The Typewriter Ribbon

 

by Catherine Maven

 

Miss Clara Jane Ferguson buttoned her white woolen sweater as she waited for the taxi-cab on the front step of the two-story white clapboard house that had been in her family for three generations.  She noticed that the paint around the windows was starting to crack, and made a mental note to telephone Mr. Jenkins, the village handyman.  Clara was proud her memory was still as sharp as ever.  She never needed to write anything down to remember such details.

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the taxi-cab driver after he had helped her into the car.

“Ancaster.  John Lloyd Stationers on Wilson Street East,” she replied primly.  It had been a while since she’d visited Ancaster, the nearest town to the village of Lynden where she lived, but she remembered quite clearly that the stationers carried Olivetti ribbons.

The taxi driver couldn’t find it; Clara didn’t know the exact street address, but for goodness’ sake, there were only a dozen or so stores in Ancaster!  Or so she thought, until they began to drive along Wilson Street.  She just knew the stationers had still been there in the ’eighties, but it wasn’t where she remembered it, and nothing else seemed to be, either.  City Hall was still at the corner of Sulphur Springs, but there was a sign out front saying Ancaster had been amalgamated with Hamilton.  Now there’s a horror for you, thought Clara.  Hamilton.  Imagine! Living without a television or the newspaper had been a matter of pride – they were such a waste of time! But it seemed she may have missed out on some local news. She made a mental note to procure a newspaper before returning home.

She asked the young brown-skinned taxi driver if he knew anywhere else that might sell typewriter ribbons. He must have been quite uneducated, for it took considerable explanation for him to understand what she wanted. From his accent, Clara deduced that he was from the Indian subcontinent. That must be why he had trouble understanding such a simple request!

“Oh, for your printer,” he said finally. Clara had never heard a typewriter called a printer, but one did print type with it, she decided, so she said yes, and he recommended Stevens Business Depot.

“I’m not looking to buy a business, only a ribbon,” she replied, but he insisted they would be able to help her.

“Why do they call it a ‘business’ depot, if they don’t sell businesses?” she asked.  The taxi driver didn’t seem to understand the question, so she agreed to go rather than argue any further.

Clara had never seen any of the new buildings in this section of Ancaster, and she was somewhat shocked by their enormous sizes. They looked more like warehouses than stores, but the young man assured her that these premises were open to the public.  He also told her this shopping area was known as the “Power Centre”. She didn’t see any electrical-generating equipment, but her eyesight was not what it once had been.  She must have missed it.

After she paid the man, Clara approached the front of the store, using her cane only when she had to climb the curb.  There appeared to be no handle on the door!  She walked closer to see if she was missing something.  Fortunately, someone inside opened the doors for her, which was quite kind.  As she entered, she looked around to thank the doorperson, but she didn’t see anyone.  When she took another step in, the doors closed behind her, and again she couldn’t see who had done it. She even looked up, but if the door person was up there, Clara didn’t see him.

She proceeded forward to the counter marked “Customer Service”, where she got her next surprise.  The sign clearly said, “Customer Service”, but in spite of the fact that there were three boys behind the counter, none of them approached to assist her.  One was talking on the telephone, and the other two were talking to each other.  Not one of them even looked up to see if anyone were waiting!

Customer dis-service is more like it, Clara thought. There wasn’t even one of those little bell-ringers to draw their attention.

When she was at last able to catch the eye of one of them, the boy smiled, held up a finger, and kept talking to the other boy. Clara assumed they meant for her to wait, but she had had it with their so-called Customer Service, and went into the store to search for herself.

She discovered to her amazement that there were now several dozen different kinds of pens available, as well as a remarkable selection of typing paper, which was encouraging.  At least people were still typing.  But she couldn’t find typewriter ribbons, so she stopped a man in a red shirt with the company’s name on a plastic badge.

“Excuse me, sir,” Clara said, to get his attention.

He turned out to be a she!  A woman wearing men’s clothing!

“Yes?” the girl said.

