Underwood Golden Portable

         Alan hadn't written in days.  In fact, he was certain that it had probably been weeks or even a month since he had written anything.  Every day he woke up, ate a frozen waffle and a poached egg, brewed a pot of coffee, drank a small glass of orange juice, and then stared expectantly at the blank piece of paper in his typewriter.
         Every day he waited and waited for inspiration to strike him.  He read the newspaper and books by Keats and Hemingway; hoping that the great ones or the events of the day would spark a fire to write.  It didn't happen.
         Not until the day the rains came.
         Perhaps if he'd owned a computer or even a television he would have known how strong the storm was, of the intense scale of it all.  But he only owned a small clock radio that he had on just in the background and rarely paid close attention to.  Alan knew he had heard the announcers talk about some kind of a storm and about rain, but he'd been lost in absent thought whenever the intensity of the storm was mentioned.
         Alan loathed most modern technology.  When people had suggested he get a television or even a small laptop to help with his writing endeavors he had stuck his nose smugly in the air and scoffed before espousing at length how most modern technological advances—especially the internet—would be the downfall of modern society.  Even his typewriter was an old portable model that did not require electricity.  Thus, he did not receive regular visual updates and images from the local Super Doppler radar or up to date information on barometer pressures and wind velocities.  All he had was KDOW, the tri-state area's only place for modern jazz and livestock reports.
         But what the rain did bring was a sudden intellectual awakening.  Suddenly he found himself pounding away on the old and weathered keys of the Underwood Golden Touch Portable typewriter he'd had since college.  Page after page of blank paper that had been sitting patiently on his desk for countless days was suddenly blanketed with indentations and ink. 
         After going so many days without, inspiration and words were now in endless supply and there was rarely so much as a pause from the clapping, lettered arms inside the typewriter's body.  It didn't dawn on him that the rain never ceased pounding on his windows.  For five days he wrote incessantly, pausing only occasionally to pick at the remains of a circle cut ham in the refrigerator or to brew a fresh pot of coffee.  And then he would look through the water streaked glass window pane at the rain and remark to himself that it sure seemed like a lot of rain.  But the torrents of rain were so thick he could barely see several feet away from the house.  He could not see that the water had already overwhelmed the city streets and gutters and was encroaching into his yard.  He had no idea that his backyard was now a large pond shared by he and his neighbors. 
         He had no idea that the water levels were continuing to rise or that some of his neighbors had already fled, having failed at holding back the flood with sandbags.
         What Alan did know was that he was fully engrossed and enjoying the existential voyage his main character was going on.  His every waking hour was spent dedicated to crafting an amazing journey of love, loss, introspection, and sporadic moments of adventure of Gaston De'Leaumont and his faithful friend, Luc.  He did not register the sound of the rain beating on the window sill, the sound of Red Garland's dulcet piano on KDOW's airwaves, or the smooth voice of the KDOW disc jockey's telling listeners in the immediate listening area that they didn't have much to worry about, but that anyone from Alan's town was pretty well screwed.
         Realization arrived on the sixth day of Alan's writing frenzy.
         Gaston was in a particular humorous duel of words and witticism with his lifelong foe, Gerard, when something cold caused Alan to scream.  He pulled his foot up close to him and looked down on the floor, his eyes growing large in shock and awe at the flow of water that was emanating from his front door. 
         He walked through the pool of water forming in his house and approached the front door with trepidation, knowing what he would see but harboring a futile hope that he was imagining things.  He opened the door slowly, his grip loose on the brass knob.  The straight line winds forced the door open quickly, easily plucking the knob from his nimble grasp and nearly knocking him off of his feet.  The rain water that struck Alan felt like a thousand cold needles plunged into his face while his clothes were quickly soaked through.  He fumbled blindly for the door, as he closed his eyes tightly against the downpour and fought with almost every fiber of his being.
         He secured it and supported it with his own weight as he collapsed against it and sat down in water, panicked breaths coming in sharply to his lungs.  He suddenly realized the severity of his situation as it dawned on him that it had indeed been raining powerfully for many days.  He thought about dikes and the levees keeping the river at bay and wondering if they too had been outmatched.  The lights flickered for a moment and he ran to his clock radio and turned up the volume.
         “Five days of constant rains are certainly taking their toll with reports of sporadic floods in some neighborhoods, but for the most part things are under control in the greater metro area.  Wish I could say the same for our friends in Goddick where we're getting reports of severe flooding and evacuations...”
