The Typewriter - 1. Chapter 1

I am not going to be humble, so let me tell you from the get-go that I am a best-selling author. My name is Mark Clemens, and I write mysteries and crime fiction. The protagonist in all my novels is always the same guy, Det. Hugh Collins, NYPD. He’s young but mature, and of course, he’s very tall, dark, and handsome. He’s also asexual, because I have never involved him with a woman. He’s not a James Bond type, for sure. When I describe Hugh Collins’s physical appearance in my books, I am describing myself. I don’t exaggerate, so you’ll know that I’m as handsome as the detective. I told you that I’m not going to be humble. The resemblance ends there. Unlike him, I am a very sexual being.

In each novel the poor guy must deal with many red herrings, false leads, and stumbling blocks. No matter, he always solves the crime and gets his man. I really should say he gets his woman.

In most of my stories, the woman is the villain. Cherchez la femme is the time worn adage of crime dramas. I suppose the way I feel about women derives from the fact that I am gay, and I find women to be particularly annoying. Don’t misunderstand. I have women friends whom I adore, but most members of the female sex, are vain and pompous, and most importantly, they are capable of heinous acts.

Do I sound bitter about women? If you had known my mother and her twin sister, you’d understand where I am coming from. They weren’t bad-looking when they were young, but they were ugly. Their ugliness came from inside of them. They were domineering, bossy women, who dictated my entire early life. It was like they wrote a scenario for me, and fed me my lines. I had to do exactly as they instructed, or suffer their wrath. I couldn’t even conjure up an imaginary friend to make life better for me.

My aunt lived with us from the time I was four years old. She moved in after my father ran off somewhere, never to be seen again. Who could blame him? Kudos to him. I should try to find him, but I’m too lazy. On the other hand, now that I’m rich and famous, my mother and my aunt are always trying to reach out to me to re-establish a relationship, but I have distanced myself from them as far away as possible. I won’t even send them a Christmas card.

I live with my husband, Karl, (Karl with a K), in a beautiful, but modest, condo in SOHO. It is far from pretentious. Although we are very well heeled, it’s not our style to live high on the hog. I have become very wealthy from my writing, and Karl is a very successful stock broker. His income is way above the national average. Using his talents in trading securities, our net worth is constantly increasing. We are set for life.

His achievement has a lot to do with his talent, but it doesn’t hurt that he is so damn handsome. He’s certainly got it way over me. He’s a very waspy blond. You know the type; blue eyes, small nose, square chin, etc. I am dark and swarthy. The only place we look alike is that we both have cut cocks. They are the same size, four inches flaccid, and seven inches hard. We are perfect for each other; a mouthful and an assful, no more, no less.

You probably have a picture now of how happy and content Karl and I are. Can you imagine the two of us after dinner, cuddling on our sofa, watching TV, sipping a cocktail, and even fondling each other? After that, can you picture us going to bed and indulging in wild, kinky, and even pornographic sex?

Well, that used to be true, and it was once a typical evening for us, but I have been too distracted lately to give much thought to sex. I indulge in it to keep Karl happy, but surely, he must realize that my heart is not into making love.

Here’s my problem. I have been afflicted with a severe case of writer’s block. In the past, I have written about every type of crime and murder ever posted on the police blotters. But now, not only can’t I come up with a plot, I can’t even come up with the first sentence to one.

My affliction is severe, but it gets worse. I am under contract to produce two more novels. I signed that contract over eighteen months ago, and I only have another eighteen months to deliver. My publisher is hounding me, and all I can do is remind him that I have plenty of time left.

That is so not true. A mystery novel must be carefully crafted. The clues must be reasonable, but mostly they must not be evident. The dialogue in the story must be full of leads and red herrings, but remain relevant to the plot, without revealing the perpetrator of the crime. The ending must be swift, unpredictable, and above all, believable. There is no way that I can complete two such intricate novels in eighteen months. Even if I write only one, I’ll be in breach of contract, and the penalty is $500 a day.

