in the hopes that one day I'll have a desk or a bookshelf I can put it on. Or I may take it out to the park and smash the shit out of it a la "Office Space" and the printer.

Most of the memories I have associated with this typewriter aren't happy. It's kind of like the time my Dad gave me his old army jacket, which was splattered with paint from years of using it to paint stuff. That jacket was what he was always wearing every weekend when he was terrorizing us so I wasn't exactly thrilled to be the recipient of it. Imagine a prison guard handing an inmate his jacket as the inmate is getting ready to leave the slammer. I know, over the top, but that's my style.

As I lugged the typewriter home I begin to wonder how the heck my Dad lugged this thing all over the country. As my brother pointed out, yeah and you can't type something into that thing and get an answer from Google. My brother also thought my Dad would probably be very touched to get it. I'm not sure since he does have one already although he probably would appreciate the gesture.

I do know though that the idea of smashing it up as if somehow that will take away some pain is a crock. I'm the only one who can let that pain go and it's up to me to do it, not my Dad.

I'm not going to smash it. I'm not sure if I'll give it to him. For now I have plenty of room under my bed to let it stay there until I decide what to do with it.