No I didn’t get published! There are probably more unpublished writers than there are published ones. I have just officially become a proper writer. 😉 The officialness surfaced last Sunday. I couldn’t tell you because I had to tell someone first. Ok, to the story:

The doorbell rung. I was up to my ears in a huge bathrobe and my boyfriend’s so called European summer pants, which I call Pjs. I can’t believe he wear those out in the streets. I hobbled to the door partly because I was wearing way too much, and partly because I like to hobble.

[ Mr. Harry needs a bit of cleaning!]

It was a man I’d never seen. I said “Hi,” wondering what he wanted. He said his name and told me his father, Harry, the next door neighbor had just died and they were trying to give away his stuff. I told him I didn’t know Harry and I was only apartment-sitting for a few days, smiled, closed the door then hobbled back to finish the abstract work I had been trying to perfect in photoshop. A few minutes later, it sneaked up on me that I never said the words. You know, the “I am sorry for your loss” stuff. I felt like a major prick. An hour later, my conscience was still having a go at me so I changed and hobbled over next door.

“I am soooo sorry for your loss, Mr. Harry’s Son.” (Well I said his name, but I shall refer to him here as such.) He introduced me to his beautiful wife. We talked a bit. I said I wanted nothing, they asked if I would like this amazing table set; I thought wait a sec, there must be a catch here. So I said Seriously?  They said “Yes, please.” And I was like “heck yes!” But then I felt a bit vulture-like; snatching up good ‘ol Harry’s stuff when we never even talked. So I hobbled back to my borrowed apartment.

Next day, Mr. Harry’s Son came knocking to tell me when they will be bringing the table and chairs! (Such a good man!) I went over then to chat. Found out he wrote songs and poems! Read some and found they were pretty good stuff. Talked a bit. There was a typewriter on a desk, he asked his wife about the typewriter’s faith, wife didn’t know what to do with it. He offered it to me, and I almost jumped off my seat in my excitement to say yes!

That’s really about the gist of it. I have a typewriter which belonged to Mr. Harry, who fought in the Vietnam War! He died at 88. May his soul rest in sweet peace.

I think a writer ought to have a typewriter. I have one now that comes with a delicious story that I can build a novel on. Fingers crossed. I am therefore an official writer and my good typewriter shall be known as Mr. Harry! What says you, good Reader?
—
J. A. O