Remington Rand
“A revolutionary writer you are,” a voice says.
I open my eyes. The sands blanket my hands. The breeze rushes the waves toward me. I’m on the sands of the shore. I look about myself for any sign of the street car diner, to no avail; it is nowhere in sight. Behind me exists high, unshaven grass and then trees further off in the distance. I look to the horizon to find no boats that have set sail. The sky painted a pale blue against the stenciled-white clouds. Along the shore rests a towering, white lighthouse upon a pier jetting off into the blue of the water. It reaches into the clouds like the biblical tower of Babel. The thought of being displaced from one place to another—without notice—makes my stomach churn.
Where did that voice come from?
“Suga, what’s the matte’?” The waitress’ voice rings out to me.
I hastily turn around to see her standing behind me, the yellow floral dress flailing in the wind gracefully. Her arms rest behind her. I quickly take notice of my fedora atop her head.
“Suga,” she begins as she replaces my fedora atop my head. “Are you feelin’ alright?” She caresses my cheek as her hair flies briskly in the wind.
“Not necessarily.” I feebly answer as I turn my face away from her touch.
“Well, suga, you came all this way to write. I think you oughta write.”
“I guess so,” I say as I watch my fingers stroke the sand.
“Here, take off your shoes, your socks, your suit jacket, and your hat,” she smiles. I look at her most perplexed, but her raised brow and smile persuade me not to question her motives.
I do as she says as I inquire, “Are you the waitress from the diner?”
“Suga, I ain’t neve’ been a waitress. I’m your typist, remember?” she answers as she sits beside me, revealing a Remington Rand typewriter that she had been hiding behind her back. “I really don’t know where you get such ideas sometimes.” She places the typewriter upon the sand.
Such blasphemy, placing a typewriter used by George Orwell and Agatha Christie atop the sand, I think. Wait… How do I know such things?
I rest my penny loafers to the opposite side of me, fold my socks into each other and place them into one of the penny loafer, and lay my folded suit jacket atop the loafers so as the sand would not get in.
“Now that you’re ready. Lay down,” she says.
My eyes run to her with great inquisition. They see a woman desiring only cooperation.
“Trust me,” she adds.
I place my fedora over my eyes and lay back upon the sand. She quickly places my suit jacket beneath my head. I freeze, realizing the expenses of my tailored clothing.
“No worries, suga, you have plenty of nice clothes inside,” she says pointing to the light.
I live in a lighthouse?
“Now suga, do you know what you want to write about?” She asks.
“No, I don’t…” I allow my words to coast as I stare into the dark void of my fedora.
“That’s alright. I remember when you said, ‘Writin’ is not entirely for the audience, but for the usage of conveyin’ the emotion.’ ”
“I said that?” I try to image myself using such grandiose language, but I know myself not to create such captivating philosophy.
“Of course, suga. Now say how you feel so that I can type it.”
“What about the ink ribbon?”
“Don’t worry about the ink ribbon, suga. You said that you have a deadline.”
“Deadline?”
“Suga, if you don’t stop this foolishness—”
“I’m sorry.” I stare into the darkness of my fedora; embracing the inspiration afloat around me. I hear the water beating against the shore. It hisses each time the waves rush the wet sands. Seagulls cry out. Their feathers press upon the wind with each beat. Wait, those seagulls weren’t anywhere in sight before, I think.
A brief silence exists between us until she says, “Suga—”
“Okay,” I say briskly before a sigh. I then begin, “The air brushes against my skin as I return its kiss softly with my hand placed into the air. My skin warms as the sun’s rays caress it. I gracefully inhale the atmosphere about me. The sand upon the beach. The tide rocking against the shore. The lounge chair holding the contour of my body. I exhale to release and to free myself of the day’s toxins that have presented me stress. I enjoy times like these; time to understand myself.”