“Attention, Kmart Shoppers…”

Apart from someone finding the right typewriter for themselves at the shop, the next best sensation is watching someone seek out a machine they plan to pass on as a gift to a friend or loved one.  As I have a penchant for expressing to all who stop by, “the aesthetics of a typewriter may entice you to approach a machine, but its feel and tactility will keep you coming back.” Keeping this in mind, I’ve witnessed people call ahead, planning to place some of the most expensive machines on hold, knowing their prices beforehand, only to realize the truth behind this mantra upon their arrival, and beeline for something completely antithetical to their original notions.  I don’t mind this one bit, and in many circumstances, I’ve purposely talked some customers out of placing more money in my pocket, understanding at once how the typewriter originally of interest to them likely wasn’t the instrument of self-expression their intended receiver would have appreciated.

For example, a vintage Corona Standard flattop portable with a flawless finish and glossy sheen is a beautiful thing to behold, and would definitely capture the attention of anyone in a room.  Yes, perhaps a teenager with an “old soul” would even enjoy having it in their bedroom, and derive inspiration from the mere sight of it; but, the moment their fingers fail to experience the responsive quality, which youth and the typing speed that comes with it can muster, it’s easy to envision their creative juices, once bubbling over, falling flat as they incessantly backspace, X’ing out myriad errors from thoughts passionately expressed faster than typebars and escapements of the ’30s could commit.

With time comes patience, but that’s not to say young people nowadays don’t harbor any, and of course a teenager with an affinity for typewriters likely has oodles more than one thumbing out shorthand rhetoric and emojis on their phone.  The slow, methodical tap of machines from a certain era, however, tend to lean heavily toward writers of a certain age—and that’s one reason I suggest, even in the case of gifting typewriters, that the future user of said machine be present, onsite, to test and find the optimal fit for themselves.  Admittedly, I have witnessed teenagers purchase vintage typewriters, because that’s what felt best.  Likewise, I’ve witnessed older clientele lean toward the most modern of in-store examples.  Everyone has a preference, and nobody’s selection is “wrong,” as long as it’s right for them.

Anyone who owns a typewriter knows how personal these machines are.  They’re not just tools; they’re expressors of inborne turmoil and passion.  So, when someone does make the ultimate selection of a machine for themselves, it’s enjoyable to see how aesthetics and mechanics conspire to exhibit a compact feat of engineering, so well-reflective of the individual pouring themselves into the device.  Yes, sometimes that person looking for a mint-condition Royal Model P buys that mint-condition Royal Model P, because that’s what they want—that’s what they NEED!—and, without hesitation or second-thought, that’s what they will use.  Sometimes, however, it’s that unexpected purchase, the one that comes completely out of left field—so far, in fact, that the baseball stadium is in the next county over, and everyone else is playing croquet at a backyard barbecue—that it really makes me happy the shop offers the experience it does.

Nowhere is this more prevalent than when someone is gifting a typewriter.  Gifts, unless plucked from a list of foregone “wants,” are expressions of what one person thinks another to be.  It’s almost a kind of game, in which people are thrust, by holiday or hindsight, into attempting to define another by who they believe that person is, inside.  So, counterbalancing the aforementioned, exterior/interior qualities of typewriters into the foibles of gift-giving, especially as an outside observer, I find myself privy to visitors’ joys and (positive) anguish, as they try to supply something to someone that they hope will become a once and future staple in their creative lives, as well as tease from them that personal expression, they feel, the absent party would select themselves.  Ergo, I not only get to monitor the thought processes of the giver, physically and in real-time, but I get to learn about another person I’ve never met, or, at least, how the person seated in front of me perceives them.

Two weeks ago, a mother came into the shop.  We’d been in contact ahead of her visit, as she was on the hunt for a typewriter for her son.  A newly-minted teenager, he’d caught the writing bug and expressed interest in drafting his compositions on a typewriter.  As it had been a while since his mother had used a typewriter herself, and the idea of a typewriter shop was foreign to her, she had many questions about prices, availabilities, etc.  Since I can provide limited guidance over the phone, I find it best for people to come into the shop themselves and test as many typewriters as they deem necessary, until they find the one that’s right for them (or someone else).  In time, she was able to make the journey…and then the real voyage began.

Narrowing her search to a price range she found comfortable, I then presented her with the same options I generally do others, when they’re unsure of how to progress in their hunt.  I earmarked machines from throughout the spectrum of “touch”: light, medium, and heavy.  Once her search had been further narrowed, she began to hone her sights, until there were three typewriters—a Royal Quiet DeLuxe, a Smith-Corona Sterling (‘50s), and a Kmart 200—before her.

And now for the interesting part of the nature documentary…

One would assume that, given the “vintage” nature of the QDL and Sterling, that’s where the mother would prefer to venture.  In fact, after several hours of testing, it was the Kmart typewriter (a licensed Brother model) that she felt best for her son.  (As a personal aside, I believe the Kmart 200 is a criminally overlooked diamond-in-the-rough.  It’s snappy, compact, and has a kitschy ‘70s faux-wood-panel decal, which really makes it POP!  In fact, I very nearly nabbed this machine for my personal collection, after I’d finished refurbishing it.  But, I digress…)  To her, she felt her son would appreciate the machine, not only for its snappiness, but also <gasp> its compactness and kitschy ‘70s faux-wood-panel decal—my heart skips a beat!  To paraphrase something more she added: “It seems so much more simple and welcoming than the others, but it also seems so much more complex, once you sit down to it.”

There were several other customers in the shop at the time, seated around the communal typing table, testing machines of personal interest to themselves.  When the mother left, they all expressed how sweet it was she was purchasing a typewriter for her son, how interesting it was she had selected the Kmart model, and how well-thought-out her selection had been.  After I admitted my personal appreciation for the Kmart 200, they wished they’d been able to test it, too.  (In time, I’m sure I’ll have others, although that didn’t stop them from finding typewriters they were equally excited to invite into their lives.)

This mother’s goal, while novel unto itself, is something I encounter on a near-daily basis.  Whether it be for personal acquisition or a gifted nature, the human experience of typewriter repair and sales is equal parts fresh and well-worn.  Everyone is different, congealing a lifetime of education, experiences, philosophies, and biases into something called a “personality.”  No two are alike.  So, while certain customer-service practices may assist someone new to the hobby in finding the best option for themselves, it’s the millions of unseen idiosyncrasies every individual possesses that lead to their selection for themselves or others.

While some people enjoy typewriters I personally detest, I respect their selections as well as what led to their decisions.  Kmart may now be a defunct department store, but a typewriter of theirs—once placed randomly among countless others in a warehouse, and then a shipping truck, and then a store shelf—eventually made it into my shop, and now it’s earned a second life of inspiration and utility to a young boy I may never meet, for reasons his mother determined while testing it in my shop, while annotating its features against the person she knows her son to be.

Some parents might have chosen the Smith-Corona, others the Royal.  Personally, I think she made the right choice—but then again, what do I know?  I would rather type on a Hermes 2000 than a 3000.  And I would rather type on a Kmart 200 than any Hermes.  That’s me, personally.  All I know is that this boy’s mother was elated when she left, and I can only hope her son has a little bit of my personal taste, from whatever background he’s experienced, and can appreciate the magic of what was likely, at one point, a Blue Light Special.

Until next time…