I stopped at the grocer's to pick up some salami and a loaf of bread, and then I went back to my apartment. I lived in a small, one-room flat in the Village. I'd migrated there because I wanted to be surrounded by creative people. I'd been surrounded by them for close to six months now, but none of it had rubbed off on me. I'd finally been forced to sell my old typewriter to pay the rent, so that finding this one today--and at the ridiculous price of five dollars--had really been a godsend. I was almost happy as I prepared the salami sandwiches for my supper. When they were ready, I took them, together with a quart of milk and a glass, over to the small table that served as my desk. I carefully took the typewriter out of its case and rested it on the table. I closed the case then, brought it to the closet, and put it on the top shelf alongside my rainy-day hat. I went back to the table, sipped a little milk, munched a little of the salami sandwich, and put a sheet of paper into the machine. I knew exactly what I wanted to type, mind you. I'd had the opening lines of the story in my mind for a good many weeks, only waiting for a typewriter to get them onto paper. They were fairly bubbling out of my head as I placed my hands on the keys. What I wanted to type was: _The day was crisp and clear, with the promise of a mild afternoon in the air. It was the beginning of April, and Spring rustled her greenness and yawned leisurely. I walked along happily._ It was beautiful. I started to type. _During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing along, on horseback...._ I stopped typing. I stared at the sheet of paper in the machine. I looked at it again. "Hm," I said aloud, "isn't that funny?" I shrugged, ripped the paper out of the machine, inserted another sheet, and started again. ... _I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher._ _I know now how it was--but_.... * * * * * I stopped typing again, and I looked curiously at the sheet of paper. I took a bite of the salami sandwich, washed it down with a gulp of milk, and then stared at what I'd written, leaning back with my hands off the keys. "Well, I'll be damned," I said aloud. "Poe!" The keys suddenly started clacking of their own accord, and my mouth fell open in surprise. I stared at the sheet of paper as the carriage moved frantically, watching the black letters appear against its whiteness. _OF COURSE, POE! WHAT DID YOU EXPECT: HEMINGWAY?_ I blinked my eyes twice. "I beg your pardon," I said. The keys clacked, and the carriage moved, and I watched more words appear on the paper. _CAN'T YOU READ, IDIOT?_ "Of course I can read!" I protested. _THEN WHY DID YOU BEG MY PARDON?_