The Tool

The first time he saw one was when he was sixteen years old. After the incident with the shopkeeper he decided to keep better track of his age: he picked August as his birth month and started counting from there. Now at sixteen, August was in a museum crashing a high school tour group. He originally joined them to be around kids his own age but now he was actually enjoying the history lesson.

He stopped in front of a beautiful piece. Its metal frame gleamed as if it were newly polished. August leaned as close as he could without disturbing the protective glass. The pull of the machine was magnetic: he could almost feel the tingle in his fingers itching to touch the keys.

Years passed since then but when he saw one again, he felt that same tingle in his fingers. All the words inside him were longing to get out.

"Excuse me," he called to the shopkeeper. "How much is that?"

"Ah, you have an excellent eye for quality, sir. This particular piece has been restored. I couldn't let it go for anything less than two hundred dollars." August felt his heart drop. He would never be able to afford that with the money he got from selling his wooden figurines. But what else could he do?

August puzzled over it as he wandered the streets. Suddenly a tire came rolling out from a building. He grabbed it before it escaped to the street.

"Dammit!" An older man wearing a blue jumpsuit poked his head out of a building. "Oh, you got it. Thank you. Bring it on in here." August obliged and found himself inside a mechanic's shop. A car was jacked up several feet in the air and missing one of its wheels. "Sorry about that," the man was saying. "I'm a little short-handed."

"Really." August idly picked up a wrench, weighing it in his hands. He watched mechanics and read about it in books. Besides, he needed something to take his mind off Leah. "I'd love to help out, if you're willing to give me a shot."

The man eyed him thoughtfully. "You know how to change a tire?" August answered with a bright smile.

There was a kind of peaceful simplicity in fixing things. He could get lost under the hood of a car, all other thoughts temporarily drifting out of his mind. It was satisfying to see the grease on his hands from a long day at work. Work. August still couldn't believe he was enjoying it, and that he was being paid to boot.

His co-worker kindly guided him as he worked. When he heard the man's name was Jim, August couldn't help chuckling a little. Once he got to know the man he saw Jim was exceedingly patient and hardworking. He even let August sleep in the shop after the younger man confessed he had no home. When they weren't working Jim would construct model airplanes.

"It's good to keep your hands busy," he told August. "I've been thinking… I have a friend who restores old motorcycles. If you ever wanted a change of pace, I could send you over to him."

"I'd like that. Thanks."

It took a long time but August finally made enough money to buy that beautiful piece of machinery at last. To keep it from being damaged August had fashioned a box. He was pleased when it fit snugly inside.

"I hate to pry," the shopkeeper said, "but what does a grease monkey like you want with a typewriter, anyway?"

"Well, actually…" August rested his hand on the box lovingly. The answer was so easy he didn't even need to come up with a lie. "I'm a writer."