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THE ZEN OF ALL THINGS QWERTY
Relentless summertime heat competes head-on with drenching summertime humidity. It doesn’t matter which one wins, because we boys of summer know full well that we are the losers either way.
Today, it’s the late 1950′s in memory green. I am sitting in an un-air-conditioned classroom at Tuscaloosa High School, bent over the keys of an old manual typewriter, fingers poised for the starting gun held high by my typing teacher at the head of the class. When the gun goes off, we clacking victims will be off and running, trying to see how many words per minute we can produce without error.
My pal, Jon Charles Palmer, sits next to me at his own machine, staring hopelessly at the keys, acting as if he and I are ready, willing and able to enter the same contest…even though we know that deep down inside we are actually unready, unwilling and unable to accomplish very much.
Jon Charles and I share the same sense of doom. Each day of summer school, we have primarily goofed off, kidded around, passed notes, giggled, stared at out-of-our-league coeds and in every way ignored the typing lessons. We can’t get over the silliness of our situation–having to make up for poor grades by serving out this summer school sentence.
And whenever we look down at the word QWERTY on the keys beneath our fingers, we are overcome with stifled laughter. QWERTY has become our mantra. While prim and efficient coeds apply their practice and studies to the task at hand, Jon Charles and I are acting like the nerdy pranksters we are. And now we will pay the price.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, glance around the room at coeds, teacher, typewriters, shiny-surfaced desks, open windows, and one solitary apple glistening from a corner of the front desk. Wonder which student brought that to class. Why didn’t I think of that? Dang.
The gun goes off, the clickety-clacking ensues, Jon Charles and I go at it with full gusto. He and I are frowning intensely at the keys, even though it is forbidden to look at them while typing. “A professional typist knows where the letters are, does not need to look down,” the teacher pontificates on many occasions.
“Time’s up!” proclaims the warden.
The inmates pause, lean back, gaze at their handiwork. The coeds are pleased and have successfully executed perfect documents. I stare in disbelief at my error-filled sheet of paper and begin to tally my handiwork.
“Fifteen words per minute?” I look at Jon Charles. Jon Charles looks at me, having just about accomplished the same thing.
My career as a typist is over. I barely escape the course with a C average. I continue to be the worst typist in Tuscaloosa County. Until one day, when I become a writer.
Now, at last, I am motivated to type. My newfound career requires me to: Type fast. Type confidently. Type to persistent deadlines. My job is to write and report. I love having the job, receiving the paycheck, seeing my very own words come alive in black and white. I am now the world’s fastest–and most inaccurate–typist and, once I learn to proofread and edit, even my rapidly sloppy typing can be “fixed” to read correctly.
Even Jon Charles Palmer finds his own way as a professional, is eventually motivated to type.
All we need is motivation. A cell block full of heat and humidity and QWERTYness just doesn’t cut it if you’re a 1950′s teenager clueless to the world and tuned solely into your own undisciplined imagination and ungainly body.
And the mystery remains: How do all those coeds appear to keep it together? They seem to know how to stay the course and get the task done, while we guys just meander along, waiting a few more years till QWERTY fades and maturity arises.
This much I know. QWERTY seems more important now, all these decades later, than just about anything else this summer. That’s because QWERTY remains before me each and every day, grinning back at me from the keyboard, reminding me that ninety per cent of life is finding something to giggle at when times are muddled
© 2016 A.D. by Jim Reed
http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast