Dorothy West, "The Typewriter" (1926)
Opportunity Magazine
It occurred to him, as he eased past the bulging knees of an Irish wash
lady and forced an apologetic passage down the aisle of the crowded car,
that more than anything in all the world, he wanted not to go home.
He began to wish passionately that he had never been born, that he had
never been married that he had never been the means of life’s coming into
the world. He knew quite suddenly that he hated his flat and his family and
his friends. And most of all, the incessant thing that would clatter until
every nerve screamed aloud, and the words of the evening paper danced
crazily before him, and the insane desire to crush and kill set his fingers
twitching.
He shuffled down the street, an abject little man of fifty-odd years, in an
ageless overcoat that flapped in the wind. He was cold, and he hated the
North, and particularly Boston, and saw suddenly a barefoot pickaninny
sitting on a fence in the hot, Southern sun with a piece of steaming corn
bread and a piece of fried salt pork in either grimy hand.
He was tired, and he wanted his supper, but he didn’t want the beans,
and frankfurters, and light bread that Net would undoubtedly have. That Net
had had every Monday night since that regrettable moment fifteen years
before when he had told her-innocently-that such a supper tasted “right
nice. Kinda change from what we always has.”
He mounted the four brick steps leading to his door and pulled at the
bell, but there was no answering ring. It was broken again, and in a mental
flash he saw himself with a multitude of tools and a box of matches
shivering in the vestibule after supper. He began to pound lustily on the
door and wondered vaguely if his hand would bleed if he smashed the glass.
He hated the sight of blood. It sickened him.
Some one was running down the stairs. Daisy probably. Millie would be
at that infernal thing, pounding, pounding.… He entered. The chill of the
house swept him. His child was wrapped in a coat. She whispered solemnly,
“Poppa, Miz Hicks an’ Miz Berry’s awful mad. They gointa move if they
can’t get more heat. The furnace’s burnt out all day. Mama couldn’t fix it.”
He said hurriedly, “I’ll go right down. I’ll go right down.” He hoped
Mrs. Hicks wouldn’t pull open her door and glare at him. She was large and
domineering, and her husband was a bully. If her husband ever struck him,
it would kill him. He hated life, but he didn’t want to die. He was afraid of
God, and in his wildest flights of fancy couldn’t imagine himself an angel.
He went softly down the stairs.
He began to shake the furnace fiercely. And he shook into it every
wrong, mumbling softly under his breath. He began to think back over his
uneventful years, and it came to him as rather a shock that he had never
sworn in all his life. He wondered uneasily if he dared say “damn.” It was
taken for granted that a man swore when he tended a stubborn furnace. And
his strongest interjection was “Great balls of fire!”
The cellar began to warm, and he took off his inadequate overcoat that
was streaked with dirt. Well, Net would have to clean that. He’d be
damned-! It frightened him and thrilled him. He wanted suddenly to rush
upstairs and tell Mrs. Hicks if she didn’t like the way he was running things,
she could get out. But he heaped another shovel full of coal on the fire and
sighed. He would never be able to get away from himself and the routine of
years.
He thought of that eager Negro lad of seventeen who had come North to
seek his fortune. He had walked jauntily down Boylston Street, and even
his own kind had laughed at the incongruity of him. But he had thrown up
his head and promised himself:
“You’ll have an office here some day. With plate-glass windows and a
real mahogany desk.” But, though he didn’t know it then, he was not the
progressive type. And he became successively, in the years (that followed),
bellboy, porter, waiter, cook, and finally janitor in a downtown office
building.
He had married Net when he was thirty-three and a waiter. He had
married her partly because-though he might not have admitted it -- there
was no one to eat the expensive delicacies the generous cook gave him
every night to bring home. And partly because he dared hope … But Millie
had come, and after her, twin girls who had died within two weeks, then
Daisy, and it was tacitly understood that Net was done with child-bearing.
Life, though flowing monotonously had flowed peacefully enough until
that sucker of sanity became a sitting room fixture.
Intuitively, at the very first, he had felt its undesirability. He had
suggested hesitatingly that they couldn’t afford it.
Three dollars: food and fuel. Times were hard, and the twenty dollars
apiece, the respective husbands of Miz Hicks and Miz Berry irregularly
paid, was only five dollars more than the thirty-five a month he paid his
own Hebraic landlord. And the Lord knew his salary was little enough. At
which point Net spoke her piece, her voice rising shrill.
