The Chipped Key by Emma Reid
2021 Fall Flash Fiction Winner
I reached into the box at my feet and gingerly lifted the typewriter, placing it carefully on the shelf in front of me. It was a prominent spot in the store, visible from the street, the last rays of afternoon light landing on it just so.
I placed a folded piece of card next to it that read “Excellent working condition, last used in the 1930’s.” The truth was I preferred items that weren’t in perfect condition. Customers did as well. My father used to repeat this sentiment to me, winking as he pointed to a chip on the lip of a china teacup or scratch marks across the top of a wooden cabinet. “The imperfections are the best part, Alice. They convince people that they’re buying the real deal.”
In this case, the imperfections appeared small, noticeable only if you were looking at it carefully, a single chipped key, the letter E and a small hairline crack on the underside of the machine. I pressed gently on the E key and it made a satisfying thunk.
The bell hanging from the front door jingled, pulling me away from the typewriter. I turned to greet the customer, but when I flashed a smile at the old gentleman who had entered, he scowled in response. “I need to speak to the owner,” he hissed.
“Yes, that’s me.” His brow furrowed, “No, that can’t be right. Edmund Hamilton is the owner.” I nodded understandingly, “He used to be, that’s true. I’m his daughter, Alice Hamilton. I took over for him after he died.” The man’s scowl had disappeared, but I knew what he was about to say before he said it. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he began, “but your father, he –”
“He was a fraud,” I cut him off before he could finish speaking, and the man looked taken aback. “I know,” I said gently, as if I was the one breaking the news, “And I’m sorry if he lied to you. He made a career of it.” The man seemed to be at a loss for words, so I continued, “I’ve tried to restore the reputation of the store. I promise, only genuine antiques have been sold at Hamilton’s Fine Wares since his death.”
His face softened as his eyes took in his surroundings. He looked around for a moment before his eyes landed on the typewriter, I could see a cloud of nostalgia settling over him. “Can you believe it hasn’t been touched since Roosevelt was president?” He chuckled, running his hands over the keyboard, and I knew it was as good as sold. The chipped key, the cracked underside, it would be years before he realized it was built from materials only available in the 90’s. I smiled to myself. The imperfections would convince him it was the real deal, which was exactly what he wanted.
Emma Red is a communications professional working in the arts in Toronto. She writes poetry and fiction, and her work can be found in Flash Fiction Magazine. Emma is currently working on her first novel but might abandon it any day now.