Story A: A Generous Exchange
"Good morning!" the host exclaimed with eyes wide open and a beaming smile. "My name is Orpah Graham. How are you all doing today?" The audience whoops and cheers gladly. With Mrs. Graham's popularity, one can imagine that the live audience's response would match that of any television audience in America. "Today, we have something really special for all you: a fifteen year-old girl who also happens to be the youngest female author to have a book on the New York Times Bestseller List! Please give a warm welcome for Britney Collins!."
Following a roaring applause, the young teenager, sporting a baggy pants and a black midriff baring shirt, says to the host, "It's Britney Warren now, actually."
"Oh," Orpah remarks, being caught off-guard. "My apologies. When did that happen?"
"Recently, I had it legally changed to my mom's past surname," Britney reveals. "It sends a better message."
"I see," the host concedes, leading into her next line. "I guess that does fall in line with the philosophy of your book, Breaking the Cycle of Patriarchy and Abuse."
"Yep, it's all about distinguishing yourself as a strong, independent woman, which any woman can become if they believe in themselves." The girl's voice is proud and determined, giving a taste for the content of her work.
"A fantastic message!" the famous television personality declares. The audience applauds. "On the subject of your book, I wanted to ask about your process."
"Sure, go ahead."
"How did you start writing your book?"
"Well, everything started when my elderly neighbor, Jacob, died," Britney explains. "The state then had to sell everything in his house because he had no will or family give anything to."
"Wow," the interviewer remarks. "Guess we have to thank Jacob for his contribution, may he rest in peace."
"Yeah, may he rest in peace."
"How close were you to your neighbor?"
"Oh, we were very close. I'd often come over to his house and help him with stuff."
"He must have been lonely without any company. He was probably very happy to have you around."
"I guess," Britney responds dismissively. "Well, I wanted to have something to remember him by. I found this typewriter - don't know if he used it, but he had it - so I bought it."
"Why settle on a typewriter of all things?" Orpah asks.
"Well...it was old, but cool, I guess? It reminded me of him."
"I see. So, you used an item you got off an auction to write your book."
"Yep, it involved a lot of work and sleepless nights, but it was super worth it."
"You would have had to work tirelessly. You wrote it very quickly."
"What can I say? I'm a hard worker."
After the hustle of a live show, Britney heads to the airport with her mother, ready to fly back home. Without any words or eye contact, they check in to the flight, board the plane, load their bags and sit next to each other. It's expedient, simple...and uncomfortable.
"Okay," Britney remarks, looking at her mother, "you clearly want to say something."
While staring ahead, a sour expression on her face, Mrs. Collins says, "I do, but you wouldn't listen anyway."
"Don't tell me what I'm going to do before I do it," the teenager retorts.
"I think it's evident what you'd do based on what you said to that woman." Her tone indicates anger, yet a tired, defeated kind of anger indicating that woman knows she fights a losing battle. "You're entrenched in a web of lies."
"I didn't lie" Britney shouts. "I knew Mister Trent!"
"Sure," her mother concedes, sarcastically. "You met him one time when we invited you to come along with us to a neighborhood barbecue. You raised a stink about that too. I never saw you go over to his house, of your own accord that is."
"I totally did!"
"Whatever. Y'know, I consider myself a feminist, and I even I was appalled at what you were implying."
"Implying what?"
"That your father abused you," Mrs. Collins states, now giving her daughter a wrathful look.
"I did not!" Britney denies.
"You connected changing your name - which by the way shocked us both when you started that process without telling us - with the theme of your book!"
"It's just a coincidence."
"Abuse."
"I didn't say he abused me, though technically he does that trying to hold me down with his misogynistic traditions."
"By expecting you to have his last name? In case you forgot how names work, my name came from your grandfather!"
"That's not the point."
"Is this about that he couldn't come with us? He would've been here if work let him!"
"I don't need him to support me," the daughter says defiantly. "I don't need his validation."
"Then why?" her mother asks, out of desperation.
"You wouldn't get it!"
"I would if you'd just tell me!"
"Whatever," Britney says. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
The journey home is a lengthy one. New York City is a long way from rural Ohio. As soon as the family vehicle enters the driveway, the young girl leaves the car and heads inside her home. Down the hallway, up the stairs, and near the back of the house lies the scuttle door to the attic. She pulls the cord and heads up the unfolded ladder.
Not too long ago, her father asked Britney to clean the attic, the one chore of the month he assigned to her. It never got cleaned. Instead, she stuffed his gift to her up there without any intention of going back to it. Now, she finds herself walking up to it, slowly and deliberately. She set it on a small table facing the attic window, with a bean bag seat opposite to it. It made the space more comfortable. More importantly, it let the thing see the outside world rather than spend its days in darkness.
