The Subtle Art of Human Decency; or, How to Turn Down Free Money
It seems not a day goes by at the shop where someone doesn’t enter, lugging their newfound or heirloom typewriter, asking me to perform a full, extensive refurbishment, only to be told their machine doesn’t require one, that it functions properly (minus, perhaps, a tweak or two I execute on the spot), and that signs of dust or dirt they point out can be simply brushed away, at a savings of a couple hundred dollars. Now, that isn’t to say I don’t encounter machines, requiring deep-cleaning sessions, heavy rust removal, and/or extensive adjustments. What I can undertake at the storefront, however, if it can immediately remedy a problem the customer is unable to solve themselves without any severe intricacies, I do with minimal-to-no service charge, generally to the shock of the individual in question, as I assist them in taking their machine back out to their car.
In all honesty, this is what free assessments are for, i.e. this is why I offer to inspect typewriters for anyone passing through the doors of my shop for no charge. In many cases, I understand that the knowledge I possess is how I’m able to perform “five-minute fixes,” which I’ve been directly told stagger my customers for days, weeks, or months, before they finally come to see me, and that said knowledge is justifiably worth some form of compensation. So, if it takes a little more dexterity than a simple flick of a switch (which is all it sometimes takes), I might ask for a small amount—say, if I have to expend a replacement part or a couple rubber spacers. Otherwise, I see no reason for something that takes me less than the time it takes my microwave to reheat my lunch to cost much, if anything, at all.
The following quote comes from a short, though sweet, email I recently received. The customer in question had stopped in on a Saturday morning, ready to deliver a beautiful, red Corona 4-Bank for a full refurbishment session, the cost of which he’d been prepared to pay from the moment he crossed the threshold. The typewriter had been purchased and shipped from an antique dealer over a thousand miles away, promising it was in “perfect working order.” Upon arrival, though, the customer realized the ribbon wasn’t advancing. He, as well as I (after he explained its origins), feared shipping damage. Considering the beautiful state of the machine, it would have been a travesty if it proved too damaged to repair.
“Hello,
I want to say thank you for helping me out with my typewriter this morning. I am beyond happy to start thlacking away and I’ll be back for future service.
It’s nice to find folks that run a business that only does what’s required and are true to the customer’s needs. It was wonderful meeting you both.”
The customer’s kind words blew me away. What he and I initially thought to be a fraught situation had a simple solution. Many typewriters enter the premises with old, dried ribbons installed, leaving little-to-no imprint. Comparatively, the ribbon in this machine had been so moldy, it had solidified as a massive clump on either spool. Upon replacing the old ribbon (and dabbing the rotation pawls under either spool seat with lubricant, for good measure), the typewriter was snapping away as if it had taken a bath in oil for 100 years.
With the typewriter functioning properly in just a few minutes, the customer asked if I could give it a good cleaning. I asked him why, as it looked suitably clean already, at least to a point that a couple hundred dollars to do a once-over on it seemed a bit overkill. Instead, I suggested he take it home, use it for a while, and if he truly felt it warranted a deep-cleaning, he could bring it back at any time, and I’d stick it into my service queue.
The cost for service? $10 for the new ribbon. (He also bought a N.E.T. shirt.)
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The following is a truncated quote from a 5-star Google review, left within the last week or so:
“I went to New England Typewriter back in May to get a 1941 Smith-Corona Sterling that I bought online that was fine mechanically but had quite a bit of rust and was just very dirty. I also brought in my 1950s Remington Quiet-Riter that I thought was not working as there was a ton of letter skipping. I found from Matt (the owner) that the Quiet-Riter was fine and it just didn't align to my typing style compared to the snappiness and persistence of my 1941 Smith-Corona Sterling. I am so grateful that Matt was honest with me and didn't charge me a $200 repair and cleaning fee for it. […]”
The leaver of this review stopped in this past week to drop off yet another vintage Corona for service, thanking me again for not taking advantage of the situation, regarding the Quiet-Riter. He admitted, having limited knowledge of the inner mechanics of the machines he loved so dearly, that I could have accepted the $200 for the cleaning, returned the machine, and he would have been none the wiser. Instead, I took the time to walk him through the issue he’d been having, and he realized it was his typing technique, not an escapement issue, that had been causing his distress.
I’m frequently told similar assertions, with customers confessing I could have easily taken their money for superfluous cleanings, handed their machines back to them, and they would’ve been perfectly happy in their ignorance. Granted, I realize these statements are not meant as permission to do exactly that, but honesty seems to come as a surprise to most visitors, which I find upsetting. Even when people stop by to sell me their typewriters, I will tell them what I would be willing to offer, as well as what they’d likely get if they were to put their machines on Facebook Marketplace or Craigslist. (For those willing to donate their typewriters, but live too far away from my shop, I forward to them a link to a directory of typewriter repair shops from every state. That way, instead of potentially being damaged in transit, their machines can reach other shops, local to them, who would be just as appreciative to receive them.) Sometimes, people thank me for the information I provide and immediately leave my business to put their typewriters up for sale online; other times, visitors are so elated by finding a typewriter shop in their area, they don’t mind accepting a slightly lower amount for their machine, and thank me for presenting them options, before selling me their typewriter.
It would be very easy to say I wrote this piece as a bit of a pat on the back, but that would be untrue. The true purpose of this post is to reinforce the importance of honesty and integrity, both of which can be goosestepped for easy monetary gains. While I know I could charge hundreds for superfluous work, I know I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror, realizing I’d taken advantage of someone(s). Similarly, this business understandably isn’t the most lucrative in the world, so it should be done as a means of more than just fiduciary reward. Personally, I repair typewriters, because I acknowledge their importance and know what they mean to those who bring them into the shop. If financial gain was my primary concern, I never would have left the pharmaceutical industry.
