TYPEWRITER MAN

There’s no such thing as an accordion style typewriter, but if there were, Tutor Lefty sure did play it like an amateur. His real specialty was computers. After two all nighters talking with HP’s tech support and drinking gallons of Coca-Cola, I couldn’t take it any more. Bleary-eyed and hallucinating, I asked Lefty if he knew anything about missing DLL files. I knew to ask him—whenever our DP (data processing) coordinator installed the newest security measures on our classroom computers, it was Lefty who would demonstrate the newest security breeches. It never took him longer than ten minutes to get around all the firewalls.

"Boss," he said, "write down exactly what DLL file you’re missing. I’ll show you where to find it so you can make a copy for your home computer."

Such an easy fix. Why didn’t tech support tell me this?

One day, like most workdays, amidst the organized chaos, I shouted at Lefty to type out our classroom inventory sheet.

"Yes Boss," he replies.

While he’s pecking away at the keys, the other four tutors and I monitor each student’s progress. They all work at different grade levels (kindergarten through twelfth). I document all their completed assignments on my computer. I swear, some of them think I have access to God on that thing, or at least a direct connection to Lansing, Michigan.

"Can you tell me how much I got in my account?"
"Can you tell me if I got my parole?"
"Can you tell me if they have a size thirty-six underwear in stock?"

I pretend to do a file search on my computer and blurt out any old answers that pop up into my head—"Your account balance is fifty-three cents. You got a twenty-four month flop. The largest size in stock are thirty-two's."

By the end of my shift I’m usually mentally drained and ready to go home. My motto: I’ll do my eight and hit the gate. "Pack it up," I yell at my tutors, who immediately put my resource materials back on the rolling cart for me to lock up. I’m usually clearing off my desk at this point.

I hear Lefty still pecking away at the keys. "Lefty," I shout. "What’re you, the slowest typer in the west? Put it on the cart."

"In a minute Boss. I’m almost finished."

The other tutors start laughing. I look over at Lefty. He waves at me with his prosthetic arm. "Oh for crying outloud! Why didn’t you say something?"

"Just doing my job, Boss."