*****

Amid all this angst, I woke up one morning, without any desire to get out of our comfortable king-sized bed. Since my ‘affliction,’ I had taken to lounging in bed in the morning for as long as time allowed, and I had plenty of time right now.

The windows in our bedroom were wide open, and I realized that Karl must have opened them. It didn’t take Albert Einstein to realize why. Soft, late spring breezes, were wafting through the windows and into our bedroom. I jumped out of bed and sniffed the outside air which smelled like lilacs. It was the perfect day, and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to take a morning walk, and enjoy the great outdoors, even if I lived in the middle of Manhattan.

I could hear Karl taking a shower. He and I sleep naked, so I ran to the bathroom and jumped into the shower with him. I surprised him, but from the grin on his face, I think I made him very happy. I stood still for a moment to admire his magnificent body. Then we began to play, and it was almost like before I caught my ‘disease’, but Karl put a stop to it.

“You’re very frisky this morning,” he said, “but save it for tonight. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

We left the shower and dried each other. While we were dressing, Karl said, “I’m running late, thanks to you. I think I’ll just have a cup of coffee and a bagel at the coffee shop on the corner. Don’t bother to make me breakfast.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I think I’ll join you.”

Ginny, our waitress, knew us well. Her smile, when she greeted us, was infectious. It set the mood for a great day. Karl and I had our meager breakfast together, and went our separate ways, but not before assuring each other that we loved one another madly.

I wandered aimlessly, breathing in the fresh air, and there were moments I forgot all about my writer’s block. Without any meaningful intent, I found myself meandering on West Broadway. I took advantage of the situation to indulge in my favorite pastime, window shopping. I know it sounds improbable, but I have often conceived a plot from something I saw in a window. My mind would go through an exercise, which works something like this:

What if that pewter mug in the window once belonged to Mark Twain, and it was being sold for tens of thousands of dollars? One day it disappears, stolen, if you will.

Do you see what’s happened here? I conceived a plot. Of course, the story will broaden, as I add suspects, intrigue, and even murder.

This morning, nothing I saw suggested a story. I chalked it up to my writer’s block, but then I passed an antique shop. It must be new, I thought. I had not seen it here before, and God knows I had wandered on West Broadway often enough. Something in the window caught my eye.

Sitting there among the window displays, I spotted an Underwood typewriter, circa 1930. I did a double take, and bile rose up in my throat, giving me a taste of vomit in my mouth. You see, my mother had a typewriter just like this one. Thinking back to her home, the unhappy one I was raised in, and seeing the typewriter, my stomach churned. I was reminded of how miserable I was back then.

The typewriter sat on her mantle, simply for décor. She never used it. She told me that it had belonged to her father, so she couldn’t bear to part with it.

“When he was a little boy, he wanted to write silly old stories,” she told me, “so your great grandparents foolishly indulged him, and bought him this typewriter. It was previously owned when they bought it for him in 1948.”

How about that? My grandfather wanted to write stories. Now I knew where I got my urge from. Unfortunately, he died of the flu, shortly after my mother and my aunt were born. Bummer! Had he lived, I have no doubt that he would have written the great American novel. Great or not, I’m sure that my mother would have thought it was just a plain old silly story. She had a way of belittling everyone and everything.

Not withstanding the bad memories the typewriter evoked in me, I thought that it would make a great looking addition to our home. After all I am an author. I was reminded of my podiatrist’s reception area. It is furnished with a magazine table that is shaped like a foot, as a symbol of his profession. Now, I could have a symbol of mine in my home, which was also my workplace.

I entered the shop strictly out of curiosity. The dimly lit store had a terrible musty odor. The aroma was what one would expect antiquity to smell like. For a moment, I considered leaving, just so that I could breathe in the fresh outdoor air again. Before I could leave, the proprietor approached me, so I stayed. It seemed to me that he looked a lot like Christopher Lloyd in Back To The Future. I thought that was very appropriate for an antique store owner. He was nice enough to remove the typewriter from the window display, so that I could examine it.