“I’m sorry, from the way you dressed, I thought you were a man,” Clara apologized. “Oh, dear, maybe you are. My mistake,” she added, realizing perhaps he or she was one of those transvestites you read about.

“No, I’m not,” the person began, when another thought occurred to Clara.

“I’m terribly sorry, are you a lesbian, then?” she asked. “Of course, that’s none of my business, either, is it?”  She might be a ninety-six year-old spinster, but she was not an innocent in the world.  That Tennyson fellow had written a poem about a lesbian, after all. 

Then Clara noticed that all of the women working in the store were dressed the same as the men.  Clara knew women had become “liberated” since the ‘sixties, but she hadn’t realized that, as a consequence, they could no longer dress like women.  How sad!  Anyway, she asked the young lady, whose badge read “Andrea”, where the typewriter ribbons were.

Andrea looked blank.  Clara tried to explain, as if Andrea were a child—which she was hardly more than, at that: “You know, the inked cloth that imprints on paper when we hit keys on the typewriter?”

“Key? Like for a lock?” Andrea replied, looking confused.

“No, a key on an Olivetti.”

“Isn’t that that opera-singer guy?”

“No, an Olivetti is a typewriter.  The keys are on the typewriter.”  Clara strove to remain patient.  Perhaps the bleach the girl had so obviously used on her hair had affected her brain.

“Is the typewriter-thingy locked?”

“No,” Clara said, trying to be patient, “The keys are the letters and numbers we use for typing.  You hit the key, which is attached to a strike-arm, which strikes the ribbon and makes a mark on the paper.”

“Whose arms?”

Clara realized at this point that young people today must be even more ignorant and idiotic than when she was teaching them.  She had been a teacher of grades three and four at Lynden Elementary School until her retirement, thirty-one years ago.  For the past thirty-one years, she had stayed home, tending to her garden; though for the first fifteen years after she retired, she tutored children at home. The Typewriter Ribbon

By Catherine Maven

 

Miss Clara Jane Ferguson buttoned her white woolen sweater as she waited for the taxi-cab on the front step of the two-story white clapboard house that had been in her family for three generations.  She noticed that the paint around the windows was starting to crack, and made a mental note to telephone Mr. Jenkins, the village handyman.  Clara was proud her memory was still as sharp as ever.  She never needed to write anything down to remember such details.

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the taxi-cab driver after he had helped her into the car.

“Ancaster.  John Lloyd Stationers on Wilson Street East,” she replied primly.  It had been a while since she’d visited Ancaster, the nearest town to the village of Lynden where she lived, but she remembered quite clearly that the stationers carried Olivetti ribbons.

The taxi driver couldn’t find it; Clara didn’t know the exact street address, but for goodness’ sake, there were only a dozen or so stores in Ancaster!  Or so she thought, until they began to drive along Wilson Street.  She just knew the stationers had still been there in the ’eighties, but it wasn’t where she remembered it, and nothing else seemed to be, either.  City Hall was still at the corner of Sulphur Springs, but there was a sign out front saying Ancaster had been amalgamated with Hamilton.  Now there’s a horror for you, thought Clara.  Hamilton.  Imagine! Living without a television or the newspaper had been a matter of pride – they were such a waste of time! But it seemed she may have missed out on some local news. She made a mental note to procure a newspaper before returning home.

She asked the young brown-skinned taxi driver if he knew anywhere else that might sell typewriter ribbons. He must have been quite uneducated, for it took considerable explanation for him to understand what she wanted. From his accent, Clara deduced that he was from the Indian subcontinent. That must be why he had trouble understanding such a simple request!

“Oh, for your printer,” he said finally. Clara had never heard a typewriter called a printer, but one did print type with it, she decided, so she said yes, and he recommended Stevens Business Depot.

“I’m not looking to buy a business, only a ribbon,” she replied, but he insisted they would be able to help her.

“Why do they call it a ‘business’ depot, if they don’t sell businesses?” she asked.  The taxi driver didn’t seem to understand the question, so she agreed to go rather than argue any further.

