image  Arthur Minsk now did all of his writing in an old claw-foot bathtub. He had a wooden plank that lay across the tub, and on it a 1938 Royal Portable typewriter that he had picked up while vacationing in Florida. The typewriter was for safety reasons; he was not brilliant but was smart enough not to put a word processor inches above a tub full of soapy bath water. The man at the antique shop had rigid, yellowing hair that was combed over from left to right hiding a magnificent bald spot. The old man wore a thin pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He was of napoleonic height and smelled of bourbon and dusty places. He was obviously very gay.  He said that it had belonged to Hemingway. Though skeptical about the former ownership Arthur bought it, for 25 dollars while thinking about possible DNA evidence. The machine had an old tweed case with a worn wooden handle.  The Royal was dusty with visible wear on the space bar from some writers thumb, but the keys worked and the carriage progressed. Arthur cleaned it up when he got home and set it in the bathroom.

  Arthur was 28 and had been writing for five years.  For the last two he had been married.  He lived in the extreme northern part of New York State, a sparse steppe-like region filled with cows, deer and idiots. His retreat into the bathroom began shortly after his wife moved into his small house on a back road. Her name was Katya; when she walked her hips swayed like a handkerchief in the wind. She was beautiful, dim, and rich. Katya, at 22, had been a collector of poets and artists since 16. She fancied herself a muse, though in reality was no more than a scrumptious sexlet.  On the first day of marriage Arthur rose to continue his writing. He went into the living room and planted himself on the couch; he began scribbling in his notebook.

  Enter the wife, Katya.

Katya got out of bed, walked into the living room and sat down next to Arthur. She fished a Pall Mall from the red pack on the couch, lit the cigarette and blew the smoke through the fingers of sunlight that filtered through the dusty air. The sun shone against the pale blue ashtray on the coffee table making her cover one red eye with a tiny, ring-laden hand. She turned on the television and picked a flake of tobacco from her ample bottom lip.

  Arthur said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Katya said, “Watching TV, what the fuck are you doing?”

  From that day on Arthur was in the bathroom for the first four or five ours of the day, and then for another two or three at night.

  Arthur did all of his writing in the bathtub. Each morning at six o’clock he would get out of bed and head immediately for the bathroom. On the sink sat his coffee pot, it was programmed to start brewing at 5:45am. 


image  This was Thursday. He separated from his wife’s death grip around his midsection, and like all days went into the bathroom, closing the door and sliding the latch, locking it behind him. He bent down and turned the knobs on the tub, letting the steamy water pour out and into the grimy bath. The exposed, copper pipes groaned. He raised the toilet seat and relieved himself. He opened a cabinet below the sink and took out a small radio, and a large yellow coffee mug. He poured himself a cup and placed the radio on the toilet. The radio came on and the slow drone of public radio slipped out into the small bathroom.  Arthur pulled the wooden plank out from under the bathtub and placed it across the still rising water, and lastly he opened the typewriter case and placed it on the plank. Arthur slipped into the water.

  He started with bills. If a bill had to be sent out that day, or the next, he would place the check on the platen of the typewriter, roll it down, and type in the appropriate information. There were only a few today and he quickly dispensed with them.

  On a small, folding desk next to the tub stood a pile of unanswered letters. Each day he would type out two or three responses to any given letter, many times throwing out all of the versions of a particular letter, or sometimes he would mail three versions of the same letter, each one in a separate envelope but addressed to the same person.

  Today there was only one letter from an old friend from high school. Arthur scanned the letter quickly to refresh his mind. He slipped a fresh piece of paper into the roller and turned the knob on the typewriter. He lit a cigarette, leaving moistened fingerprints on the shaft. He began to type.

  Sean,
    I am sorry to hear about your father passing, he always was a good guy. I can remember him hanging out with us on some of the nights when I would sleep over. I guess it was the stress like you said, I can’t imagine running a law firm.

  The wife is fine.

  I have had a few stories published, my agent is trying to push my novel right now, and it’s difficult to concentrate on my writing career.  This bathtub thing seems to be helping though.

  Arthur leaned back and took a drag from his cigarette, the ash dropped into the water.  He let his hand rest on his head and slide down his face. It was hot in the room by now and sweat started to run down his forehead. There was a knock on the door.

  “What,” said Arthur.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m all packed up and I’m leaving,” said Katya.

  “Leaving where,” said Arthur.

  “I’m leaving you Arthur, and I’m pregnant. I’m not really sure if it’s yours or not and I guess I don’t really care,” Katya blurted.

  “Ok, I’ll see you later then,” said Arthur.

  “No you won’t,” said Katya.

  He heard her footsteps move away and the front door close. Arthur dropped his cigarette into the water and lit another. He could smell the coffee burning, mixing with the steam and smoke. He leaned forward, ripped out the letter, inserted a new paper and began again.

  Sean,
    My condolences on the loss of your father.  I’m glad to hear that your mother is fine and taking it well, she always was a tough old broad. Speaking of broads how’s that little sister of yours?

  The writing thing is going well as expected, I haven’t had anything published or accepted in a few months. My agent is pushing my book as we speak.

  Arthur leaned back and thought about rust. Would the steam accelerate rusting? If yes, then by how much?  What steps could he take to prolong the use of his typewriter?

  Arthur thought about finding a job. He took a long drag from his smoke, and blew it out under the plank and beyond. He hadn’t had to work a day job since he had met Katya, two and a half years ago. Arthur’s trade of choice was cooking. He had been working in restaurants since he was 16, washing dishes. He slowly worked his way up. Now he was qualified to work at most any restaurant. He stopped thinking about work. Arthur pulled the paper from the typewriter and replaced it with a fresh piece.  He leaned forward with a new cigarette between his lips.

  Sean,
    Katya left me today. I’m not really surprised as she has been a little bitchy lately.

  Sorry to hear about Joe.  He was a real salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. Never too busy to talk or hang out. I always liked him. I’m sorry that I missed the funeral.  Listen, I think I’ll swing out there soon, maybe in about a month or so. I still haven’t spent much time on the west coast and I don’t really have anything to stay here for, now that the wife is gone. See you soon.

  Arthur Minsk.

Arthur leaned back, lit his cigarette, and thought about California.