“It’s in good working order,” he said proudly. “I got the spare parts it needed on E Bay and Amazon, and I restored it. If you ever need a replacement part just go to those websites. I also found ink ribbon available from several sources on Amazon,” he informed me, trying hard to make a sale, and to sweeten the deal.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s good to know, but I don’t intend to use it. I’ve got my laptop for that. I just want to display it on my desk as a conversation piece.”

There was a piece of paper in the machine ready for typing. I typed in every letter, upper and lower case, and every number and symbol on the keyboard, until I was satisfied that the typewriter was really in working order.

The shopkeeper wanted $400. I offered $350, and we settled on $375. The typewriter was very heavy, and would have been too awkward for me to carry home, so I called for an UBER car. When I got the contraption into my apartment, I placed it on my desk, and I did indeed like the way it looked sitting there, a relic from the past, my past, at least.

As I told the owner of the antique store, I had no intention of using the typewriter, but nonetheless, as I stared at the ancient device from long before I was born, I was tempted to write something on it, perhaps a love letter to Karl. I sat down at my desk and rolled a piece of printer paper around the platen. I started to write the love letter.

I typed rapidly away, and paid little heed to what I was writing. I was in sort of a trance. The words were just pouring out of me. At some point, I stopped to read what I had written. Talk about doing a double take, I did it. This is what I read:

The young woman looked old. Drugs will do that to you. She eyed the entrance to the police station, and she hesitated before entering. Her tangled blond hair probably hadn’t been washed in weeks. The cheap, shop-worn dress she was wearing had no doubt come from a thrift store rack. Her flat-heeled shoes were scuffed, and frayed around the sole. Her dark brown eyes reflected hunger, and the need to eat. She might well have been homeless. She looked tired and distraught, still not knowing what she should do. Finally, she slinked into the 4th precinct, obviously in great distress.

The sharp, glaring, lights in the police station blinded her for a moment. Despite of her youth, the ultra-bright lights revealed the lines on her face, and on the back of her hands. The noise of busy, bustling people, and the clacking of computer keyboards, unnerved her. Finally, she made her way to the front desk.

“Please,” she said to the desk sergeant. “I must speak to Detective Collins. It’s a matter of life or death.”

I read what I had written over and over. Where did those words come from? I had no doubt that it was the beginning seed of a Hugh Collins mystery novel. More than that, an entire story was already in my brain, like Mark Twain’s pewter mug. The plot, the characters, the clues, the red herrings, were already in place. I continued to type away, and before I knew it, I finished the first chapter.

I read what I had written. Usually, I edit myself dozens of times. I am never truly satisfied, but I saw no reason to change a single word. I should have thought that something occult was going on, but I didn’t. I am a sane, rational human being. I could never admit that anything paranormal had occurred. I merely concluded that somehow, typing on this ancient relic, I had gained the inspiration I needed to erase my writer’s block.

After dinner that evening, Karl wanted to continue what we had started in the shower that morning. I had to refuse him, and I felt very bad, but I explained to him that I was suddenly free of writer’s block.

“I can’t explain it,” I said, “I just need to keep on writing the novel I’m working on. I’ll come to bed after I’ve completed another chapter or two.”

“Okay,” my darling husband said to me, “but if you don’t come to bed soon, I’ll be forced to jerk off.”

“Whack off,” I sang out, like I didn’t care. “Don’t depend on me”

After I said those words, I could have kicked myself. I sounded so cold, and Karl looked so hurt, that I added, “I love you. I’ll come to bed soon. I promise.”

I lied. I was deluding myself. Once I started writing again, I lost all track of time. I only stopped to pee once.

About three o’clock in the morning, I was typing so fast, that two keys locked together on their descent downward. The keys were old and delicate. I didn’t want to damage either one of them when I freed them. I studied the typewriter carefully, and concluded that I could disentangle the keys more efficiently, if I approached them from the rear.

I turned the typewriter around, and delicately separated the two keys. As they fell back in place, I noticed a tiny copper plaque glued to the back of the machine. It read, “Property of Mark Whiting.”