Clara had never seen any of the new buildings in this section of Ancaster, and she was somewhat shocked by their enormous sizes. They looked more like warehouses than stores, but the young man assured her that these premises were open to the public.  He also told her this shopping area was known as the “Power Centre”. She didn’t see any electrical-generating equipment, but her eyesight was not what it once had been.  She must have missed it.

After she paid the man, Clara approached the front of the store, using her cane only when she had to climb the curb.  There appeared to be no handle on the door!  She walked closer to see if she was missing something.  Fortunately, someone inside opened the doors for her, which was quite kind.  As she entered, she looked around to thank the doorperson, but she didn’t see anyone.  When she took another step in, the doors closed behind her, and again she couldn’t see who had done it. She even looked up, but if the door person was up there, Clara didn’t see him.

She proceeded forward to the counter marked “Customer Service”, where she got her next surprise.  The sign clearly said, “Customer Service”, but in spite of the fact that there were three boys behind the counter, none of them approached to assist her.  One was talking on the telephone, and the other two were talking to each other.  Not one of them even looked up to see if anyone were waiting!

Customer dis-service is more like it, Clara thought. There wasn’t even one of those little bell-ringers to draw their attention.

When she was at last able to catch the eye of one of them, the boy smiled, held up a finger, and kept talking to the other boy. Clara assumed they meant for her to wait, but she had had it with their so-called Customer Service, and went into the store to search for herself.

She discovered to her amazement that there were now several dozen different kinds of pens available, as well as a remarkable selection of typing paper, which was encouraging.  At least people were still typing.  But she couldn’t find typewriter ribbons, so she stopped a man in a red shirt with the company’s name on a plastic badge.

“Excuse me, sir,” Clara said, to get his attention.

He turned out to be a she!  A woman wearing men’s clothing!

“Yes?” the girl said.

“I’m sorry, from the way you dressed, I thought you were a man,” Clara apologized. “Oh, dear, maybe you are. My mistake,” she added, realizing perhaps he or she was one of those transvestites you read about.

“No, I’m not,” the person began, when another thought occurred to Clara.

“I’m terribly sorry, are you a lesbian, then?” she asked. “Of course, that’s none of my business, either, is it?”  She might be a ninety-six year-old spinster, but she was not an innocent in the world.  That Tennyson fellow had written a poem about a lesbian, after all. 

Then Clara noticed that all of the women working in the store were dressed the same as the men.  Clara knew women had become “liberated” since the ‘sixties, but she hadn’t realized that, as a consequence, they could no longer dress like women.  How sad!  Anyway, she asked the young lady, whose badge read “Andrea”, where the typewriter ribbons were.

Andrea looked blank.  Clara tried to explain, as if Andrea were a child—which she was hardly more than, at that: “You know, the inked cloth that imprints on paper when we hit keys on the typewriter?”

“Key? Like for a lock?” Andrea replied, looking confused.

“No, a key on an Olivetti.”

“Isn’t that that opera-singer guy?”

“No, an Olivetti is a typewriter.  The keys are on the typewriter.”  Clara strove to remain patient.  Perhaps the bleach the girl had so obviously used on her hair had affected her brain.

“Is the typewriter-thingy locked?”

“No,” Clara said, trying to be patient, “The keys are the letters and numbers we use for typing.  You hit the key, which is attached to a strike-arm, which strikes the ribbon and makes a mark on the paper.”

“Whose arms?”

Clara realized at this point that young people today must be even more ignorant and idiotic than when she was teaching them.  She had been a teacher of grades three and four at Lynden Elementary School until her retirement, thirty-one years ago.  For the past thirty-one years, she had stayed home, tending to her garden; though for the first fifteen years after she retired, she tutored children at home.

Young people’s ignorance today was hardly their fault, Clara reasoned, since the government had done away with Provincials–meaning that each new group of teachers was more poorly-educated than the last, since they themselves were the result of poor standards.

Giving up, Clara requested Andrea to direct her to her supervisor, and Andrea took her to a man who was about a year and a half older than Andrea herself–which was to say, about nineteen years of age.  His name badge read, “Bruce”, and below that said, “Information Systems”.  This seemed promising, despite his youth.  Surely a person in charge of information would know where to find a typewriter ribbon!

