Storage Wars is here in Lafayette, figuratively speaking. My boys adore this TV program and I feign disinterest. We watch together while I wait for the dryer to finish or fold clothes. “Well, if I must.” If you have never watched the show, about five junk experts bid on abandoned storage lockers and see if they can make money. I have a “locker” I “won” and now I am faced with the fun part: What exactly did I get and what’s it worth?
Back in July a large wooden pod arrived from Colorado, my locker. My six siblings and I had to sort through my dad’s stuff rather quickly so I wasn’t sure if I made good decisions. The “war” with the sibs was pretty tame, except for a bright red spaghetti pot that went to Virginia. Funny how that one thing filled with childhood memories can cause a light-hearted rift. I was the first to leave before the sorting ended, so I got “surprises” in my locker; brothers are creative that way.
Ain’t she a beaut!
The item I most wanted was my mom’s old typewriter, the Dick Tracy kind: Black, clunky and manual. I think people make jewelry from the keys, reinventing the wheel so to speak. I had visions of incasing it in a clear plastic cube like a prized homerun baseball caught at a big game. I thought it might inspire me and look great in my imaginary home office. I’m sure I could find a spot on the dining room table, next to my laptop. Anyway, I was excited to see it made the truck and showed up to my house.
Alex, my youngest, was curious too. Anything in a box and the guy has just gotta know. The typewriter was still in its case. He HAD to try it, this NEW old technology. He got a few letters typed out. Some keys stuck and the tie bars, the skinny sticks with the letter block stuck on the end bunched up like crossing fingers. “Hey, this doesn’t have a delete key,” he noticed right away. Yeah, that’s called white out in typewriter lingo.
Missing clown?
Then he wanted to try the electric typewriter that came on the same truck. The typewriter I didn’t order but was sent my way to adopt, or so I thought. Alex opened the case and found an old clown costume with black and white striped socks, red stringy wig, black and white saddle shoes, hot pink belt and red fluffy skirt. Ah ha, the surprise. I quickly sent a text to my brother, “Where the hell is the electric typewriter?” And more importantly, “Where the hell is the clown?”
My oldest brother is the kind of guy that decides to toss a few pennies into the brownie batter and see who gets lucky. Or pour a little bubbly beer into the brownie batter in the spirit of “science.” Or, send something unexpected and patiently wait for it to unfold. We all got a good laugh and I was really glad I didn’t have a tough decision to make about a Smith-Corona Coronomatic 2500. (This is the label on the case, incasing the clown clothes.) Funny, no pun intended, but I will probably use the clown costume.
Instead, I only had to determine the fate of my typewriter trophy. I wanted it to work and sparkle so I took it to an expert. A friend, just happened to know about a place called, “Berkeley Typewriter.” Her son wanted a manual typewriter for his birthday, so she had some research to do. Target wasn’t gonna cut it. How lucky for me? (I really think her son is starting a trend. What to give the kid that has everything: A typewriter.)
Still going…..
Jesse, the typewriter repairman, repairs and sells all kinds of typewriters as well as copiers. (I guess you have to keep up with technology.) Jesse took the typewriter out of its case and started typing. He moved the carriage back and forth and twirled it round and round. “He looked at me, $135.” Am I supposed to counter offer? I don’t know anything about typewriter repair to calculate if this is a fair price. I just want to use it. “Ah. Ok,” I reply meekly. It was from my mom, how do you put a price on it?
Jesse schools me. He took me through his museum of typewriters; the ones he refurbished and sells. He showed me a typewriter from the 30s, similar to mine. He had me try it out. He laughed at my awkward, punchy strokes. Man, you really got to put the man in manual. I think my pinky could lift 50 lbs after a year on this muscle machine. He suggested my dad typed reports or filled out forms with it.
“My dad? Ha!” Think Mad Men. My mom was a typing teacher. Shetyped my dad’s resumes and our school papers on it until the electric Smith-Corona took over. Never in a million years would my dad touch that thing, not even for fun.
Future Necklace?
“How much,” he asks covering the price tag for the 1930s Royal Deluxe. I had no idea. He beams at me, “$500.” He was helping me justify my repair expense; it was working or he was working me. He shows me a few more, one all chrome for $675. Another one from the 1800s priced at $800. Evidently, old tech is the new-new technology to more people than just my twelve-year-old. Hence the steep price tag. And apparently, some typewriters are numbered like art, so a number one in a series could be worth $10 Grand! As long as there is demand, I think I’ll have “the something to hock” if I need a quick buck. I am confident in my investment.
After a couple of weeks I call for a status. I was told a week but I guess they don’t make “ready” calls. I came in to pay and pick up. Jesse told me not everyone pays at pick up. Older people must pay before the service is complete. “They forget. See that typewriter there? It’s been here four years. I call and she says she will come in and she never does.” Suddenly I feel like I was just carded because I looked under 90. He wanted me to leave happy. This guy has been around the block. He was profiling and I didn’t know it.
“Have you got any questions,” Jesse asks. How did he know I don’t know what I’m doing? Was it because I didn’t even think to ask how to operate it or check his work? Was it because I looked under 90?
He ran through the functions and I have to say, for a manual typewriter, it can do more tricks than I could imagine. It’s really just finding more uses for the basic stuff. For example, switching the ribbon directions for longer life. (Now days it would be one direction and done. Just toss and pop in another one. Think ink cartridges.) You can release the carriage bar to line up for filling out a form. Now done in PDF.
He showed me how to set multiple tabs. It was a pretty sophisticated machine, built to last! Eighty years old and still clicking and clacking. What a marketing strategy! I’d like that old idea to be a new idea for everything: computers, cars, cell phones, tvs, clothes.
So, what the heck am I going to do with my typewriter? Jesse said to type my thank-you cards on it. I kind of hope I have to do a lot for noble reasons of course. Jesse will be my first one. Thank goodness he’s around, still ticking. He’s been doing this for 44 years. He was a temporary hire and look how far he’s come. He did what his mother told him, “Find a job you love.” Don’t career counselors say that? “Love what you do and the money will follow.” He got his advice for free and so young!
Berkeley Typewriter Celebrity.
I think I might like Jesse’s job, at least the people part. (Greasy parts or slippery programming commands…not me!) The customers you meet and the typewriters that go with them make it like reading a blog every day. Imagine! He’s the neighborhood museum for preschoolers. They come in for tours and immediately want to buy this new old technology. Smart. Hook ‘em while they’re young. And he’s got celebrities circling round too. Tom Hanks is a collector and gets VIP hours; chances are slim I’ll see him there. Rats. One degree of separation will have to suit. I’m happy for the opportunity.
I am also happy for my Lafayette storage locker and the adventures it brings me. I am creating a museum: Being Frank. (My dad is Frank.) Tours under consideration for 2013.
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