Sans Serif

She took another sip of her coffee, and looking rather matter-of-factly, said, "I have another half-day of seminar, and then I'm planning on stopping at the new Holocaust Museum in DC before returning to BWI to catch my flight home."

"The Holocaust Museum," I exclaimed. "Oh no - no. That's the last thing I would want to see. I know it's all true, and I agree that those lives lost should be honored and never be forgotten. But I just don't think I could stand seeing the horror of what those poor people went through."

After my thoughtless soliloquy, Ellen set her cup down, unwrapped the towel from her hair, and after hanging it on the back of the chair, shook her head to release her dark brunette locks from their matted confines and simply said, "Well, I'd better get dressed."

Walking to the closet, she pulled out the same pantsuit she had worn the day I met her and a fresh dark blue blouse. I realized that I had probably stepped in it. But I had already said it, and I wasn't sure how to backtrack now. I also had a half-day seminar I was supposed to attend, and apparently, my flight back to California was sooner than hers to New York.

As Ellen began dressing, I slowly stood and walked toward the door. "Will I ever see you again?" I asked.

"You have my card," she said as she was buttoning her blouse.

I reached to hug her goodbye, but she turned sideways, only allowing me a side hug. "I'll call you," I said as I opened the door to her room and stepped out into the hallway.

I returned to my room, showered, and got dressed. But I was not feeling good about our final hour together. I grabbed a croissant downstairs before heading to my seminar. And as expected, it was every bit as dull and boring as the first two days. But to be honest, I couldn't get my mind off Ellen. Last night could not have been a mistake. There was obviously something there. But why did it go so wrong, so fast, this morning?

I left the seminar during the first coffee break. I picked up my luggage from the bellman's storage closet and headed for BWI. I was several hours early for my flight. So, after passing through security, I had a lunch of Maryland Crab Cakes and a beer, and then another beer as I played the last twenty-four hours over and over through my head.

Back in San Diego, I couldn't get Ellen off my mind. Sitting at my desk, performing routine daily tasks, I was fine. But when attending meetings, a staple of government life, all I could think about was her. I couldn't pay attention to the conversation, and I certainly couldn't add anything intelligent to the discussion. All I could think about was the night we had spent together and the sea change in her demeanor the next morning.

And when I was at home, it was even worse. It was true; I did have her business card - just as she had mine. But it was her office phone number and her business e-mail address. I had nothing to discuss with her regarding IBM's travel policy or official business. And tormented by her change in attitude the morning after, I wasn't sure if we were still on solid ground or not. I just wish she would reach out to me or there was some other way to contact her besides her business address.

* * *

About three weeks after the best night of my life, I was walking my dog several blocks from my house on a Saturday morning. Bored and lonely, I spotted a neighborhood garage sale. I don't usually visit garage sales, as I have always considered them junk sales. And why would I buy someone else's junk just to make it - my junk?

But slowly walking up and down the aisles of items these families no longer wanted, I spotted something that caught my eye. It was an old IBM Selectric typewriter. And more interesting, it was one of the original models - now known as Selectric I. It had the rounded corners of the first design. It didn't have the self-correction feature as the Selectric II did. And it didn't have the variable pitch or the half-space feature. But it did have the unique IBM Selectric Element, or typeball, as it is usually referred to. And what really caught my eye was that it was an IBM - as Ellen was. And that it was painted a baked powder blue gray - the same as Ellen's panties the night I had the honor of removing them.

A woman who looked like she may have been in charge of the sale approached me. "Are you interested in the typewriter?" she asked.

I glanced down at the asking price of fifty dollars. "Ah, does it work?" I asked - interested but not ready to buy.

"Oh yes, of course," she immediately replied as she flicked it on. Up until that moment, I hadn't realized that it was plugged in. She rolled a clean sheet of paper onto the platen, and as the magical IBM Selectric Element (typeball) sprang to life, she effortlessly typed, 'The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog' without a single typo.

"Wow," I exclaimed. "You've used a typewriter before." She just smiled and nodded. "So, why are you selling it?"

