I got this idea. Well, a dream, I reckon that's what it was. I'm not used to having dreams that I wake up feeling okay about. So, I jotted this one down...
The old Underwood typewriter has a sticking 'E'. It's like writing with a stutter.
You find a rhythm, tap-tap-clack. Then the key sticks, leaving a black smudge instead of a letter. I’ve oiled it with three-in-one and cleaned the grease with an old toothbrush. Still, the machine has its own ideas. It's older than I am, so I suppose it has the right to be stubborn.
I was trying to write down what Arthur told me about the railway arches.
Arthur insists there's a cellar under the third arch. One that the council overlooked in the seventies. He says during the blitz, the locals used it as an unofficial shelter. And when they cleared out, they left a crate of old dark navy rum behind.
—Solid oak crate, Arthur said, his eyes wide.
—Buried behind three feet of brick and plaster. If we get a cold chisel and a lump hammer, we could be in there by Sunday night.
—And what if it's old sewer pipes, Arthur? I asked him.
—Sewer pipes don't clink when you tap the brick, do they?
Arthur's retired now. His wife won’t let him keep his pigeons, so he spends his days searching for lost treasure in the borough. Most times he finds rusty bicycle frames and damp cardboard, but you have to admire the hope in him. It keeps him moving.
I wrote three paragraphs of the story before the 'E' became so jammed that it almost bent the key bar. I took it as a sign to close the desk and go to bed. The rum, if it's there, has waited eighty years. It can wait another night.
Simple, right? But I liked the story. As I said: my dreams are more often nightmares. So this was a good one.