I bought the typewriter in a pawn shop on Third Avenue.
The pawn shop proprietor was a balding old man with a walrus mustache.
"How much?" I asked him.
"Five dollars," he said casually.
I glanced at him skeptically. The machine was a Remington Noiseless, with italics, probably worth a little over a hundred new, and it couldn't have been more than a year or two old.
"How much?" I asked.
"Five dollars, is what I said. Five." He held up the fingers of his widespread hand. "Five. One-two-three...."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked suspiciously.
The old man shrugged. "Something has to be wrong with it? Listen, young man, don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
"How come it's so cheap?"
The old man sighed deeply. "You try to do a favor, you get all kinds of questions. Would you feel happier if I charged you fifty-five dollars?"
"I wouldn't pay fifty-five dollars. I haven't got that much money."
"Have you got five dollars? Can you pay that much?"
"Yes. But...."
"All right, take the machine. A case goes with it. Believe me, young man, this is a bargain."
"Five dollars?" I asked again.
"Five dollars. You want it? Yes or no? I got other things to do."
"I'll take it."
The old man smiled. "Good, you'll never regret it."
....
...."Huh?"
"I-work-alone," he said slowly, as if he were repeating the sentence for a sub-level moron.
"Alone?" I gulped hard.
"Alone," he said firmly.
"Oh."
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