"It was my grandfather's. He was a lawyer here in San Diego. And this typewriter was used daily in his office for over thirty years."

Without trying to be rude, I asked again. "So, why are you selling it?"

She sighed woefully, "Well, he passed away two years ago, and to be honest, no one in the family wants it. Everybody either has a computer or wants one. IBM has even stopped making the Selectric. Which makes me sad, but that's the way the world is going."

"And fifty bucks?" I asked, pointing to the price sticker. Realizing that almost everything else at the garage sale was priced between twenty-five cents and two dollars.

"It still works," she said. "And besides, not everyone can afford a computer. And it comes with a replacement typeball, a dust cover, half a box of ribbons, and the original user's manual."

I tried to act uninterested, but I think she already knew she had just sold it. So, there wasn't much point in trying to negotiate. "I'll take it," I said, to no surprise of anyone.

Once home with my new toy, I plugged it in at my desk in my bedroom and started typing. I had a computer at work, as did everyone else. But I certainly remember the old typewriter days, as they really weren't that far back - not in 1995. And the owner's manual, or user's manual as it was called, was absolutely fascinating. My new typewriter had apparently been made in 1963, thirty-two years ago. Let's see, I would have been thirteen back then and probably in eighth grade.

I swapped out the typeball, as the one originally on it was wearing out. And the spare one appeared to be brand new. The original one was a New Times Roman, a standard font, especially for a law firm. However, the other typeball, the newer one, was in a font called Letter Gothic. I liked it as it was sans-serif and looked cleaner and more modern than the traditional New Times Roman. I stayed up playing with my new toy until well after midnight that first night. And even though it was an IBM. And it was a baked powder blue-gray; it kept my mind off Ellen.

I didn't tell anyone at work about my investment, as they all thought I was nerdy enough and I didn't need to provide any additional material for them. But once I got home every night, I'd fix myself dinner, walk the dog, and then type on the Selectric for several hours. I already knew how to type, but the more I practiced and wrote short little stories, the better and better I got. In fact, I think I was up to fifty words a minute within several weeks.

I'm not sure the night it happened, but somewhere during the third or fourth week after I purchased the Selectric, it was around two in the morning. I was asleep when suddenly I heard the typewriter come on. I had the dust cover on it, and I didn't want it to overheat. So, I jumped from the bed and raced across the room to try and figure out what had just happened. As I pulled off the dust cover, it immediately started typing. I couldn't believe it - I was just glad that there was a piece of paper in it. And to my shock and awe, it began typing out, 'Dean, are you there?'

I flicked on my desk light and stood there in shock for several moments. 'Who is this?' I typed back.

'It's Ellen, you silly boy. Who did you think it was?'

'Ellen, what are you doing in my typewriter?'

'I'm not IN your typewriter. I'm here, at home in New York. And why haven't you called me?'

'Ellen,' I paused, as I wasn't sure what to say. 'Ellen, I only had your business phone and e-mail. And well, the morning I left your room - well, the morning after. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to call you or not.'

Now there was a long pause on her end, maybe two or three minutes. 'Dean, I told you that I wasn't a morning person. But there was more - I mean, there was more to it than that.'

Again, the typewriter fell silent. Was she going to tell me, or was it my turn to type something? 'Ellen, it's okay,' I typed. 'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.' I paused again, hoping to hear more from her. But when I didn't, I added, 'Can I call you?'

'I'll meet you here later - on the typewriter,' was all she said. And then there was nothing. My Selectric was still on - still running. But it had gone silent. It was now about two-fifteen in the morning. I tried to think, let's see, if it's two o'clock here, it must be five o'clock there. Maybe she was on her way to work. But why and how did she reach me on the typewriter? And how did she even know I had a typewriter? I bought it after we had met in Washington. And we haven't communicated since. So, how did she know? And is this some sort of possessed machine?

I turned off the typewriter and went back to bed. But as for sleeping, I'm not sure I got much of that. Once the sun was up, the first thing I did was to check the paper still on the roller - and yes, the words Ellen had typed, and the words I had typed in response, were still there. I had not simply dreamed it.

