Elias Voss, 57, has run a one-man vintage typewriter restoration shop out of his Portland garage for 22 years. He avoids neighborhood events like the plague, only showing up to this August block party because his next-door neighbor left a homemade pecan pie on his back porch at 10 a.m. with a sticky note that said “Bribe to get you off your couch. Be there or I’ll tell all the local teens you charge double for typewriter repairs.” He’s leaning against a splintered cedar fence, nursing a lukewarm Pabst, condensation dripping down his wrist onto the frayed cuff of his work shirt, when she walks over. The plastic beer can sticks a little to the calluses on his fingertips, the ones earned from prying rusted carriage returns loose and adjusting tiny spring mechanisms, the ink stains under his nails dark enough that even heavy duty pumice soap can’t scrub them fully away.
She’s the new head librarian at the neighborhood branch, he recognizes her from the time he dropped off a box of old typing manuals he found at an estate sale last month. He didn’t talk to her then, just left the box on the front desk and bolted before she could ask his name. Now she’s standing close enough that he can smell the coconut sunscreen she slathered on earlier, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of peaches from the pie tin she’s holding in one hand. A group of kids screams as they fly down the slip n slide set up in the middle of the street, so she leans in when she speaks, her shoulder brushing his bicep for half a second before she pulls back just far enough to make eye contact. Her hazel eyes are crinkled at the corners, streaks of gray running through the blonde hair she’s pulled back in a loose braid, a faint smudge of blue ink on the side of her wrist where she’d scribbled a library event reminder earlier that day.
She asks if he’s the typewriter repair guy, says she found a 1956 Royal Quiet De Luxe in the library’s donation bin the week prior, dented but fully intact, and every repair shop within 20 miles told her they don’t work on “obsolete junk.” He almost says he’s not taking new clients, that line he’s repeated to every stranger who’s tracked him down for the last 6 years, but then she pulls up a photo of the typewriter on her phone, leaning in so far her hair brushes his jaw, and he can feel the warmth of her arm pressed to his, the faint thrum of her pulse against his skin. He’s been so careful to keep physical distance from everyone for so long that the contact sends a jolt up his spine, half discomfort, half something softer he hasn’t felt in almost a decade.
He makes a dumb joke about how 90% of the people who bring him typewriters these days are 20-somethings who ask if they can connect them to WiFi, and she snorts, loud and unselfconscious, stepping a little closer when a golden retriever runs past them, its paws caked in mud, and her chest brushes his shoulder. She blushes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he doesn’t step back. For the first time in years, he doesn’t want to step back. He’s spent so long resenting anyone who dismisses his work as a silly novelty, but she’s asking questions about how the carriage return works, how you fix a sticky key, how much lead the old typewriter ribbon had in it, like she actually cares about the answer, not just getting a free decoration for the library front desk.
His internal alarm is blaring the whole time, the voice in his head that says this is going to end badly, that she’ll mock his work just like his ex did, that letting anyone in is just setting himself up for more hurt. But then she holds up the pie tin, says she baked it that morning, no canned filling, and asks if he likes peaches, and he finds himself saying he’ll fix the Royal for free, if she brings him a slice of that pie and stays for a beer when she drops it off at his shop. She grins, pulling out her phone to get his number, and his hands shake a little when he types his contact in, the ink on his fingers smudging the screen a little. He hasn’t given his personal cell number to anyone who wasn’t a 10-year regular or a family member since his divorce papers were signed.
She says she has to go say hi to the elementary school teacher who lives down the street, waves as she walks away, her flip flops slapping against the warm asphalt. The sun is dipping low now, painting the oak trees lining the street pink and orange, the smell of grilled brats and charcoal drifting over from the grill at the end of the block. He takes a slow sip of his beer, feels the tight, heavy knot he’s carried in his chest for 8 years loosen just a little, enough that he can breathe easy for the first time in longer than he can remember. He pulls out his phone a minute later when it buzzes, a text from an unknown number that says “Forgot to mention: I brought extra pie. Don’t tell the neighbor who bribed you with pecan.”
He tucks his phone into the pocket of his worn canvas work jeans, grins, and makes a mental note to wipe down the extra workbench in his shop and stock his fridge with decent beer before she comes by Saturday.
