How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming is the 7th chapter of Alistair Vogan's upcoming novel, a) circus.
That evening after he had locked up Laundry-Land, Kingsley carried an old typewriter he’d purchased from a pawnshop, and the stack of paper piled on top of it, to the dining room table. He stood before the table. Mrs. Filmon talked cheerfully in the otherwise quiet room. ...all alone, he thought about his dilemma. It occurred to the fluffy blue jay Nick, as the wind whistled and the rain poured down upon his soggy backside... ...in the lonely field, that the First National Bank at the... She was like filthy wallpaper you might pull away from in a window-less room. Although it caused him great anxiety, especially when he thought about it, had he been another person listening in he would have concluded that the woman speaking was gentle, loving. That she meant no harm. But, it was the inescapable quality that tormented him. Feeling he was powerless.
He dropped the typewriter and the paper on the table loudly and heard her pause, as if she were regaining her composure. And then she started up again. He opened up the lid and saw an official-looking paper folded beneath a thin, clear plastic case. “Schreibkontrolle”, he read aloud. He lifted the package off and looked at the Adler J-4. On the left of the machine at the top a small paddle, like a shining stainless steal shoehorn, stuck out. There were switches, levers, buttons and deep inside its guts, tiny little pieces of metal laid side-by-side like the handles of cutlery all packed up. It was overwhelming. He peered in closely and could make out the tine engravings on each piece of thin metal. He’d need a college degree to operate this thing. There were symbols he couldn’t recognize. On the outside he noted the rows of pedals, possessing the same shape as the heal of a shoe. On these were the letters of his alphabet. He put the palm of his hand on the pedals and pushed. The metal cutlery handles with the foreign symbols shot up and lodge together before a rolling pin-like cylinder embedded in the device. Great, he thought, he’d broken it. Mrs. Filmon seemed to grow louder.
At a loss, he opened up the clear plastic package with “Schreibkontrolle” written inside and pulled out the Adler J2 and J4 Instructional Manual. It was in English.
Writing on J2 and J4
In buying your portable typewriter you have chosen well. The fully operational instructions are intended to serve you as guide enabling you to fully enjoy the various advantages offered by this typewriter. The essential points to be observed when typing with “J2” or “J2” are briefly described hereafter.
Feeling reassured, he read on, noting the five additional features that his Adler Nr. J43906762 possessed compared to the Adler Nr. J2 model. He congratulated himself for purchasing such a fine machine, though noting on some level that he’d most likely never use those extra features. Still, like purchasing just a little extra life insurance for safe measure, he indeed felt more secure. He reached for a pencil and made notes along the manual and parts he might forget, underlying crucial points, sometimes twice.
When Kingsley had completed looking through the manual he confidently freed the jammed keys. Next, he extended the paper support with terminal indicator and, of course, released the paper bail. He then inserted a crisp sheet of white paper under the rollers and, with his thumb and index finger, turned the platen knob counter clockwise with his right hand before expertly pumping the line space lever. He felt like William Shakespeare…
He sat back and waited for Mrs. Filmon to finish the story. He waited relaxed, like a young boxer in his prime, watching his delusional, aged opponent strutting about the ring just before his last match.
He looked down at the keys lazily and noted, somewhat disconcerted, that they were not, as one would assume, in alphabetical order. He listened to the voice march on.
...that the First National Bank at the intersection of First Avenure and Finch was the last friendly bank in the courteous and smiling little village not to have installed a security camera monitoring system...
He realized that he didn’t know how to type.
“..Please stop,” he said.
But she continued.
The xylophone chimed at the end of the story and Kingsley positioned himself for her to begin again. He looked around to the four corners of the ceiling waiting. He cleared his throat. “I would like you to say the story as slowly as you can,” he said to no one.
He waited for “Once upon a time.” He sincerely hoped that she would begin slowly, thought she might. However, she began the story at the customary speed, and he looked for the letter ‘O’ key. When had he found it she was on the second sentence and moving on viciously from there.
