wandering through the aisles of blown colored glass and faded wood stains and fabrics that hadn’t seen the light of day, i spotted the dusty typewriter in the corner. i had to have it.
“thirty five dollars,” the man said. i was armed with cash and ready to whip it out, but my dad whispered in hushed tagalog to ask for twenty.
he gave it to me for twenty-five and made me the happiest girl alive.
the corona typewriter is from the ’40s but functions perfectly and comes in a travel case. i carted it around with me the rest of the morning, stuck in a dream-like state, imagining journalists and writers and students fashioning tales and weaving stories with its keys.