He braved the farthest corners of the maze. Tripping over a lamp cord, he fell hard against a water-stained dresser. As he rubbed his side and felt cobwebs tickling his brow, he faced a dusty pile of Liberty , Colliers, and Saturday Evening Post and saw a low squat bulky object almost hidden in the shadows. That was when he shuddered, as if he'd touched a spider's nest or heard a skeleton's rattle.

The thing was worse than ugly. It revolted him. All those knobs and ridges, curlicues and levers. What purpose could they serve? They were a grotesque demonstration of bad taste, as if its owner had decided that the basic model needed decoration and had welded all this extra metal onto it. A crazed machinist's imitation of kinetic art. Abysmal, Eric thought. The thing must weigh a hundred pounds. Who'd ever want to type on such a monster?

But his mind began associating. Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mai. Oscar Wilde. Aubrey Beardsley. Yes, The Yellow Book!

He felt inspired. An ugly typewriter. He grinned despite the prickles on his skin. He savored what his friends would say about it. He'd tell them he'd decided to continue Baudelaire's tradition. He'd be decadent. He'd be outrageous. Evil stories from an evil typewriter. He might even start a trend.

"How much for this monstrosity?" Eric casually asked.

"Eh? What?" The junk man looked up from his racing form.

"This clunker here. This mutilated typewriter."

"Oh, that." The old man's skin was sallow. His hair looked like the cobwebs Eric stood among. "You mean that priceless irreplaceable antique."

"No. I mean this contorted piece of garbage."

The old man considered him, then nodded grimly. "Forty bucks."

"Forty? But that's outrageous! Ten!"

"Forty. And it's not outrageous, pal. It's business. That fool thing's been on my hands for over twenty years. I never should've bought it, but it came with lots of good stuff, and the owners wouldn't split the package. Twenty years. Two bucks a year for taking space. I'm being generous. I ought to charge a hundred. Lord, I hate that thing."

"Then you ought to pay me to get it out of here."

"And I should go on welfare. But I don't. Forty. Just today. For you. A steal. Tomorrow it goes up to fifty."

Tall and good looking, Eric was also extremely thin. An artist ought to look ascetic, he told himself, although the fact was he didn't have much choice. His emaciation wasn't only for effect. It was also his penance, the result of starvation. Art paid little, he'd discovered. If you told the truth, you weren't rewarded. How could he expect the System to encourage deviant opinions?

His apartment was only a block away, but it seemed a mile. His thin body ached as he struggled to carry his purchase. Knobs jabbed his ribs. Levers poked his armpits. His knees bent. His wrists strained at their sockets. God Almighty, Eric thought, why did I buy this thing? It doesn't weigh a hundred pounds. It weighs a ton.

And ugly! Oh, good Lord, the thing was ugly! In the harsh cruel glare of day, it looked even worse. If that junk man turned his lights on for a change, his customers could see what they were buying. What a fool I've been, Eric thought. I ought to go back and make him refund my money. But behind the old man's counter, there'd been a sign. The old man had jabbed a finger at it: ALL SALES FINAL.

Eric sweated up the bird-dung-covered steps to his apartment building. "Tenement" was more accurate. The cracked front door had a broken lock. Inside, plaster dangled from the ceiling; paint peeled from the walls. The floor bulged; the stairway sagged; the banister listed. A cabbage smell overwhelmed him; onions, and a more pervasive odor that reminded him of urine.

He trudged up the stairs. The old boards creaked and bent. He feared they'd snap from the weight he carried. Three flights. Four. Mount Everest was probably easier. A group of teenagers – rapists, car thieves, muggers, he suspected – snickered at him as they left an apartment. One of the old winos on the stairs widened his bloodshot eyes, as if he thought that what Eric carried was an alcoholic hallucination.

At last he lurched up to the seventh floor but nearly lost his balance, nearly fell back. As he struggled down the hall, his legs wobbled. He groaned, not just from his burden but from what he saw.

A man was pounding angrily on Eric's door: the landlord, "Hardass" Simmons, although the nickname wasn't apt because his rear looked like two massive globs of Jell-O quivering when he walked. He had a beer gut and a whisker-stubbled face. His lips looked like two worms.

As Eric stopped, he nearly lost his grip on the ugly typewriter. He cringed and turned to go back down the stairs.

But Simmons pounded on the door again. Pivoting his beefy hips disgustedly, he saw his quarry in the hall. "So there you are." He aimed a finger, gunlike.

"Mr. Simmons. Nice to see you."

"Crap. Believe me, it's not mutual. I want to see your money."

Eric mouthed the word as if he didn't know what "money" meant.

"The rent," the landlord said. "What you forget to pay me every month. The dough. The cash. The bucks."

"But I already gave it to you."

Simmons glowered. "In the Stone Age. I don't run a charity. You owe me three months rent."

"My mother's awfully sick. I had to give her money for the doctor's bills."

"Don't hand me that. The only time you see your mother is when you go crawling to her for a loan. If I was you, I'd find a way to make a living."

"Mr. Simmons, please, I'll get the money."

"When?"

"Two weeks. I only need two weeks. I've got some Star Trek T-shirts I can sell."

"You'd better, or you'll know what outer space is. It's the street. I'll sacrifice the three months rent you owe me for the pleasure of kicking you out the door."

"I promise. I've got a paycheck coming for the column I write."

Simmons snorted. "Writer. That's a laugh. If you're so hot a writer, how come you're not rich? And what's that ugly thing you're holding? Jesus, I hate to look at it. You must've found it in the garbage."

"No, I bought it." Eric straightened, proud, indignant. At once the thing seemed twice as heavy, making him stoop. "I needed a new typewriter."

"You're dumber than I thought. You mean you bought that piece of junk instead of paying me the rent? I ought to kick you out of here right now. Two weeks. You'd better have the cash, or you'll be typing in the gutter."

Simmons waddled past. He lumbered down the creaky stairs. "A writer. What a joke. And I'm the King of England. Arthur Hailey. He's a writer. Harold Robbins. He's a writer. Judith Krantz and Sidney Sheldon. You, my friend, you're just a bum."

As Eric listened to the booming laughter gradually recede down the stairs, he chose between a clever answer and the need to set his typewriter down. His aching arms were more persuasive. Angry, he unlocked the door. Embarrassed, he stared at his purchase. Well, I can't just leave it in the hall, he thought. He nearly sprained his back to lift the thing. He staggered in and kicked the door shut. He surveyed his living room. The dingy furniture reminded him of the junk shop where he'd bought the stuff. What a mess I'm in, he told himself. He didn't know where he could get the rent. He doubted his mother would lend him more money. Last time, at her penthouse on Fifth Avenue, she'd been angry with him.

"Your impractical romantic image of the struggling starving artist… Eric, how did I go wrong? I spoiled you. That must be it. I gave you everything. You're not a youngster now. You're thirty-five. You've got to be responsible. You've got to find a job."

"And be exploited?" Eric had replied, aghast. "Debased? The capitalistic system is degenerate."