“Thank you Mask Man” –Lenny Bruce                        

My husband had shoulder surgery the day Los Angeles began voluntarily donning the ubiquitous mask.

Sixteen weeks later he looked up from the Off -Duty section of the Wall Street Journal and announced he wanted a different kind of  droplet protector. “This says twenty-five dollars for the less expensive, but fashionable mask. That’s ridiculous.”

“Masks are in demand,” I shrugged.  We both knew the “mask” had become a utilitarian device essential to warding off the villanous Covid 19. Apparently now we were invited into a new fashion trend. But we so disliked the term mask because it evokes fear and hiding, a feeling and action proving to be all too true!  We resorted to calling our masks the “thingies.” 

“Forget it,” said my spouse slamming down the paper. “I’m not paying for that.” I watched as he picked up a fresh disposable blue and white thingie, and left the house to take the dog for a walk. By this point we would be penalized by the county if strolling without a thingie. Despite all the up close and personal sidewalk action that takes place in West Hollywood, Ella the Labrador refused to wear one.

I thought deep and hard about my husband’s state of being. I could tell he really wanted a cool thingie. That afternoon I went non-digitally shopping to one of my favorite haunts.

The store is near WE HO, very convenient. It quietly shouts chic in a way that says: fabric that breathes matters, shape for comfort matters, and an ample selection for a variety of shapes, matter. I thought here, would be imminently promising for some great masks. The air-conditioned space felt like a sophisticated SOHO art gallery wearing my own disposable thingie.

“Hi,” says the lovely sales associate who had helped me the last time I was there shopping. “How is your husband feeling after the shoulder surgery?” 

“You recognize me with my thingie on?” I ask pointing to my face, as if I had to. Her pale green eyes shone above hers.

 “Of course. You were here the day of his surgery.”

I thanked her for her inquiry.

“I’m here to buy a mask for him. He’s been so good.” It was true. He had bravely slogged thru the pain of the cut into the meaty part of his shoulder, followed by the painful physical therapy exercises. Only of late had he been able to work out with a conscientous trainer who exposes him to intermittent, but healing pain. If not a pretty mask, for months my spouse has been wearing a handsome badge of courage.

“Of course,” she said, and with six feet apart we strolled over to the mask table where a gentleman wearing blue rubber gloves was pricing the pieces. Would they would cost more than what I was hoping to pay?

“Twenty,” said the man behind a fashion statement that loudly sang in a cacophony of colors.

“Bingo,” I thought while deeply breathing in my own CO2. Certainly, I had come to the right place. Now to narrow it down. Within my own cloud of suffocation, I studied the inventory. Purple with checks, green with amber florets, on and on and deeper and deeper I swam into swirling polychromatic patterns.

Not sure of how much time had passed I finally felt as if I were coming out of an induced viral fog. And I knew what to do.

I imagined which mask my husband would wear if it were a bow-tie.

Call it his St. Louis roots, a leftover of his unfailing midwestern sensibility, he has held onto a drawer-full of this tidy-winged cravat born accessory. He loves them. We may never go anywhere again but he still has a drawer-full, just in case we might one day.

“I’ll take that one,” I pointed, ever so pleased with my keen method of deduction and selection. With great immediacy and swift action, I selected a mask as if it were a bow-tie. It was as if the mask had spoken to me, for him, from behind which he would be speaking.

“Of course,” said my new favorite sales associate in this entire sickly world.

Within moments I was on the sidewalk, alone, gulping the oxygen available to me. I felt buoyant, for tight within my grip was a neat bag inside which was a gorgeous mask that brings to mind a symphony of cheerful possibility.

“Wow,” my husband said when he removed the mask from the bag. “Neato. I love it.”

That’s quite a statement from someone as subdued as he. He poofed it open, placed it over his nose and mouth, fastened the ties around the back of his head and took the Ella for a walk. Again. no thingie for her. They looked adorable  sauntering down the sidewalk. She all in black, but for her orange collar, he in gray, but for his pinkish, purplish, and striped mid-night blue  thingie.  Thank you, mask man.

California Typewriter: A Place, A Movie, A Vibe.

It’s not often that we actually get off the farm, meaning the vineyard, and when we do it’s usually a case of “valley fever.” But not this time.

 We were inspired by the movie, so we went to see the place.  And then we touched the keys.