“Could you please tell me where I could obtain a black-and-red, or at least black, ribbon for my Olivetti typewriter?” Clara inquired.

“What kind of computer is that?”  Bruce responded.  Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw Andrea scurrying away, probably relieved to be free of her.  Good riddance, Clara thought.

“Now, understand, I used to be a teacher,” Clara said as patiently as she could.  “I am neither feeble-minded nor uneducated.  I know that ‘computing’ means arithmetic, but I have never heard of a ‘computer’.  It must be used for math, rather than typing, however, and I am not interested in computing, young man.  I am trying to write a letter to the Prime Minister–you may have heard of him, Jean Chrétien? –about my taxes.  I am looking for a replacement ribbon for my typewriter. Now, do you have one or don’t you?”

Bruce turned and led her to one side of the store. He stopped in front of a rather small black television. “If you’re going to write letters, you need a computer,” he persisted.

“I have a perfectly good Olivetti for letters, and a fine RCA-Victor television, much bigger than that one, with a nice wooden cabinet, thank you very much,” she replied, unable to keep impatience out of her voice.

“This isn’t a T.V.,” he replied, using the ridiculous short-form for television.  “It’s a monitor.”  He pointed to a tall, grey plastic box standing beside the little television.  “This is a computer, and you can use it to type letters.”

She looked carefully into his eyes, looking for signs of drugs.  She might be in her nineties, but there had been drug addicts in her day, too.  He didn’t look impaired, so she said, “Where exactly are the keys?”

From behind the grey television, Bruce pulled out a flat piece of plastic with letters and numbers on it. “This is the keyboard,” he said.

Clara took her glasses out of her purse, and had a closer look.  Sure enough, many of the keys were the same as those on her typewriter; but there were many extra keys, and she couldn’t see a place to put the paper.  She said so.

“No, no,” Bruce said, getting a bit impatient himself, she thought.  “To print, you need a printer.”  He led her down an isle, pointing out a number of plastic, box-like machines which she took to be “printers”.  She told him that she still didn’t see anywhere to put the paper.

From a shelf below, Bruce pulled a small sheaf of paper and plopped it into a slot at the back of one of the boxes.

“But where is the carriage return?” Clara asked.

“Pardon?” he said, as blank as that young transvestite, Andrea—probably born Andrew, now that Clara thought about it. 

“When you type a line, how–does–the–carriage–return?” she repeated slowly.

“Carriage?  You mean, like in Cinderella?”

“The carriage for the paper!”  It was difficult to contain her anger.

“We get our paper by truck.  Nobody uses carriages any more.”  Under his heavily-freckled skin, Bruce’s face was starting to turn almost the same shade of red as his hair.

Clara had successfully survived thousands of impudent children.  She wasn’t about to be defeated by this one.  “Could you please open up this printer, and show me the inside?”

He opened a plastic door at the front, and she looked inside.  It had no carriage at all!  Nor any strike-arms.  What kind of confidence-scheme was this?

“How am I supposed to type a letter when there’s no carriage, and no strike-arms?” she demanded.

“You type the letter on the keyboard attached to the computer,” Bruce said.  “The computer sends the letter through a cable to a printer like this one, and it prints it out for you.” 

“I see.  Sort of like a telegraph?”

“A tele-what?”

“Never mind.”  She thought for a moment.  “Couldn’t you just sell me one of the ribbons for this machine?  Perhaps I can make it fit my Olivetti.”  By this point, Clara was ready to sew one herself and dip in it ink.

Bruce led her down another isle, and picked up a clear bag containing a length of grey, albeit ribbon-like, plastic.

“Actually, we call this a ribbon cable,” he explained.

“This is a ribbon for a printer?”

“It’s a cable for inside the computer.”

“I need a ribbon with ink on it, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Bruce responded.  “Electricity goes through cables.  That wouldn’t mix well with ink.”

Clara sighed.  Was being mentally-deficient a requirement to work at this establishment?  “All right, then, young man, do you at least sell ink?”