I carefully removed the page from the typewriter and placed it in the top drawer of my desk. I then rolled a fresh sheet onto the platen, hoping she would write again soon. And I didn't put the dust cover back on, just in case the Selectric came on again by itself.

At work that day, I played the entire scenario over and over in my head. I still had absolutely no idea how what had just happened - had happened. Was it magic? Or were Russian spies trying to infiltrate my work with the Navy. If it was spies, they were going to be somewhat disappointed. Because most of the stuff I worked on was totally unclassified. And the little bit of classified material I did have access to would be a waste of their time. And why would a Russian spy want to go to the Holocaust Museum? Oh, unless she was an Israeli spy? But that was even more preposterous. My mind was just playing tricks on me. But at least I'm circumcised, I joked to myself - just in case.

The more likely scenario was that she was married and was afraid to talk. Yes, that was probably it. She must have been married or lived with an intimate partner. And she didn't want him, or her, to know that she had cheated on them. That's probably why her mood changed so notably the morning after we had spent the night together.

So, she wasn't comfortable with me calling her at work or at home, and probably all for the same reason. And I couldn't safely e-mail her work address, as I'm sure her account is monitored, as is my Navy e-mail address. But the good news is that she contacted me and wants to stay in touch. And that really, really made my day.

Over the next several days, I spent more and more time playing with the typewriter, hoping that Ellen would contact me. Every evening, as soon as I got home from work, I'd catch the evening news while eating my take-out for the day. Then, I'd quickly walk the dog. Not that I had to, because he always had the back yard. But because it was our tradition, and he deserved it after I was gone all day. Then, I'd sit at the small desk in my bedroom and type on the Selectric, hoping to get a message from Ellen.

Every night, before I turned off my light and crawled into bed, I would place a clean sheet of paper on the roller - just in case she tried to contact me. Almost a week went by, and not a word. Even though I would start every blank page with, 'Ellen, are you there?' I was beginning to get worried when, finally, on a Friday night around seven o'clock, the typing element sprang to life without my fingers on the keyboard.

'Dean, are you there?'

'Ellen, is that you? Where have you been?'

There was no response to where she had been. But after a moment or two, she typed, 'What are you doing?'

'I'm just sitting here hoping you would respond.' I assumed it was probably eleven o'clock in New York. So, maybe she was getting ready for bed. But if she was living with someone - where were they? Maybe her being married or having a partner was just my own paranoia.

There was another pause before she typed, 'Are you already in bed?'

'No, it is only seven o'clock here. I'm just sitting at my desk.'

'Are you alone?'

'Well, Henry is here, laying at my feet.'

"Henry?'

'My dog. Henry is my dog.'

There was another pause, as she was probably laughing. 'What are you wearing?' she finally typed.

Now, I was the one to pause. 'Uh - pants. And a shirt and shoes. Henry and I just got back from our evening walk.'

'That's too bad.' Ellen typed. 'I was hoping you would be in bed.'

'I can't type to you if I'm in bed. It's across the room.' There was no immediate response, so I added, 'What are you wearing?'

'Panties!' was all she typed.

'That sounds lovely,' I quickly wrote back. 'I wish I was there.'

She didn't respond to my being there, but she soon typed, 'Unbutton your shirt. I want to feel your chest hairs.'

'Done,' I typed as soon as the last button was free.

'I can feel it,' she typed. 'You are so masculine. I love the feel of your hairy chest.'

I was running my left hand across my chest, pretending it was her hand, when she added, 'I want to feel your cock.'

I unbuckled my belt, zipped down my zipper, and slid my hand in under my briefs. As I began to stroke myself with my left hand, I typed the best I could with my right hand only. 'I'm doing it.'

'Oh, you are so hard,' she typed. 'I can feel it.' There was a pause before she added, 'Push your pants all the way off. I want to play with your balls.'

Now, how she knew my pants weren't all the way off, I'll never know. But somehow, she knew, and I quickly followed her instructions. Soon, other than my open shirt and my socks, I was naked and sitting back in my chair. 'OK, mistress, I am your servant,' I typed with my right hand, while gently cradling my nut sack with my left.