He slammed his fists into the keys. “I hate this story!” he said petulantly. “I hate it AND I HATE YOU!!” His anger disintegrated to anxiety. He could feel something happening. The walls seemed to undulate slowly and menacingly around him. He felt like he was at sea. “Please…”
He rushed to the bathroom and vomited, mostly in the toilet. Her voice was above him. His eyes darted back and forth and stopped at the window. Through the window frame was a darkness he couldn’t remember. It seemed to be seeping in. He saw the colours of the wallpaper, the doorframe, his hands, and sensed the blackness beneath everything. A cold electrical jolt moved through his body, enveloped him. For the first time in his life he sensed he could see through the world around him, saw that it was all illusion. Nothing was real. Not himself, the water flowing out of the facet, the buzzing of the tungsten light about him. It seemed as if all of humanity had disappeared and he was deep beneath the earth, in a catacomb.
Out of the darkness a large gloved hand stretched towards Kingsley. He could make out the figure of an interplanetary traveler, its head encased in a large egg-shaped helmet. Just barely, he could make out the eyes blinking behind the copper-tinted visor, looking at him. Suddenly the vision dissolved before him and, for a moment, it was utterly silent. He became aware of his heart pumping. It was building up speed, pounding, louder and louder. His heart was going to explode. Frantically, he reached for his new shower curtain from Ron's Hardware and tore it from the rings.
Kingsley ran out into his bedroom and spun around trying to strike the voice. He could hear Mrs. Filmon’s voice patiently rising over the high-pitched shrieking of an insane woman. He swung the shower curtain to the left and right and caught his face in the mirror for fraction of a second. His mouth was opened in a scream. Sweat poured down his forehead, tears filled his eyes. He whipped around and around. With a series of movements not his own he found himself in the living room rushing over the coffee table and up the couch. Suddenly, without warning, it seemed as though someone had kicked his legs out from under him, when in fact, while attempting to move in two opposing directions he had tripped over his own legs. He found both these legs in the air before him. He saw his socked feet ever so slowly eclipsing the dining room lights hanging from the ceiling. He hovered what felt like an eternity then descended like Daedalus onto the back of his old couch and crashed into the worn and dusty wood of the floor.
A sharp pain issued from behind one ear. On his back, Kingsley’s elbows slid over his torso and thumped wetly on the floor. His forearms and the palms of his hands followed, his body behaving like a dead goat he’d once seen in the butcher's shop. Gradually he grew aware of a grey rectangle before him. It was his ceiling above, framed by the back of the couch and the wall.
He closed his eyes and turned what was left of his focus to the dull pain behind his ear. It was his right ear. For some time he thought only of the pain. It was the only thing at that moment he knew for certain, the only thing he could count on. Somehow, it was grounding. From the certainty of this pain, he expanded his focus: he was behind the couch; the wall was to his right; he was lying on his back. He was Kingsley Kuchner. He lived at 177 East-Seventh Street. He was 51. A woman was near... He couldn’t see her. She was speaking to him. He felt a pang of anxiety, but swallowed it. He knew the pain was close at hand to retreat to if that darkness descended. Gradually all the broken pieces of Kingsley returned, approximately, to their proper spots.
He listened to Mrs. Filmon. She was talking about a First National Bank. He wondered if she even knew he was there… “Who are you?” he whispered. He waited but there was no reply. He was alone. He sat up, then looked over the side of the couch. The shredded shower curtain lay in different locations across the room. A chair lay on its back, a picture on the opposite wall rested at an angle, the rug had been pushed up – and was curving in on itself – against the wall. The stack of paper, the Adler J4 and the User’s Manual, all existed undisturbed where they had been, as if waiting…
The light above the table shone like a spotlight.
He picked himself up and approached the table.
He freed the jammed metal pieces inside the inside the typewriter. He would, rather than wait for Mrs. Filmon finish her story, begin with what he did know. Painstakingly, he punched the keys with his index fingers ...
Once upon a time…
We would like to gratefully acknowledge the assistance provided by The Muse, Al Ain, the United Arab Emirates.
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