The Typewriter Club

The air was filled with chuckles while Markus was erecting the sign of his new business, The Typewriter Club. Markus was descending the ladder with a smirk, looking straight at his friend Robert’s face. Robert said “ Dude! Typewriter Club…are you sure you want to do this? Everyone nowadays just keeps their faces hunched over their phones.” “Robert, I told you, I have talked with some of my writer friends that want to use typewriters, including the ones that own typewriters. They often complain to me that they cannot use them in their apartments without neighbors knocking on their doors asking ‘what the heck was that noise.’ So here it is.”

The grand opening was just days away. Markus advertised online about the grand opening offering everyone a free cup of fresh brewed coffee and a slice of chocolate cake. The coffee was organic, the chocolate cake was vegan and able to fool the most avid meat eater. They also had beer, wine and flatbreads at an additional cost. The attendees were encouraged to wear costumes from any period.

The Typewriter Club was designed within a sizable abandoned diner and Markus was able to fit about fifty tables with two random brands of typewriters per table with four chairs. There were also ten 8.5 x 11, white sheets of paper in each drawer. If one needed more paper they could purchase additional sheets at the counter.

That night many people showed up. There were people from all walks of life, races and ages. People from the LGBTQIA2S+ were a significant part of the patronage. Jazz was playing from the speakers. Everyone was having a good time and overall it was a good night.

The patrons started showing up each day in more elaborated costumes from all decades and even centuries. Days went by and one couldn't walk through that door without getting a nickname. For some of them the nicknames stuck and others didn't. Take the bartender duo Peter and Panther, Peter because it was his real name and Panther because of his affinity for animal print, wide collar button shirts and tight pants. Most saw their nicknames as a term of endearment and others just didn't want them.

Karole, one evening came in with newly colored hair, a mix of brass and light blond with impeccable tousled curls. From that point on she was known as Marilyn. She didn't look like Marilyn Monroe by her facial features, but her hair and body did, which was appreciatively noticed by Phillip upon her arrival.

Maurice had just stepped in and quickly greeted Phillip with a strong pat on his back that made Phillip choke and spit the chocolate cake onto his own face, shirt and into the crevices of the typewriter. Maurice apologized, disconcerted. Phillip stood up and went to the counter with the typewriter, a red 1976 Hermes Baby and told Markus “I'm so sorry I had an accident”. Markus smirked, looked at Phillip and tried to unjam the white paper from its roller smeared with the brown stuff. “Don't worry Phil, stuff happens"

Markus took the typewriter to the back office where he does maintenance and his administrative books. He ran his analog business with the latest state of the art integrated system p.o.s.

On that same night a couple had reserved a table in the middle of the room. They were wearing costumes. The guy was dressed in a fat fuzzy bunny suit or a wolf pup, it was hard to tell and he had his typewriter in front of him. The lady was in a large black and white cow suit sporting a very large udder, with two pairs. She was also in front of a typewriter, a cream 1968 Remington, but the udder was covering it.

The man started howling, he wanted to type but the thick paws on his costume were in the way. The woman started to cut the paws off with scissors. It didn't help that the wolf pup guy was already drunk. Phillip stepped in to help with the howling ordeal and even Marilyn stepped in to help. Oh no…Marilyn started to get all messed up.

More than three months went by and a Travel TV Show featured The Typewriter Club in one of their episodes which brought even more people to the location. Now a line was forming at the door, especially during the weekends. People in costumes would stand in line and drink wine and spirits from their own jars and flasks. The wait was not long because some of the older patrons started to leave around 8 PM, patrons like Ms. Aurora an 83 year old Cuban American, retired chef that loved the space. She was friendly to everyone and sported a shy smile. She regularly sat in front of one of her favorites, a black 1939 Royal Aristocrat, and she’s known to have said The Typewriter Club was one the best venues she had encountered since her young adult life.

Due to its increasing popularity The Typewriter Club started to book reservations, such as couples writing their wedding vows, dates and a variety of events. Attendees had to check and abide to the terms and conditions as follows:

*Don't bring typing bridging technology keyboards.

*Don't move the typewriters from the table.

*Keep drinks and food away from the typewriters.

*Don't get mad at the typewriters, because after all it's all your fault.

One night two Brazilian girls were typing and one screamed at the other “Para de catá milho menina!” Portuguese language misspelled here, but a popular sounding metaphor for slow, clumsy typing, translating as a chicken pecking on scattered corn on the floor, or literally, “Stop pecking on corn girl!” The pecking girl kept chuckling the entire time.

Markus was trying to make the attendees experience more engaging, so one night he announced a scheduled open mic reading event which would be held partially under candlelight. Some of the patrons signed up to showcase their work, others seemed shy. Markus also announced an upcoming typing improvement class, the kind of class that will teach you how to type rapidly and correctly while glaring at someone else's face.

That Club was lively and simply a freaking loud, noisy ass place with approximately 100 typewriters going at it at once. It was really common to hear a loud F bomb bursting out of the mouths of mistyping patrons, slamming their fists on the table just before reaching up for a ”white out” brush or the “white out” tape variety. The F bomb thing seemed to be contagious even to the most polite of all, like Ms. Aurora, who was also caught doing it.

After another long and loud as hell night, Markus turned off the lights, set the security alarm and walked out of the door with Peter and Panther.

While locking the door Markus was thinking that bringing people into writing, even those who believe it to be a strange animal, brought benefits to his community. He doesn't know whether the patrons kept coming back because of the click-clacking-coffee-klatching or for the delicious slices of chocolate cake.

Fin.