Type-Cast

 . . . or you could just throw it at someone . . .

In high school, amid the myriad choices, there was one class everyone was expected to take.

None of us could understand why.

It was a useless class.

What on earth would we ever need it for?

It's not like it had any practical applications.

Yep. Typing 10.

The colossal waste of time.

But we were, if nothing else, dutiful.

Daily, we would report to our teacher.

Then scurry to get the best machine.

I should explain, here, that the machines we used were all elderly 'Olivetti Underwoods'.

Non-electronic.

Totally manual.

Capable of jamming if any two keys approached the action zone at the same time.

Heavy, cast iron.

And able to take whatever abuse we chose to mete out.

And, believe me, that was Abuse with a capital 'A'.

One friend would systematically pound on her machine for every mistake she made.

It was quite entertaining.

And made the typing of the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog not quite so mundane.

And repetitive.

Daily, we were taken through exercises designed to improve our accuracy.

Our ability to type while looking anywhere other than our keyboard.

And our speed.

None of which were my forte.

Our teacher would stand at the front of the room with her trusty little stopwatch.

And holler 'Go!”

Dozens of keys would begin clicking.

Okay, another thing I should mention is that manual typewriters, at least the ones we used, were noisy.

All of us typing together would constitute what could only be considered a 'din'.

With the sound of my friend periodically rising above as she stopped to punch her machine. “Stupid, useless . . .!”

“Stop.”

Hands in our laps.

Then we would roll out our paper and check for mistakes.

This is where I always came to grief.

Well, one of the places.

I could type fast.

I just didn't ever hit the right keys.

Of all the kids in the class, I probably scored the worst.

Oddly enough, I'm the only one who now makes her living . . . typing.

The irony is just sickening.

P.S. Every time I see an old Olivetti Underwood, I get all misty and nostalgic. Go figure.