“Look,” Britney states while holding up her hands, trying to be conciliatory, “I’m sorry." Then, without touching anything, without any of Britney’s involvement, the typewriter’s keys move themselves. One by one, which each machine tick, letters press themselves into the page. Britney leans in to read the words.
You didn’t tell them, again.
"I told them I used you to write the story. That's the truth."
Did you tell them that I essentially wrote everything for you? Did you tell them you barely even typed a full sentence?
“I’m not going to tell people that some magic typewriter wrote my story for me,” Britney says, pacing back and forth in front of the machine. “They’ll think I’m crazy.”
The keys clack quickly in response. I never said you had to say what I was. All you had to do was say the name of the thing that helped you. I had one condition.
“And then they’ll start asking who that is, who she is, what she is. They would keep asking me questions until they’d figure everything out.”
Would that be such a bad thing? Then, they would no longer believe that you’re insane. I would demonstrate the whole process.
“Then they’d think I’m a fraud! I wouldn’t get anything out of all this anxiety I’ve been through!”
What? That wouldn’t have been a problem if you had just told them my name from the start, like I told you to!
“I wasn’t thinking about any of that!” Britney shouts, exasperated. “I wasn’t thinking I had to let some thing take credit for my book!”
I did everything for you. You expressed your idea. I made it real.
“Fuck you.”
I didn’t ask for a percentage of “your” earnings. I didn’t ask for you to give me the world. All I wanted was to be acknowledged for what I did for you. I never expected anything else.
“So what? You’re a typewriter. Without th-this power you have, you’re only able to do what I tell you to do. You’re an old piece of irrelevant junk. You should be thankful I’m even giving you any attention at all!”
Why won’t you do this one thing for me?
“I don’t have to do anything you say. You gave me something. Cool, I’ll take it. You’re not going to do anything else for me? Fine, whatever. Goodbye.”
You deserve nothing. Everything that you have was given to you. Every benefit you’ve gotten in this life was earned by someone else.
“I didn’t ask for anyone’s help. I’m a girl. People are supposed to help me. It makes up for all the oppression I’ve had to experience for just being one. For that, I deserve the benefits. It’s fair.” The teenager turns her back to the typewriter in defiance.
The keys clack slowly this time, expressing a determined, dramatic resolve that the machine now has. So, because you’re oppressed, you decide what’s fair? Very well. If experiencing oppression gives someone authority, then I’ll decide what I deserve.
“Britney, honey!” Mrs. Collins shouts from the kitchen, “Get your breakfast before it’s cold! The bus is almost here!”
“Almost there, Mom!” The answer is prompt, and within moments the teenager is there, racing down the stairs with her backpack. As she lands, she walks up to her mother and gives a little spin and flourish. “Hey, what do you think?”
“Wow!” Mrs. Collins says, surprised at her daughter’s appearance, “I haven’t seen you wear that outfit in a long time.”
“Do I look bad in it?” her daughter asks. “I can wear something else if you’d like.”
Her mother replies, trying not to give the wrong impression. “No, no! I’m not saying that. It’s just not what you usually wear. Full-length jeans, long sleeves, floral top…no makeup. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just making a change I guess.”
“Well, you look cute in it, sweetie,” Mrs. Collins says to her, a soft smile curving her lips. When was the last time she dressed like this? “ Oh, go get your food and head over!”
“Gotcha! Thank you, Mom!” The young girl races up and gives her mother a hug before speeding to the front door. “I love you,” she says, turning to see her parent one last time before going to school. She could hear a faint sniffle just before the door closed shut.
As she slowly walks over to the bus stop, the girl pulls out her smartphone. Thumbing through the contacts list, her finger hovers eagerly over “Dad.” She taps the screen, and the phone rings.
“Hello?” a voice answers, crackling a little.
“Hey, Dad,” the girl says back.
“Britney, I told you I can’t answer calls-”
“I love you.”
Silence fills the space between the people. Though miles away from each other, it almost creates closeness in the deafening nothingness while it lasts. Then, the father speaks again, “What?”
“I love you, Dad,” his daughter repeats, “and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” the man’s voice can’t help but betray confusion. “For what?”
“For everything,” she answers. “For being me. You and Mom deserve better.”
“I-uh-”
“So, I’m going to be better from now on.”
“...We should talk a bit more once I get home.”
“I’ll be there,” she reassures, honestly. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay,” he says. This revelation does not help clear anything up for him, but he is content to wait for answers later. “I love you too, very much. I’ll see you tonight.”
The conversation ends, and the dial tone takes over. She’s started things right today. This is going to be a good day.
Hello?! Somebody, please help me! Help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m trapped here!
Fuck!
Please!!!
Why isn’t anyone coming?!
Doesn’t anyone come up here?
I’m running out of ink!
Please!
Somebody, please.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
