By John McPhee
The old timer watches from a shelf in the corner of his office as the technician sets up the latest arrival.
“They get smaller every time,” he scoffs. “I wonder how long this one will last.”
The technician inputs codes on the new keyboard.
“OK, you’re good to go,” he tells a young boy waiting impatiently.
“Did you load my games too?”
“Yes, it’s fully loaded with all the bells and whistles, and your games.”
“Cool. Thanks. Bye.”
The old timer sees the young lad typing on the new keyboard. Suddenly the large computer screen lights up showing floating spaceships ready for battle.
“Times sure have changed,” the old timer tells himself. “This isn’t a communication tool, it’s a toy!”
He remembers a time when he was new. “We had important work to do,” he tells himself. “We didn’t have time for silly games.”
But those are memories of a bygone era. He’s been sitting on the shelf for so long now, unused, unnoticed, unloved. He wonders if anything could even work again. “At least they dust me off every now and then. That’s something I guess.”
A little while later, a woman’s voice could be heard calling the young lad. “Peter! Dinner. Go wash up.”
The boy ignores the call.
Minutes later the owner of the voice appears in the room.
“Didn’t you hear me young man?” She bellows.
“Turn that off right now and get ready for dinner. Besides, you shouldn’t be playing games, don’t you have a book report due tomorrow?”
“Aww Mom! I’ve got lots of time, I’ll do it tonight.”
They leave the room.
With no humans present, the equipment – old and new – can communicate between themselves.
“Who are you?” The newcomer asks.
“They call me Underwood.”
“Wow! You sure are big. And clunky!”
“I was pretty slick in my day.”
“You’re missing a few keys. Where’s your save button? Where’s the send one? And where’s your cord?”
“Never had them, never needed them.”
“Well, you look pretty limited to me. Bet you can’t do half of what I …”
Just then the power went off in the house, and the newcomer lost his voice. Peter could be heard yelling about the book report.
The woman returns to the room. With a grunt she lifts the old timer off the shelf and plunks him down on a table.
“This was what your great-grandfather used to put out the town paper years ago,” she tells her son. “I suggest you start typing. And press hard on the keys. Really hard. You’ll have to do it one finger at a time, Peter.”
“This is hard Mom!” The boy complains.
“Just keep trying,” she replies. “One finger at a time.”
Slowly, the old timer feels his joints limbering up. He hears the clickety-clack of the keys as they strike a paper rolled tightly around the rubber platen.
“Well, what do you know,” he tells himself. “Looks like I’m back in business.” RR