I began to shake. My mother’s maiden name was Whiting, and she told me often enough, that I had been named after her father. This typewriter, that had given me my inspiration, and restored my author’s vision, was my grandfather’s. It was the very one that had been on display in my mother’s home. A few months ago, she and my aunt retired to Ft. Myers, Fl. She must have sold much of her property before she moved, and somehow the typewriter ended up in the antique shop on West Broadway.

Now, I could not continue to work. I finally accepted the fact that an eerie thing was happening. The fear I felt at the unnatural way that I was creating the novel, confused me. I ran to bed, and wrapped my arms around Karl. He didn’t wake up, but he hunkered tightly against me, and fondled me in his sleep.

In the morning I wanted desperately to continue working on my novel, but I restrained myself. I made breakfast for me and Karl, and the moment he left for work, I headed out the door. I wanted to ask the antique dealer, how he came into possession of the typewriter.

I ran back to where I was certain the shop was, but I couldn’t find it. I searched back and forth for three blocks north and three blocks south of where I thought the antique shop was located, but it wasn’t there.

I could have kicked myself. My purchase had thrilled me so much, that I just gave the dealer the cash, and never asked for a receipt. As a result of being so short-sighted, I didn’t have the address of the shop.

Finally, I went back to where I was certain the shop should be. The space was occupied by a convenience store. I went in anyway. Inside, it didn’t look or smell anything like the shop where I bought the typewriter. It smelled of Glade plug-ins. I asked the proprietor if he knew of any antique shops close by.

“I’ve been here over twenty years,” the aging man informed me, “and there’s never been an antique shop within a mile of here.”

“Thanks,” I said, and I left the store. Now, filled with fear, I began to shiver. I had turned cold as ice, on what was a warm, balmy, spring day.

Convinced that I was possessed by my grandfather’s typewriter, I ran home. If I wasn’t possessed, then the typewriter itself was possessed by grandpa’s ghost.

In a vain attempt to warm up, I took a steaming hot shower. It didn’t help. I found a pair of heavy flannel pajamas, which I rarely wore, and put them on. I put two comforters on the bed and crept in. As soon as I was covered by the warm blankets, I reached for my phone, and called Karl. I needed desperately to make love with him. Perhaps that would bring me back to reality. What was more important is that I needed him to warm me up. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“I’m sick,” I told him. “I’ve gone to bed. Could you leave work early and come home.”

“I’m about to meet with a client,” Karl apologized. “He’s here already. It shouldn’t take long. As soon as he leaves, I’ll come home.”

“Thanks love,” I said, and hung up.

While I waited for Karl to come home, I debated if I should tell him my suspicions about the typewriter. He wouldn’t believe me. Even if he did, he would want me to get rid of it. I knew I couldn’t do that. Instead, I vowed only to work on my novel during my regular working hours, and devote lots of quality time to Karl, my husband and soulmate.

When Karl came home, he laid his palm on my forehead. “You have no fever,” he said, “I’m relieved.”

“I know,” I said. “I wanted you to come home, so that I could tell you that I’m sorry for last night. Please make love to me.”

Karl didn’t answer. A big grin covered his face. He undressed rapidly, and jumped into bed under the covers. He pushed them off with his legs, and we were lying on the bed free of them, but I was still in my heavy PJs.

“Do you think you could remove these hindrances?” he asked.

I feared that I’d freeze to death, but I did as he asked.

Once we were both naked, we grabbed each other, and held so tightly, it’s a wonder neither of us broke a rib. Karl loosened his hold on me, and proceeded to give me a trip around the world that I thought (with pleasure) would never end. He didn’t miss a square inch anywhere on my body. In fact, after many years together, he knew all my erogenous zones, and gave those areas special attention. That included my cut cock, which was seven hard inches, and throbbing with desire. By the time he was rimming me, and alternately sucking my rod, I was so turned on, I nearly came. I asked him to please stop. Reluctantly, he got off me, and he turned on his back.

Now he was mine to devour, and I gave him equal treatment. When he was squirming beyond belief, I stopped. Finally, we relieved ourselves by fucking one another. We were both old warhorses, and we were married, so we didn’t use condoms, and we applied a minimum amount of lube for maximum friction.