“Yes, we do, ma’am,” said Bruce, glancing about as if wishing to be rescued from her.  She could have told him that the feeling was mutual!

He led her to an isle that contained hundreds of small, almost identical-looking boxes, all with complicated letter- and number-codes on them. She carefully tucked back a strand of white hair that had come loose while she was forced to scamper from one section of the store to another.

“Which one is for the Olivetti?” she asked.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t think we carry any Olivetti products.”

“Do you sell just plain ink?”

“Not really.”  He picked up a box and showed it to her.  “Each of these cartridges is specific to a type of printer.  Not just a manufacturer, but to an actual version of the printer,” he explained.

“Do they have ink in them?”

“Well, yes they do, but you’re paying for the electronics on the cartridges as well.”

“How much is that one?”   She had opened her purse and had her hand on the fine-grained leather of her wallet.  It was worth almost any amount of money at this point to be done with these people.

“They range in price from nineteen-ninety-nine to over sixty dollars,” he said.

Clara reached up and adjusted her hearing aid, something she almost never had to do.  “I’m sorry, did you say something about sixty dollars?” she asked.  “The last ribbon I bought for the Olivetti cost me one dollar and sixty-seven cents, and all you have there is ink.”

“Really?” Bruce said.  She could see he didn’t believe her.  “I don’t think there’s a single item in this store that costs that little.”

“I don’t expect so,” she said, suddenly feeling every one of her ninety-six years.  “Tell me, do you think there is any other store that might sell actual Olivetti ribbons?”

“I doubt it, ma’am.  All stores sell now is computer stuff.”

Clara let him lead her back to the wall with the computer-boxes and the small, ugly televisions.  “So what you’re telling me is that to type a single letter, I need to purchase a small television, a computer, keyboard, and a printer?  How much would that cost?”  There is no fighting progress, Clara thought, even when it makes simple things complicated.  Maybe she did need a computer.

“Well,” Bruce said, his voice changing as he switched visibly to salesman mode, “you could get a basic computer for around eighteen-fifty.  But what you really want is one of these,” he said, running his hand lovingly over a plastic box that, to Clara, looked identical to all the other ones in the row.

He began to speak very quickly, obviously reciting a rote piece: “With this one, you get the newest Intel see-pee-you, windows eleven, office twenty-sixteen, a killer game package, wi-fi, and blue tooth.  You could be on the internet tonight,” he concluded excitedly.

Clara understood very little of what Bruce had said, but that last thing upset her.  “I might be ninety-six years of age, young man, but I’m not quite ready for internment yet!”  She was ready to turn on her heel and leave, but then remembered her blood pressure, and tried a final time to be co-operative.

“So, tell me, Bruce, what would all of this cost me?”

“This package usually runs twenty-four fifty, but right now it’s on sale for only sixteen ninety-five,” he said.  “And that includes a printer, too.”  He was smiling for the first time since she’d met him.  She decided he must be on commission.

“Well, I’ll have to think it over,” she said.  “Seventeen dollars is a lot to spend when all I really need is a typewriter ribbon.”

“No, no,” Bruce said, “not seventeen dollars. Seventeen hundred dollars.”

When Clara woke up, she was in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.  They only kept her the day, but it was annoying.

Clara appreciated the call she got the next day from the store’s manager, Mr. Eastman.  She could tell he was afraid she’d sue, but she told him he didn’t have to worry.  All she asked was that he stock some typewriter ribbons.  She said she realized he wasn’t going to get rich selling them, but it would be a nice courtesy.  She was sure the next time she came in, he would have rectified the problem, and perhaps educated his staff members somewhat.

He still sounded uneasy when he said he would do his best. tThen he asked how to spell “Olivetti”.

Satisfied, Clara sat down to write the Prime Minister by hand.

 

Young people’s ignorance today was hardly their fault, Clara reasoned, since the government had done away with Provincials–meaning that each new group of teachers was more poorly-educated than the last, since they themselves were the result of poor standards.