“God knows I never complain’ bout nothin’. Ain’t no other woman got
less than me. I bin wearin’ this same dress here five years an’ I’ll wear it
another five. But I don’t want nothin’. I ain’t never wanted nothin’. An’
when I does as’, it’s only for my children. You’re a poor sort of father if you
can’t give that child Jes’ three dollars a month to rent that typewriter. Ain’t
‘nother girl in school ain’t got one. An’ none of ’ems bought an’ paid for.
You know yourself how Millie is. She wouldn’t as’ me for it till she had to.
An’ I ain’t going to disappoint her. She’s goin’ to get that typewriter
Saturday, mark my words.”
On a Monday then it had been installed. And in the months that
followed, night after night he listened to the murderous “tack, tack, tack”
that was like a vampire slowly drinking his blood. If only he could escape.
Bar a door against the sound of it. But tied hand and foot by the economic
fact that “Lord knows we can’t afford to have fires burnin’ an’ lights lit all
over the flat. You’all gotta set in one room. An’ when y’get tired settin’ y’a
c’n go to bed. Gas bill was somep’n scandalous last month.”
He heaped a final shovel full of coal on the fire and watched the first
blue flames. Then, his overcoat under his arm, he mounted the cellar stairs.
Mrs. Hicks was standing in her kitchen door, arms akimbo. “It’s warmin’,”
she volunteered.
“Yeh,” he said, conscious of his grime-streaked face and hands, “it’s
warmin’. I’m sorry ‘bout all day.”
She folded her arms across her ample bosom. “Tending a furnace ain’t a
woman’s work. I don’t blame your wife none ‘tall.”
Unsuspecting, he was grateful. “Yeh, it’s pretty hard for a woman. I
always look after it ‘fore I goes to work, but some days it jes ac’s up.”
“Y’oughta have a janitor, that’s what y’ought (do),” she flung at him.
“The same cullud man that tends them apartments would be willin’. Mr.
Taylor has him. It takes a man to run a furnace, and when the man’s away
all day.”
“I know,” he interrupted, embarrassed and hurt, ÏI know. Tha’s right,
Miz Hicks tha’s right. But I ain’t in a position to make no improvements.
Times is hard.”
She surveyed him critically. “Your wife called down ‘bout three times
while you was in the cellar. I reckon she wants you for supper."
“Thanks,” he mumbled and escaped up the back stairs.
He hung up his overcoat in the closet, tell himself, a little lamely that it
wouldn’t take him more’n a minute to clean it up himself after supper. After
all Net was tired and prob’bly worried what Miz Hicks and all. And he
hated men who made slaves of their women folk.
Good old Net.
He tidied up in the bathroom, washing his face and hands carefully and
cleanly so as to leave no -- or very little -- stain on the roller towel. It was
hard enough for Net, god knew.
He entered the kitchen. The last spirals of steam were rising from his
supper. One thing about Net, she served a full plate. He smiled
appreciatively at her unresponsive back, bent over the kitchen sink. There
was no one could bake beans just like Net’s. And no one who could find a
market with frankfurters quite so fat.
He sank down at his place. “Evenin, hon."
He saw her back stiffen. “If your supper’s cold, ‘tain’t my fault. I called
and called.”
He said hastily, “It’s fine, Net, fine.”
She was the usual tired housewife. “You ‘oughta et your supper ‘fore
you fooled with that furnace. I ain’t bothered ‘bout them niggers. I got all
my dishes washed ‘cept yours. An’ I hate to mess up my kitchen after I once
get it straightened up.”
He was humble. “I’ll give that old furnace an extra lookin’ after in the
mornin’. It’ll las’ all day to-morrow, hon.”
“An’ on top of that,” she continued, unheeding him and giving a final
wrench to her dish towel, “that confounded bell don’t ring.”
“I’ll fix it after supper,” he interposed hastily.
She hung up her dishtowel and came to stand before him looming large
and yellow. “An that old Mix Berry, she claimed she was expectin’
comp’ny. And she knows they must’a come and gone while she was in her
kitchen an’ couldn’t be at her winder to watch for ‘em. Old liar,” she
brushed back a lock of naturally straight hair. “She wasn’t expectin’
nobody.”
“Well, you know how some folks are.”