Nothing makes me love Karl more than when I feel his seed bathing my bowels. It’s the moment that I feel most connected to him. This day I did not feel that special glow. My nerves were still too frazzled.

After we both came, Karl fell asleep all wrapped up in my arms. I couldn’t sleep because I was anguished with shame. The truth is that I had used Karl to warm me up, and to help me forget about the typewriter, not to make love. I prayed that he didn’t notice, and that I had performed passionately enough for him, even though I was still shivering, and extremely frightened.

*****

The next morning, I pretended to remain in bed so I could enjoy a sleep-in.

“I wish I could work from home,” Karl said. “I’m jealous.”

The moment he left the house to go to work, I ran to my typewriter, or should I say, my grandfather’s typewriter? I started to type. My fingers were flying across the keyboard. I tried to speed up my typing even more, to keep pace with my brain. The story was developing faster than I could type. Before I gave a thought to breakfast, I had concluded three more chapters. Reluctantly, I stopped typing to enjoy a cup of coffee, and a couple of slices of toast.

While I took this short break, I had a disturbing thought. Maybe I was possessed by my grandfather’s spirit. Maybe the typewriter was likewise possessed. Maybe we were both possessed. If that were true, maybe my grandfather was using me and the typewriter to write his great American novel. I had never believed in an afterlife, so the idea of a spirit possession frightened me to where I began to get unreasonably cold again.

But then, a brighter thought came to me. If Grandpa’s ghost was writing the novel from beyond, it was apt to be the greatest crime drama ever written. Egotistically, I thought that I might even gain enough stature to be considered alongside Dashiell Hammett and Erle Stanley Gardener. Grandpa would gain his fame through me. Even though I never knew my grandfather, I vowed to dedicate the book to his memory.

I completed the novel in less than three weeks, a new record for me. Since the sheets were not bound, I had the foresight to number them. The novel had 425 pages. I could not submit my novel to the publisher in this format, so I hired an expert typist from a temp agency. She typed my novel into my laptop in two days. I stayed up all night and reread it. I was more than satisfied with everything. Not only was the typing flawless, I didn’t have to edit a single word.

I sent the novel to my publisher, and went to bed. I woke Karl, and literally forced him to make love to me. It turned out that he was happy to do so, and he made me very happy also.

I still owed the publisher another novel. I wondered if Grandpa would continue to write the second book for me. One morning, after Karl went to work, I sat down at the typewriter. I started to type with my eyes closed. I had no idea what I was typing. I opened my eyes, and I read:

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

Obviously, Grandpa was finished, and he was gone. I hoped that he wasn’t gone for good, and that he was merely taking a short break. I figured he needed the rest. In fact, so did I. I decided to take a break also. I sure needed some R & R time. Karl took a few days off, and we went to Provincetown to vacation.

The publisher released the book with a lot of ballyhoo and hype. It received rave reviews. The New York Times critic said that it was the best crime drama he had ever read. He predicted that the novel would win every book award there was, including The Pulitzer Prize. That would be nice, but I could not expect to win so prestigious an award. That would be a little too presumptuous.

Although the typewriter was no longer in charge of my creative skills, I knew for a fact that my writer’s block was gone. The story I still owed my publisher was already brewing in my brain. My contract required me to submit two books by a certain date. It didn’t say that the genre had to be crime or mystery. I convinced myself that it could be any genre. Why not fantasy?

I decided to tell the story of the typewriter, and the author who owns it, not as non-fiction, of course, but as pure fantasy fiction. However, the story needed more action and more suspense. The enhanced plot came to me quickly. I would have the author’s domineering mother come for a visit. She can’t believe how cluttered her son’s apartment is, and the clickety-clack of the ancient typewriter is driving her crazy. While her son is gone for a few days on a book signing tour, she packages everything she believes to be garbage, and calls for a charity to pick it up. The typewriter is gone with the rest of the so-called ‘junk.’

At this point, I would flash back to the author’s miserable childhood with his domineering mother and aunt. I would also reveal his father’s escape from them.