Giving up, Clara requested Andrea to direct her to her supervisor, and Andrea took her to a man who was about a year and a half older than Andrea herself–which was to say, about nineteen years of age.  His name badge read, “Bruce”, and below that said, “Information Systems”.  This seemed promising, despite his youth.  Surely a person in charge of information would know where to find a typewriter ribbon!

“Could you please tell me where I could obtain a black-and-red, or at least black, ribbon for my Olivetti typewriter?” Clara inquired.

“What kind of computer is that?”  Bruce responded.  Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw Andrea scurrying away, probably relieved to be free of her.  Good riddance, Clara thought.

“Now, understand, I used to be a teacher,” Clara said as patiently as she could.  “I am neither feeble-minded nor uneducated.  I know that ‘computing’ means arithmetic, but I have never heard of a ‘computer’.  It must be used for math, rather than typing, however, and I am not interested in computing, young man.  I am trying to write a letter to the Prime Minister–you may have heard of him, Jean Chrétien? –about my taxes.  I am looking for a replacement ribbon for my typewriter. Now, do you have one or don’t you?”

Bruce turned and led her to one side of the store. He stopped in front of a rather small black television. “If you’re going to write letters, you need a computer,” he persisted.

“I have a perfectly good Olivetti for letters, and a fine RCA-Victor television, much bigger than that one, with a nice wooden cabinet, thank you very much,” she replied, unable to keep impatience out of her voice.

“This isn’t a T.V.,” he replied, using the ridiculous short-form for television.  “It’s a monitor.”  He pointed to a tall, grey plastic box standing beside the little television.  “This is a computer, and you can use it to type letters.”

She looked carefully into his eyes, looking for signs of drugs.  She might be in her nineties, but there had been drug addicts in her day, too.  He didn’t look impaired, so she said, “Where exactly are the keys?”

From behind the grey television, Bruce pulled out a flat piece of plastic with letters and numbers on it. “This is the keyboard,” he said.

Clara took her glasses out of her purse, and had a closer look.  Sure enough, many of the keys were the same as those on her typewriter; but there were many extra keys, and she couldn’t see a place to put the paper.  She said so.

“No, no,” Bruce said, getting a bit impatient himself, she thought.  “To print, you need a printer.”  He led her down an isle, pointing out a number of plastic, box-like machines which she took to be “printers”.  She told him that she still didn’t see anywhere to put the paper.

From a shelf below, Bruce pulled a small sheaf of paper and plopped it into a slot at the back of one of the boxes.

“But where is the carriage return?” Clara asked.

“Pardon?” he said, as blank as that young transvestite, Andrea—probably born Andrew, now that Clara thought about it. 

“When you type a line, how–does–the–carriage–return?” she repeated slowly.

“Carriage?  You mean, like in Cinderella?”

“The carriage for the paper!”  It was difficult to contain her anger.

“We get our paper by truck.  Nobody uses carriages any more.”  Under his heavily-freckled skin, Bruce’s face was starting to turn almost the same shade of red as his hair.

Clara had successfully survived thousands of impudent children.  She wasn’t about to be defeated by this one.  “Could you please open up this printer, and show me the inside?”

He opened a plastic door at the front, and she looked inside.  It had no carriage at all!  Nor any strike-arms.  What kind of confidence-scheme was this?

“How am I supposed to type a letter when there’s no carriage, and no strike-arms?” she demanded.

“You type the letter on the keyboard attached to the computer,” Bruce said.  “The computer sends the letter through a cable to a printer like this one, and it prints it out for you.” 

“I see.  Sort of like a telegraph?”

“A tele-what?”

“Never mind.”  She thought for a moment.  “Couldn’t you just sell me one of the ribbons for this machine?  Perhaps I can make it fit my Olivetti.”  By this point, Clara was ready to sew one herself and dip in it ink.

Bruce led her down another isle, and picked up a clear bag containing a length of grey, albeit ribbon-like, plastic.

“Actually, we call this a ribbon cable,” he explained.

“This is a ribbon for a printer?”

“It’s a cable for inside the computer.”