 At the suggestion of our friends we watched the documentary California Typewriter directed by Doug Nichol in which, among others, Tom Hanks and John Mayer describe the seductions and attributes of the typewriter. That was a Monday night. On Wednesday we made the hour and ten-minute drive, a journey of some 50 miles, to San Pablo Street in Berkeley. I hadn’t been to the college town since 1975 when I spent my freshman year at Cal. Both my father and uncle had graduated from there, and I had convinced myself it was my destiny to go there. Wrong! I was like a square trying to fit into a circle. The school, the town, just didn’t fit, but then not much did as I was turning eighteen.

We found a parking place right in front of California Typewriter at 11:45 am, fifteen minutes before opening time, and so we ran across to Alfonso’s next to the body shop for a cup of Joe.

Couldn’t say if it was the caffeine or the vibe of California Typewriter that got my heart racing. My guess was the latter.  There was something about strolling into a place where the leaves have blown from the sidewalk across a worn threshold and into a room that boasts the subtle aroma of ink and time. There’s the linoleum counter top, behind which proudly sits a wooden card catalogue with a set of drawers that houses the names of clients: maybe the likes of David Mc Cullogh who is featured in the movie, or perhaps the Cal student who was leaving, or picking up, one of fourteen typewriters she owns. Somewhere in the back, out of sight is the place of sacred repair. The hospital of keys, the surgical center of the thing that came before the computer.

Carmen was there to greet us, and we chatted like old neighbors. She was ready to talk shop, the movie, and the machine that might best fit our chops. Nothing pushy about it, just the facts.

Excitedly I tried out a Brother, an Underwood, the Remingtons and the Royals, all of which were lined up side by side on rows of shelves. I banged at the keys and hammered Carmen with questions, no one skipping a beat.

Ken strolled in and I just about fainted. From behind the counter, in the recognizable sandy voice from the movie, he said “Good afternoon.” The Doctor himself, I thought and he smiled at me on his way to the mysterious clinic in the back where hundreds of machines were waiting for him.

Returning to the lessons at hand I studied a typewriter dating back to 1904, and a skeletal apparatus designed for the blind. Then back to the shelves to revisit the Brother from the 60’s. Gee, I thought, I want to take it home. It was nostalgic: remembering a summer school session when Dad made me take Typing I & II, taught by Miss Brooks. It was the joinder of the mental and physical, an exercise in using the strength and reach of fingers. It was an unadulterated desire to hear the slugs hit the paper and the satisfaction of hearing the clicking of the roller as the paper slides across the platen. Nothing electronic. Pure mechanics.

When it was time to go I decided owning one of these things was something to think about. Just before walking out the door I noticed an elegant typewriter on the counter. I grabbed a random piece of used pink stationery and typed my name.

Woah! For real? The font is in script. I type some more, my fingers effortlessly gliding over the keys. I get lost in the motion and feel like I am dropping into a meditation. It’s groovy and nearly transcendental.

What was this machine? An Hermes (rhymes with worms) 3000 made in Switzerland.

“Solid. Made by a company called Paillard. Not the same as the fashion people,” Ken said, his smile ever broadening. “That’s a nice one. The Swiss knew how to make an efficient machine. Needs a tune up, though. And, it belongs to her,” he added, nodding his head towards the student and owner of some fourteen typewriters, four of which were there for repair. Knowingly, she smiles and slides the machine towards her.

“I use this one to warm up, before I do my real writing,” she says. “It’s like a meditation,” I blink at this groovy connection.

I just had to get my hands on a Hermes 3000, Suisse. Not the clothing line, but still a “messenger to the Gods.”

Once home I returned to my computer where I learned about Paillard-Bolex, a company that made music boxes before making record players. Later they would make radios, then cameras and calculators. I called Carmen. “Yes,” she tells me, “we have two in the back. One from the 50’s, and one from the 60’s. Both in good condition.” That was Thursday.

Friday morning, San Pablo Street. My match was awaiting me: a 1968 the iconic gray-green (the color of my favorite French walls) with softly shaped, cream colored keys. The Hermes 3000 square top would surely stand on its own in my writing room. Offering up an elegant script, along with a reliably firm platen, satisfying clickity roller and easy ribbon release mechanism, this was the perfect fit.