“Fools! Half the world,” was her vehement answer. “I’m going in the
front room an’ set down a spell. I bin on my feet all day. Leave them dishes
on the table. God knows I’m tired, but I’ll come back an’ wash ‘em.” But
they both knew, of course, that he, very clumsily would.
At precisely quarter past nine when he, strained at last to the breaking
point, uttering an inhuman, strangled cry, flung down his paper, clutched at
his throat and sprang to his feet. Millie’s surprised, young voice, shocking
him to normalcy, heralded the first of that series of great moments that
every humble little middle-class man eventually experiences.
“What’s the matter, poppa? You sick? I wanted you to help me.”
He drew out his handkerchief and wiped his hot hands. “I declare I must
‘a fallen asleep an’ had a nightmare. No, I ain’t sick. What you want, hon?”
“Dictate me a letter, poppa. I c’n do sixty words a minute. You know,
like a business letter. You know, like those men in your building dictate to
their stenographers. Don’t you hear ‘em sometimes?”
“Oh sure, I know, hon. Poppa’ll help you. Sure. I hear that Mr. Browning, sure.”
Net rose. “Guess I’ll put this child to bed. Come on now, Daisy, without
no fuss. Then I’ll run up to pa’s. He ain’t bin well all week.”
When the door closed behind them, he crossed to his daughter, arranged
himself, and coughed importantly.
“Well, Millie.”
“Oh, poppa, is that what you’d call your stenographer?” she teased.
“And anyway, pretend I’m really one and you’re really my boss, and this
letter’s real important.”
A light crept into his dull eyes. Vigor through his thin blood. In a brief
moment the weight of years fell from him like a cloak. Tired, bent, little old
man that he was, he smiled, straightened, tapped impressively against his
teeth with a toil-strained finger, and became that enviable emblem of
American life: a business man.
“You be Miz Hicks, hun, honey? Course we can’t both use the same
name. I’ll be J. Lucius Jones. J. Lucius. All them real big doin’ men use
their middle names. Jus’ kinda looks (like) big doin’, doncha think, hon?
Looks like money, huh? J. Lucius.” He uttered a sound that was like the
proud cluck of a strutting hen. “J. Lucius.” It rolled like oil from his tongue.
His daughter twisted impatiently. “Now poppa. I mean Mr. Jones, sir,
please begin. I am ready for dictation sir.”
He was in that office on Boylston Street, looking with visioning eyes
through its plate-glass windows, tapping with impatient fingers on its real
mahogany desk.
“Ah -- Beaker Brothers, Park Square Building, Boston, Mass. Ah --
Gentlemen: In reply to yours at the seventh instant I would state--”
Every night thereafter in the weeks that followed, with Daisy packed off
to bed, and Net “gone up to pals or nodding inobtrusively in her corner,
there was the chameleon change of a Court Street janitor to J. Lucius Jones,
dealer in stocks and bonds. He would stand, posturing importantly, flicking
imaginary dust from his coat lapel, or, his hands locked behind his back, he
would stride up and down, earnestly and seriously debating the advisability
of buying copper with the market in such a fluctuating state. Once a week,
too, he stopped in at Jerry’s, and after a preliminary purchase of cheap
cigars, bought the latest trade papers, mumbling an embarrassed
explanation: “I got a little money. Think I’ll invest it in reliable stock.”
The letters Millie typed and subsequently discarded, he rummaged for
later, and under cover of writing to his brother in the South, laboriously
with a great many fancy flourishes, signed each neatly typed sheet with the
exalted J. Lucius Jones.
Later, when he mustered the courage, he suggested tentatively to Millie
that it might be fun-just fun, of course! -to answer his letters. One might-he
laughed a good deal louder and longer than necessary - he’d be J. Lucius
Jones, and the next night-here he swallowed hard and looked a little
frightened - Rockefeller or Vanderbilt or Morgan - just for fun,
y’understand’ Millie gave consent. It mattered little to her one way or the
other. It was practice, and that was what she needed. Very soon now she’d
be in the hundred class. Then maybe she could get a job!
He was growing very careful of his English. Occasionally-and it must
be admitted, ashamedly-he made surreptitious ventures into the dictionary.
He had to, of course. J. Lucius Jones would never say “Y’got to” when he
meant, “It is expedient.” And, old brain though he was, he learned quickly
and easily, juggling words with amazing facility.