“I need a ribbon with ink on it, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Bruce responded.  “Electricity goes through cables.  That wouldn’t mix well with ink.”

Clara sighed.  Was being mentally-deficient a requirement to work at this establishment?  “All right, then, young man, do you at least sell ink?”

“Yes, we do, ma’am,” said Bruce, glancing about as if wishing to be rescued from her.  She could have told him that the feeling was mutual!

He led her to an isle that contained hundreds of small, almost identical-looking boxes, all with complicated letter- and number-codes on them. She carefully tucked back a strand of white hair that had come loose while she was forced to scamper from one section of the store to another.

“Which one is for the Olivetti?” she asked.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t think we carry any Olivetti products.”

“Do you sell just plain ink?”

“Not really.”  He picked up a box and showed it to her.  “Each of these cartridges is specific to a type of printer.  Not just a manufacturer, but to an actual version of the printer,” he explained.

“Do they have ink in them?”

“Well, yes they do, but you’re paying for the electronics on the cartridges as well.”

“How much is that one?”   She had opened her purse and had her hand on the fine-grained leather of her wallet.  It was worth almost any amount of money at this point to be done with these people.

“They range in price from nineteen-ninety-nine to over sixty dollars,” he said.

Clara reached up and adjusted her hearing aid, something she almost never had to do.  “I’m sorry, did you say something about sixty dollars?” she asked.  “The last ribbon I bought for the Olivetti cost me one dollar and sixty-seven cents, and all you have there is ink.”

“Really?” Bruce said.  She could see he didn’t believe her.  “I don’t think there’s a single item in this store that costs that little.”

“I don’t expect so,” she said, suddenly feeling every one of her ninety-six years.  “Tell me, do you think there is any other store that might sell actual Olivetti ribbons?”

“I doubt it, ma’am.  All stores sell now is computer stuff.”

Clara let him lead her back to the wall with the computer-boxes and the small, ugly televisions.  “So what you’re telling me is that to type a single letter, I need to purchase a small television, a computer, keyboard, and a printer?  How much would that cost?”  There is no fighting progress, Clara thought, even when it makes simple things complicated.  Maybe she did need a computer.

“Well,” Bruce said, his voice changing as he switched visibly to salesman mode, “you could get a basic computer for around eighteen-fifty.  But what you really want is one of these,” he said, running his hand lovingly over a plastic box that, to Clara, looked identical to all the other ones in the row.

He began to speak very quickly, obviously reciting a rote piece: “With this one, you get the newest Intel see-pee-you, windows eleven, office twenty-sixteen, a killer game package, wi-fi, and blue tooth.  You could be on the internet tonight,” he concluded excitedly.

Clara understood very little of what Bruce had said, but that last thing upset her.  “I might be ninety-six years of age, young man, but I’m not quite ready for internment yet!”  She was ready to turn on her heel and leave, but then remembered her blood pressure, and tried a final time to be co-operative.

“So, tell me, Bruce, what would all of this cost me?”

“This package usually runs twenty-four fifty, but right now it’s on sale for only sixteen ninety-five,” he said.  “And that includes a printer, too.”  He was smiling for the first time since she’d met him.  She decided he must be on commission.

“Well, I’ll have to think it over,” she said.  “Seventeen dollars is a lot to spend when all I really need is a typewriter ribbon.”

“No, no,” Bruce said, “not seventeen dollars. Seventeen hundred dollars.”

When Clara woke up, she was in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.  They only kept her the day, but it was annoying.

Clara appreciated the call she got the next day from the store’s manager, Mr. Eastman.  She could tell he was afraid she’d sue, but she told him he didn’t have to worry.  All she asked was that he stock some typewriter ribbons.  She said she realized he wasn’t going to get rich selling them, but it would be a nice courtesy.  She was sure the next time she came in, he would have rectified the problem, and perhaps educated his staff members somewhat.

He still sounded uneasy when he said he would do his best. tThen he asked how to spell “Olivetti”.

Satisfied, Clara sat down to write the Prime Minister by hand.

                                                                                  

*** THE END ***