The keys did not move. I slammed my palm onto the space bar. "Clamming up, eh? After you've gone and put my foot into it, you just shut up! Well, all right, stay shut up. See if I give one good damn!" The typewriter didn't seem to care much. It didn't form a single word. I threw the carriage all the way to the right, stalked to the closet and slammed my rainy-day hat onto my head, even though it wasn't raining. At the door, I shot a hot glance at the machine, and then walked out, slamming the flimsy wood behind me. * * * * * I went straight to the pawn shop. I slammed the glass door behind me, hard enough so that I thought it'd shatter, and then I stalked over to the counter. The old man was nowhere in sight. I banged my fist on the wooden counter top. "Hey!" I yelled. "Just a minute." I sucked in a deep breath, held it until I thought I'd burst. "Hey!" I bellowed. "All right, all right." He came from the back of the store. He wore glasses, and he had a shock of black, unruly hair that toppled onto his forehead, giving his thin face a disheveled look. "Where's your boss?" I asked. "What?" He lifted his eye-shade, stared at me curiously. "Who?" "Your boss. The fat guy with the bald head and the mustache." He stared at me for another moment. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said at last. "Look," I said, "your boss. The little guy who sold me the typewriter." "What typewriter?" he asked blankly. "The typewriter! My God, man, don't you know anything that goes on around here? The Remington Noiseless portable. The one that was in the window." "A Remington? In my window?" "Yes," I said patiently. "Right in your window." I pointed without turning around. "Right out there in your window. There. In the window." "You're mistaken," he said. "I'm not mistaken. Don't be foolish. I came in here this afternoon and bought a typewriter. A Remington Noiseless portable. It cost me five dollars, and...." He shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, no. You're mistaken." "Oh hell, there's no sense talking to you. When will your boss be back?" "I have no boss," he said indignantly. "I am my own boss. I _own_ this shop." "Oh," I said, "I see. Well, this fat guy probably works for you then. Is he out to supper?" His eyes narrowed. "There is no fat guy working for me. There is nobody working for me. I work alone." "Huh?" "I-work-alone," he said slowly, as if he were repeating the sentence for a sub-level moron. "Alone?" I gulped hard. "Alone," he said firmly. "Oh." "Was there anything else I could do for you, sir?" he asked bitingly. "Before I close for the evening?"