WHO: Simon Liebowitz [THE PHANTOM REPORTER II] & the Ghost of Eli Liebowitz [THE PHANTOM REPORTER I] WHAT: Simon checks in with his spectral ancestor, and gets an unexpected surprise. WHEN: Tuesday afternoon WHERE: Room S104, Science Dormitories STATUS: Complete Narrative
Simon pulled off the tarp covering his typewriter with a light cloud of dust, that which had accumulated since the original disappearance during the apocalypse. He'd been helping his parents deal with the damages at home, not to mention lending a hand editing copy for the Scoop amidst the repairs. He hadn't had a chance to get back to the island to check in with his grandfather, and it was with a hint of token grandchild guilt that he began checking the cogs and keys to ensure they weren't suffering any from neglect.
"Hey Grandpa, sorry about being gone for so long, you wouldn't believe what's been going on. That crazy new organization I told you about? They launched all-out war on the city, and kidnapped the whole student body. I wound up in New York with some others, fighting vampires and clowns, you should've seen--"
Simon's rapid exposition was cut short by the familiar clattering of keys, as the roll of paper began to churn out between the typewriter's spools.
SIMON YOU DUMB MUG I'M A CLAIRVOYANT SPIRIT I'VE HAD MY PEEPERS ON YOU SINCE YOU DID THE FADE ACT
"Oh." Simon smiled awkwardly as he realized that this should have been obvious, his lips then curling into a purse of realization as he realized the full scope of what his grandfather must have witnessed. "So you saw everything?"
I SURE DID, SONNY JIM YOU WERE A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK YOU WERE DOLING OUT THE CHIN MUSIC TO THOSE CLOWN GOONS AND STEALING SOME SUGAR FROM THAT SASSY KITTEN OF YOURS
Simon couldn't fight the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks, which grew bright crimson in a mix of embarrassment and pride. "Aw, I didn't do all that much, really. Vera and the others did most of the fighting, I just got in some lucky--"
DON'T GET ME WRONG NOW, GUMHEEL YOU'VE STILL GOT A LONG WAY TO GO BUT YOU'VE FINALLY STARTED TAKING THE RIGHT STEPS I'VE BEEN HANGING ROUND TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TRIPPING FOR BISCUITS
"Okay, not even I know that one. Thanks, I think?" Simon retorted, one brow raising skeptically at the direction of the conversation.
POINT IS MY BOY I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WEREN'T A WEAK SISTER I'VE JUST BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO PROVE YOUR CHOPS NOW YOU'VE CRABBED WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A REAL DICK I CAN GIVE UP THE RANK AND TAKE THE AIR
"Wait a minute," Simon began, his voice going suddenly low and anxious as realization set in. "Grandpa, you don't mean--"
WE'VE HAD A GOOD RUN TOGETHER KID BUT THE PHANTOM REPORTER IS A SOLO ACT AND IT'S TIME YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE WITH THE MONIKER
"Grandpa, wait!" Simon dropped to his knees in front of the keys, clutching the steel armbars on either side as though they might be flesh and blood hands. His eyes skitted back and forth over the words as they were punched onto the paper, growing watery against his own will. "You don't have to-- Maybe I'm not ready--"
DON'T BE A PALOOKA, SIMON AND GUM UP THOSE WATERWORKS IT'S LONG PAST MY TIME AND YOU'RE READY TO GO IT ALONE YOU'VE DONE MY PROUD, MY BOY I'M DUSTING OUT KNOWING FULL WELL MY LEGACY IS WELL TENDED TO YOU'VE GOT MOXY KID I COULDN'T ASK FOR A BETTER GRANDSON NOW SHOW THE WORLD WHAT THE PHANTOM REPORTER CAN DO
There was no corona of light, no ethereal corona as the Phantom Typewriter's keys typed their last letter. The churning machine simply went still, but Simon Liebowitz could feel that the piece of equipment was no longer the same. He remained on his knees before it for several long minutes before he managed to stop crying, and brought a sleeve up to wipe at his wet cheeks. Getting hold of himself with a sharp intake of breath, he reached out to twist the spool, until he could tear off the sheet containing his grandfather's last words.
He held the sheet for a long moment, looking at it forlornly, reading the words over and over. Finally, and with heavy-hearted ceremony, he folded the sheet twice and tucked it into his blazer pocket. He reached out and positioned his stool in front of the keys and settled himself upon it, his fingers flexing anxiously in anticipation.
He set his chin resolutely, let out a long, calming breath, and began to press his fingers against the antique keys, the punches coming slowly at first, but then with growing speed. Before him the paper fed through the spool, the ink of his words glistening.
THE PHANTOM NEWSPAPER January 26, 2010 by Simon Liebowitz