Eventually he bought stamps and envelopes - long, important looking
envelopes -and stammered apologetically to Millie, “Honey, poppa thought
it’d help you if you learned to type envelopes, too. Reckon you you’ll have
to do that, too, when y’get a job. Poor old man,” he swallowed painfully,
“he came round selling these envelopes. You know how’tis. So I had to
buy’em.” This was satisfactory to Millie. If she saw through her father, she
gave no sign. After all, it was practice, and Mr. Hennessey had said thatthough not in just those words.
He had got in the habit of carry those self-addressed envelopes in his
inner pocket where they bulged impressively. And occasionally he would
take them out -- in the car usually -- and smile upon them. This one might
be from J.P. Morgan. This one from Henry Ford. And a million-dollar deal
involved each. That narrow, little spinster, who upon his sitting down, had
drawn herself away from his contact, was shunning J. Lucius Jones!
Once, led by some sudden, strange impulse, as outgoing car rumbled up
out of the subway, he got out a letter, darted a quick, shamed glance about
him, dropped it in an adjacent box, and swung aboard the car, feeling,
dazedly, as if he had committed a crime. And the next night he sat in the
sitting-room quite on edge until Net said suddenly, “Look here, a real
important letter come to-day for you, pa. Here ‘tis. What you s’pose it
says,” and he reached out a hand that trembled. He made brief explanation.
“
Advertisement, hon. Thas’ sal.”
They came quite frequently after that, and despite the fact that he knew
them by heart, he read them slowly and carefully, rustling the sheet, and
making inaudible, intelligent comments. He was, in these moments,
pathetically earnest.
Monday, as he went about his janitor’s duties, he composed in his mind
the final letter from J.P. Morgan that would consummate a big business
deal. For days now letters had passed between them J.P. had been at first
quite frankly uninterested. He had written tersely and briefly. He wrote
glowingly of the advantages of a pact between them. Daringly he argued in
terms of billions. And at last J.P. had written his next letter. He would be
decisive. … The next letter … this Monday … was writing itself on his
brain.
That night Millie opened the door for him. Her plain face was
transformed. “Poppa, -- poppa, I got a job! Twelve dollars a week to start
with! Isn’t that swell!”
He was genuinely pleased. “Honey, I’m glad. Right glad,” and went up
the stairs unsuspecting.
He ate his supper hastily, went down into the cellar to see about his fire,
returned and carefully tidied up, informing his reflection in the bathroom
mirror. “Well, J. Lucius, you c’n expect that final letter any day now.”
He entered the sitting room. The phonograph was playing. Daisy was
singing lustily. Strange. Net was talking animatedly to Millie, busy with
needle and thread over a neat, little frock. His wild glance darted to the
table. The pretty, little centerpiece, the bowl and wax flowers all neatly
arranged: the typewriter gone from its accustomed place. It seemed an hour
before he could speak. He felt himself trembling. He went hot and cold.
“Millie-your typewriter’s -gone!”
She made a deft little in and out movement with her needle. “It’s the
eighth, you know. When the man came to day for the money, I sent it back.
I won’t need it no more now! The money’s on the mantle piece, poppa.”
“Yeh,” he muttered. “All right.”
He sank down in his chair, fumbled for the paper, found it.
Net said, “Your poppa wants to read. Stop your noise, Daisy.”
She obediently stopped both her noise and the phonograph, took up her
book, and became absorbed. Millie went on with her sewing in placid
anticipation of the morrow. Net immediately began to nod, gave a curious
snort, slept.
The silence that crowded in on him, engulfed him. It blurred his vision,
dulled his brain. Vast, white, impenetrable.… His ears strained for the old,
familiar sound. And silence beat upon them.… The words of the evening
paper jumbled together. He read: J. P. Morgan goes… It burst upon him.
Blinded him. His hands groped for the bulge beneath his coat. Why this was
the end! The end of those great moments-the end of everything!
Bewildering pain tore through him. He clutched at his heart and felt, almost,
the jagged edges drive into his hand. A lethargy swept down upon him. He
could not move, nor utter sound. He could not pray, nor curse.
Against the wall of that silence, J. Lucius Jones crashed and died.
Published in Opportunity Magazine, July 1926
Second prize in the Opportunity fiction prize context, 1926