         He snapped off the dial and cursed under his breath.  He looked at the rising tide of water entering his home and then looked at his typewriter and the two stacks of paper on either side of it; one stack untouched, the other stack his amazing manuscript.  He cursed out loud to no one but himself and then laughed in spite of himself.
         He couldn't believe he was actually considering it.  He knew that he should begin packing up his Underwood Golden Touch Portable and packing his manuscript into his leather valise and getting ready to save his own hide.  But he also knew that a creative cascade like the one he'd been riding came only once in a great while, and he knew that he still had plenty left in him.  His masterpiece was nearly complete, he could feel it in his bones.  He was certain he could finish it in time.
         He ransacked his hall closet and found his oil lamps and lit them, placing one at his desk and one at the kitchen table that sat behind him.  He sat down at his desk, took a moment to acknowledge the fact that the water in his home was now at his ankles, and set to writing.
         His fingers flew across the keyboard as quickly as he could manage, fighting chills from the cold water that continued to slowly but steadily rise up his leg.  He fed page after page of blank paper into the machine, pulling them out full of typeface only minutes later and placing them face down on top of their equally marked brethren.  Occasionally he would smoke a cigarette to help keeps his mind off the rising water creeping up his legs.
         The water had finally reached the seat of his chair.  It caught him off guard, like the time his Aunt Esther and groped him at a family picnic after nipping at Cousin Harold's flask one too many times.  He stood up with a yelp and practically toppled his writing desk over.  He reached out and quickly caught his manuscript and his paper, hooking his hands just enough to catch the Golden Touch from slipping into the drink.  He looked down as his wooden desk chair began to float and bob a little in the rising water and he laughed, looking down at his desk and knowing that he had somehow managed to complete an entire manuscript in only a week, after he had gone months without any creative output. 
         He waded to window and looked out, seeing canoes and small fishing boats trolling the new harbor that was once commanded by asphalt streets and bluegrass lawns littered with crabgrass.  The rains had seemed to let up some, but still water fell from the sky.  All sorts of debris floated past his home; logs, patio furniture, sporting equipment that Father had told Junior would disappear if he didn't put his things away where they belonged. 
         His eyes became fixed on the giant log that had set in front of the Greenberg's home down the street, a giant eye sore of landscaping vulgarity that had groan groans from nearly everyone in the neighborhood.  Alan had been pretty ambivalent about it, until he saw it on a collision course with his front window.  It came crashing through the pane glass almost in slow motion, reminding him briefly of the jetliner crashing through the terminal in the first Airport movie.  He tried to dive away from it as the log stuck it's nose uninvited into his home, a surge of water behind it.  He made his way as quickly as he could to his writing desk, hoping to grab up his manuscript before the water could begin to destroy it.          
         He scooped it up as quickly as he could, trying to do so nimbly and with as light a touch as he could manage with his wet fingers.  He found his leather valise sitting on top of his bookshelf and placed his 259 page masterpiece inside and returned it to the top of the book case.  He looked around the room quickly, his breath coming in a rushed panic as he thought about what else he needed to bring with him. 
         He had his manuscript safely tucked away...there was nothing else important that he could think of.  He looked around and down at his faithful Underwood Golden Touch Portable typewriter.  He smiled as he thought fondly on it and the personal literary treasures they'd discovered together.  But he knew that the machine was getting old; the ink was fading (and finding replacement ink ribbons was becoming more difficult every time), the action on the “T” key was getting weak, and the typeface on all of the keys was becoming worn. 
         They'd had good times and they had been through a lot, but he knew that it was now time to say good bye.  Then the corners of his mouth curled sharply downward in a frown at the thought of his beloved Underwood floating down the street, only to wind up inside of some shrubbery in front of a Costco and rusting beyond repair.  The thought hurt him.  He felt his lip curl in a sad sneer as a tear ran down his face. 
         So, with his throat choked up, he grabbed the machine with two hands and held it high over his head.  He took in a deep breath and tried to remember the Western he'd seen as a kid where the white clad hero had to put down his loyal steed to put him out of his misery.  With his eyes still closed tight he began to smash the machine on the writing desk he'd bought while antiquing one weekend with his ex-wife. 
         Keys and arms and other assorted bits of plastic and metal flew through the air, striking his face and splashing all over the room.  Alan couldn't believe it when he realized he was actually laughing as he destroyed his oldest and most loyal friend.
         He heard more clattering against the window behind him.  He turned around sharply, the broken remains of the Underwood in his hands, and saw the Jefferson's backyard furniture rapping at his back window as other debris also flew past his window.
