“So that’s it?” It was a 1947 Smith Corona black manual typewriter. It looked like something from an exhibit in a museum.
“Yup. Jack Kerouac’s typewriter. The one he wrote all his novels on,” Dean answered.
The typewriter sat on a small desk in a bedroom-turned-office in Dean’s North Beach apartment. Jack Kerouac had lived in North Beach some 55 years ago, during his glory days as the literary genius of the beat generation.
Leo touched the typewriter’s roller, lightly tapped a couple of keys. “Where did you get it?”
“From an old junk store on Columbus. It’s jammed with stuff, floor to ceiling. The place looks like it’s been there since the 1905 earthquake,” Dan explained.
“How do you know it’s Kerouac’s?” Leo flopped into a worn chair.
“It came with this original claim ticket signed by Kerouac himself.” Dean gave the faded ticket to Leo. “Apparently the junk store guy bought it from a pawn shop in the ‘60s. And there’s this, too.” Dean showed Leo a photograph of Kerouac pounding away on a typewriter. It matched the one sitting here, down to the tiny dent on the carriage and a crack in the S of Smith Corona.
“Okay, it is Kerouac’s typewriter. Good for you, nice antique, cool conversation piece. Probably worth a lot of money if you can find a rich collector. Now can we go get something to eat?” Leo’s stomach ran his life.
“That’s not why I called you over.” Dean smiled like a Cheshire cat. “I have more evidence. And something unbelievable.”
“Like?”
Dean gave a handful of yellow typing paper to Leo. They were filled with words, typed, no doubt, on Kerouac’s typewriter.
“You can type. I’m so happy for you,” Leo wisecracked. “I hardly call this evidence.”
“I didn’t type it.” Dean pointed at the typewriter. “It did.”
“It did? Who’s it?”
Dean took a deep breath before he replied, “The typewriter. I put a piece of typing paper in it for effect, and it started typing. When that page was finished, I rolled another one in, and it continued until it finished Chapter One.”
“Chapter One?” Leo questioned, now interested and ignoring his stomach. “Of what?”
Dean waited for it, calculated the right dramatic moment and dropped his bomb. “Of a new Jack Kerouac novel. Thirty-seven years after he died.”
Leo nearly fell out of his seat. “What? You’re kidding me; c’mon, you typed this as a joke. Pretty elaborate joke, though; how many pages are there?”
“Twenty-three. Look at it. Read it. I can’t write this well. And the style, the tone, the viewpoint, even the subject matter. It’s Kerouac at his prime.”
Leo stood up, holding the pages like they were haunted. “So is Kerouac’s ghost typing this, or is the typewriter doing it on its own?”
Dean shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe the typewriter has his essence. Maybe Kerouac is sending thoughts from the Great Beyond to his faithful old typewriter. You got me.”
“Is Rod Serling going to pop out of the kitchen now?” Leo asked, looking a bit pale.
“I don’t think so. But I figured out something.” Dean went to the closet and took out an endless roll of yellow typing paper, taped end to end, a whole ream running as one continuous sheet. “I’m putting this into the typewriter and letting whoever-it-is type the rest of the novel.”
Leo looked at Chapter One in his hands. “What are you going to do with it when you have the whole novel?
Dean threaded the first page into the typewriter. “Don’t know. Read it, of course. But after that . . . maybe I’ll release it as a lost Kerouac novel and see what the critics make of it.”
Leo caught the excitement. “If the critics validate it, a book company will pay you a fortune for the rights to publish it. It will sell a million copies! You’ll be rich!”
Dean carefully inserted the roll of yellow typing paper. The typewriter began typing like a player piano. Both guys stood watching in stunned amazement as Chapter Two rapidly took shape.
Then the ribbon broke.
Dean picked up the two loose ends, blackening his fingertips. “Oh no,” he wailed, “where will I ever get a typewriter ribbon these days, especially one for a 1947 manual?”
“I don’t think they make them anymore. And ones that might fit this model are either long gone or, if they exist in some old warehouse, are probably dried up after nearly 60 years,” Leo answered.
The typewriter suddenly resumed typing without its ribbon, impressing THE END into the soft yellow paper.
Rod Drake has been to Hollywood, he has been to Deadwood, and he keeps searching for a heart of gold. Rod has had stories published in Flashing in the Gutters, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and AcmeShorts.
For sure my favorite of all the ones I’ve read of yours, Rod. My only critique; explain less. But the premise and outcome were spectacular. Very very nice.