Now is the time for all good
men to come to the aid of
their party. He typed and

typed and typed on an old
typewriter at home and felt
his fingers freeze before

the timed test while in a
hot, summertime, high school
classroom. “That’s fifteen

words per minute with three
errors, young man. I hope you
aren’t considering a career

as a secretary.” He took that
class as non-credit much to
the chagrin of his buddies who

thought that was cheating for
class rank, but he didn’t need
the credit and he knew going

in that he didn’t have great
hand-eye coordination except
on a baseball diamond. He gives

thanks that he took that non-
credit typing class in the hot
days of summer school much

to the chagrin of his buddies,
as his fingers fly over the
keyboard of the computer

composing e-mails to those
old, no longer chagrined, he
trusts, high school buddies.