         “No,” he said softly just moments before a piece of debris struck his window and punched a hole through the glass.  The window didn't shatter right away, but spiderweb like cracks wove their way through the remnants of the glass, the dozens of now individual pieces of glass rubbing against each other.  The white lines of the cracks reached out and touched nearly every part of the window sill.  Then Alan heard the pieces almost scream just before the weight of the water outside pushing on them knocked them out of it's way.
         A tidal wave rushed into the room, disturbing not only Alan's tenuous balance, but also everything else in the room, including his book shelf.  The wood paneled shelf began to creak before it too began to sway and move against the rush of water.  Alan screamed out in panic as he tossed the empty carcass of his typewriter aside and tried to rush to the book case as quickly as he could, his eyes fixed on the leather bag sitting atop it.
         The book case toppled over just before he was in reach of it.  It toppled forward towards him.  He shrieked as he raised his hands up to protect his body but the water displaced most of it's force, leaving him mostly with having to awkwardly work it off of him.  He was able to roll it away from him and leapt out of the water as though he were trying to jump out of a pool.  He shook is head and wiped his eyes clear as he gulped air.
         When his sight returned he spun around in a panic.  Almost everything that he owned was now floating around him and he furiously knocked it all away as he looked for the only thing he now cared about, his valise.  The water was now rushing in far more quickly than it had earlier, having now reached his abdomen.  He almost didn't notice the water level as he wept and tried to bat away old paperback editions of books read dozens of times over and hardcover editions of novels he'd never gotten around to reading. 
         Finally he noticed it floating towards the remains of his front window where the Greenberg's giant log still sat.  He fought through the water and floating furniture, trying to move as quickly as he could to the window.  He was nearly to the shattered portal when he attempted to dive toward the valise, just as a rush of current swept it out the window, the leather shoulder strap just slipping away from his fingertips as he got near.  Alan screamed as he fell forward and fell beneath the water.
         His arms and legs flailed as he tried to regain his stance.  Finally he launched himself up and took in a large gulp of air before plunging beneath the water and swimming through the window and beneath the log that still sat wedged inside of it.
         When he emerged on the other side he had to shield his eyes from the wind and spraying water.    Tears and rain intermingled on his face as he plodded through the flood.  Finally he caught glimpse of it, near the intersection of 4th and Vine.  The bottom corner of the YEILD sign had caught the strap and was just barely keeping it from floating away.  Alan shrieked with joy as he began to swim toward it, aware that the big was becoming less and less visible as the leather became heavy with water. 
         He swam as fast as he could, fighting through the burning in his shoulders and the numbness in his toes.  Alan had never been a strong swimmer, having never mastered the art of breathing while in full stroke.  So he swam blindly and clumsily, swallowing as much water as he did air, but not once stopping in his pursuit.
         Once again, he was within just inches of the valise when the unthinkable happened.  George Richmond, the town's wealthiest and most loathsome resident, sped by in his $300,000 speed boat.  Alan heard the roar of the two 480 horsepower engines before he saw the forty foot long monstrosity come bouncing down the recently formed canal.  He couldn't hear him, but he knew with total certainty that Richmond was cackling with glee.
         The speedboat's wake sent rocky waves toward Alan, knocking him backwards and bobbing in the drink.  Once he steadied himself he again caught sight of his valise.  He was relieved that the satchel was now floating towards him, but was equally dismayed that is was floating far more quickly than he was.  He twisted in the water and changed course to try and intercept it.  He heard voices shouting at him, but he dared not stop to hear them.  He remained focused on his goal and concentrated on rescuing his attache.
         The boat hull hurt his hand quite a bit as it cut in front of him just as he plunged his right hand forward in mid stroke.  The pain shot sharply up his arm and Alan was almost certain that he'd broken at least one finger or knuckle.  He stopped and howled in pain as the fishing boat with it's outboard engine glided past him atop the water.  He opened his eyes just in time to see the boat coast to a relative stop in front of him.  Directly on top of his valise.
         “No!” he screamed, waving his arms violently.  “Move up!  Move up!”
         The two occupants of the fishing boat looked at each other oddly before the man operating the engine shrugged.  He lowered the engine back into the water and gunned it, propelling the boat forward.  Almost immediately the engine began screaming and debris flew out of the water around it.
         “What in the hell!” he screamed as he quickly cut the power and lifted the motor from the water.
         Alan immediately began to weep as he saw shredded strips of leather float entwined around the propeller and thousands of bits of paper float past him.
         “Hey man,” said the boater to him, “did you see what the hell that was?”
         “Yes,” he sobbed.  “It was my valise.”
         “Son of a bitch,” said the boater.  “You owe me two thousand dollars.”
         Alan screamed again.