When he discovers what his mother has done, and realizes that the typewriter is gone, the author finally gives his mother a piece of his mind. He transcends into manhood at last. He spends the rest of the book tracking down the typewriter, and falls in love along the way. After all, he isn’t Det. Collins. He’s permitted to have a love life. I will allow it to happen to him. Happy ending achieved.

I wrote the story on my laptop this time. I only wrote when Karl was at work, so it took me several months, but I beat my deadline in plenty of time. My publisher could not believe the story line. It was so different from what I usually wrote, but he liked it, and accepted it for publication. The book realized a fair success, but it was nowhere near the quality of the novel I wrote on the old typewriter, and it needed a lot of editing. Sales were somewhat less than Grandpa’s crime story.

I received several letters from readers expressing disappointment that the novel wasn’t a detective story. I got one letter that amused the hell out of me. My mother wrote to tell me that she knew that she was the terrible mother in the novel, and she didn’t appreciate being portrayed in such a bad light. All I could think of was, that if the shoe fits, etc. I didn’t write back, so I couldn’t tell her that I had accurately described her.

Much to my shock, and infinite joy, I also received a letter from my long-lost father. He appeared briefly in the book also. He represented the symbol of the lucky one who got away. By writing about him as being the fortunate one, it was my way of letting him know that I didn’t blame him for getting out of Dodge, so to speak. His letter really moved me. It read:

My dear son, Mark:

Thank you for writing such a beautiful book. All your crime stories are great, but the story about the typewriter came straight from your heart. That’s why I know it will be a great success. It cries to be made into a movie.

I’m writing to beg you to forgive me for deserting you, but I could not spend another moment with your mother. I’m sorry to have to say that to you. After all, she is your mother, and I’m sure you love her.

If you can forgive me, please call me, write to me, or reach out to me anyway you can. I am enclosing my card with this note. If you don’t contact me, I’ll understand.

There’s one thing you should know. I’ve kept tabs on you all your life. I even crashed your wedding. I wanted so much to approach you, and throw my arms around you, but I chickened out. I did congratulate Karl. He had no idea who I was. After I spoke to him, I just left.

I pray that I will hear from you.

Your loving dad, Timothy

I read my dad’s letter over and over. I was in absolute shock. My dad thought I wouldn’t forgive him for leaving my mother, and all the time I wanted to congratulate him for his courage. Of course, I intended to contact him, but I wanted to show the letter to Karl first. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be home for at least five more hours. Besides, if my father was at work, he wouldn’t be home either.

I could tell from his card that my dad was a police detective. My mother, the bitch, never told me. Now I shook even more than when I believed I was possessed by my grandfather’s spirit. I could not have been aware of it, because I hardly remembered my father, but could he be my inspiration for Det. Hugh Collins? Did I have some sort of ESP that I didn’t know I was blessed with?

Suddenly, something compelled me to go to grandpa’s typewriter and write something. I looked down at the typewriter. There was a sheet of paper rolled around the platen. I wanted to write something aimlessly, as I had in the past, with great success, I might add. But when I looked at the sheet of paper, I could see that something was already typed on it. I couldn’t believe my eyes, when I read the short message.

Call your father. He’s a great guy.

I wanted to run some place and hide. This paranormal situation had finally gotten to me. My blood froze, and I shook like an aspen in the wind. I feared I had hallucinated the message, and that I might be going crazy. I needed Karl so badly that I started to pray he would get home early today. Just as I yearned for his early arrival, the phone rang. It was Karl.

“Hi honey,” I heard him say. “I’ve got an unexpected meeting tonight. I’ll be home late. Don’t make dinner for me.”

What could I say? “Okay, sweetie. I’ll give you your dinner when we’re in bed tonight.”

“Keep your promise,” he said, and hung up.

At first, Karl’s telephone call upset me, but then I had an awakening. My grandfather’s note was clear. I needed to man up and handle this situation by myself. Of course, Karl would always have my back, but it was my situation to face alone.