'Oh - they are so big. So big and firm.' I was now as hard as I had been the night she sucked me dry, and I couldn't wait for the next instruction. 'Now stroke yourself Dean. Stroke yourself very, very slowly.'

I didn't type a response, but I immediately began to follow her instructions. Besides, I usually cradle the boys with my right hand when I stroke myself with my left. And now that my right hand was forced to multitask, my quick responses were getting slower and harder (pun intended) to perform.

'Slow Dean, slow - slow - slow. I want you to last. I want to savior you for as long as I can,' Ellen typed slowly.

How she knew the speed of my stroke, I'll never know. But she certainly seemed to have a very good woman's intuition. For, unintentionally, I was going faster and faster. 'Are you going slow?' she inquired.

'Yes mistress,' I was able to respond. But it was a lie, and I think she knew it.

'Are you lubed or sans lube?' she typed. It took me a minute to decipher her question. But I soon realized she was asking if I had oiled my pole or not. I was dry, as I had no idea I'd be doing this when I sat down at my desk. I had personal lubricant in my bedside table drawer, but I couldn't reach it without getting up. So, I was doing myself dry as a cob - as if it mattered. I so badly wanted to know what she was doing, but I really didn't have a free hand to type with.

'Slow, Dean, I really want to taste you,' she typed after a pause.

But again, I didn't reply. I was too busy.

'You squirted - didn't you?' Ellen finally typed after I failed to respond in a timely manner.

'Yes mistress,' I was able to type with one sticky finger. 'You are a bad - bad boy,' she responded.

'I couldn't help it, Ellen - you made me do it.'

'Well, go get cleaned up,' she typed. 'And then go to bed. I'm in bed, and I want you there too. So that we can dream of each other.' And then she added, 'Make sure Henry stays on the floor.'

I laughed so hard I almost slid out of my chair. But after wiping my hand on my shirt, I typed, 'No worries. When will I see you again?'

'Good night Dean - lover xxx.'

I went to bed early that night and slept like a baby. I still had no idea if she was truly single or not. But at least Ellen was still there, and she still wanted to have sex with me. Even if it was just typewriter sex.

The following weekend, I had to type a letter to my Homeowners Association. It was about Henry, of course, so I had to be very diplomatic. I typed the letter first with the Letter Gothic ball on the Selectric. It looked good, but not formal enough. So, I switched the typeball back to Times Roman and retyped the letter. It did look more professional, so I mailed that one and saved the original as my copy. For some reason, I did not change the ball back to Letter Gothic.

I didn't hear back from Ellen for almost a week, even though I sent her a 'Are you there, Ellen,' every night. It wasn't until the following Friday that I switched the typeball back to Letter Gothic. And it was just because I liked it better - not because I thought there was any connection to Ellen. But later that night, she responded.

'Dean, are you there?'

'Yes Ellen. Where have you been?' I realized it really wasn't any of my business. But the words just flew from my fingers as if I had a right to know.

'You must have switched the element,' was her response. It took me a minute to understand what she was talking about.

'Oh, you mean the typeball - the font?' I asked.

'Yes - I can only reach you if you have the Letter Gothic font ball on your typewriter.'

I had no idea it made any difference, but I didn't ask why. For I'm sure I wouldn't understand. I don't comprehend how any of this was possible. So, why would I understand what difference any particular font makes?

We played typewriter sex for maybe ten minutes before I asked, 'Am I ever going to see you again?'

'Later Sweetie - xxx,' was the answer, and she was gone for the night. I didn't know if she meant that we would be getting together in the near future. Or was she just abruptly signing off because she was interrupted or had something more important to do.

I went to bed early that night and finished the job that we had started during our tele-conversation. And it was good. But not as good as if she had been talking me through it - or, better yet, done it in person.

When I returned home from work the following day, there was a message waiting for me on the Selectric. It was her travel schedule. Most of her overnight trips where east of the Mississippi, but one immediately caught my eye.