Several years ago I bought a baby blue, electric Smith-Corona, simply to see how the sound and feel would influence my writing. It was fun, for a while. Somehow I mentioned this to my girlfriend, who then wistfully wished for a typewriter.
Not long after, I wandered into an amazing antique store in my neighborhood. As I was walking out, the clerk asked if I had been looking for anything in particular, and I said, "typewriters," and he said there was an old Royal in very good shape being cleaned up and that I should return in a week.
A week later, I stood at the counter testing the vintage Royal Portable, like the one pictured below, though black and in A-/B+ condition.
Clearly it was a beautiful machine, particularly the action on the keys and the loud smack they made. I took it for $80.
That week I explored internet sites--like
this one--and via serial number learned that my machine was made in 1930. Hemmingway wrote on a Royal Portable like this model. Then, through another site, I found a local repair shop, just to make sure the RP was in top shape.
There was no one at the counter. Ancient and goofy-looking machines were piled recklessly on shelves. Finally an old Polish man, arms streaked with black ink, came out from a back room. He gestured for me to open my case and show him the machine. He tested it: "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy river," and grunted his approval.
"Where did you get this?"
"The antique store on Broadway. For $80."
"That's a very good deal. See this machine? It was made the same year. I can sell it for $350. You could make a lot of money."
"Well, I'm giving it to someone who will put it to good use."
He looked at me as if I were batshit crazy. "You're giving this to a girl?"