I didn’t make dinner for either Karl or me. The butterflies in my stomach told me that I might barf if I ate anything. I waited until 7 PM, and I punched in my dad’s telephone number. It was the number on his card, so I didn’t know if it was a land line or a cell phone. I found out it was a land line.

A sweet feminine voice answered with a simple, “Hello?” The hello sounded like a question. I wondered if the woman had read the caller ID, and she was wondering who was calling with the same surname as Timothy.

“Is Timothy Clemens at home?” I asked.

“I’ll get Timothy for you. Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s his son, Mark.”

“Oh, Mark,” the woman said. Her voice cracked. “I’m his wife, Francine. You got your father’s letter, and you did call. He’ll be so happy. Please hold on, and don’t go away.”

My sobbing father got on the phone. “Mark,” he cried, “is it really you? Have you forgiven me?”

“It’s really me, Dad, and listen carefully to what I have to say.”

“I will,” he promised me.

“I never condemned you for leaving my mother. On the contrary, I used to think, what took him so long? You’re wrong about me loving her. I hate her guts. She and her sister made my childhood a living hell. I’ve kicked them out of my life.

“I knew that you regularly sent her money for me, over and above child support, but I never saw it. The day I graduated high school, I demanded the money. I told her I’d sue her if I didn’t get it. She had kept an accounting, and knew exactly how much you had sent me over all those years. My money was deposited in her savings account, mixed in with all her own funds. I quickly calculated an approximate amount for interest.

The next day we went to her bank, and she withdrew the money. With accumulated interest, there was enough to see me through three years of college at CCNY, including enough to rent a small furnished room, so I could leave her and her sister forever. I got part time jobs and earned enough for my final year. All through my growing up years, she led me to believe that we didn’t have the money for my education. She blamed you for not supporting me. Obviously, she intended to keep the money for herself.”

I realized that I had been prattling on, so I stopped talking and took a breath. Dad was silent. He assumed I had more to say.

“Why didn’t you have visitation rights, Dad? Why didn’t you try to see me?”

“Your mother took out a permanent restraining order against me. Then when you left her nest, I figured that I shouldn’t disturb your life. I thought that you might be ashamed to tell me you were gay. But like I told you, I have kept tabs on you from a distance, all your life. Please,” he begged, “meet me and Francine as soon as possible. I’ll bust if I can’t hold you and hug you.”

“Sure, but first tell me if you’re happy, Dad?”

“I am now,” he sobbed.

“Then meet Karl and me at our favorite restaurant Friday evening at 7 PM. We’ll have a drink, and then have dinner there. It’s called Rosie’s on Restaurant Row.”

“Oh sure,” Dad said, “it’s one of our favorite places also.”

“Great, then it’s a date,” I said. “I love you, Dad. I’ll see you Friday evening.”

Now that I had obeyed the typewriter’s instructions, I ran to it. This time a new message read:

Open your laptop.

By now I was beyond shocks and surprises. I ran to my laptop, and when I booted it up, a great big smiling imogee grinned back at me. Good old grandpa. He couldn’t create an imogee on his ancient machine, so he used my laptop. Despite the fact that I was totally spooked, I was no longer chilled. I was as warm as my ass is after Karl fucks me.

Which reminded me. I realized that my dad finally found happiness, and that warmed me up even more. I wanted him to tell me all about it when we had dinner together on Friday evening. My first reaction was that there might be a plot in how he and his wife met, and fell in love, after a previous disastrous marriage. Francine might have a story to tell also. I could even make my dad into Hugh Collins. After all, they are both detectives. If I do, it will have to be my last Hugh Collins novel.

But then I wondered what my fans would think if I wrote a romance novel. They had accepted my fantasy novel. Maybe they would accept the fact that Det. Collins had finally fallen in love. I became excited at the prospect of writing a romance novel. It would be a first for me.

I waited up for Karl. When he came home, I pounced on him with the news of my father’s letter, and my contact with him. I skipped all the paranormal stuff. He sensed my excitement, and he asked me the same question that I had asked my father.

“Are you happy, Mark?”

“Yes. I am. Very happy.”

“Then we should celebrate,” he said. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom.