As an aspiring writer, my mother was once approached by a huckster-in-training in her Brooklyn neighborhood of Sheepshead Bay, who assured the-then impressionable 10-year old he could get her an “almost new” typewriter for the grand total of two cents.
She patiently waited at the pre-arranged venue, her head spinning with visions of banging out the great American novel on her bargain-basement purchase. Two hours later, it dawned on her that both the seller and the typewriter were official no-shows and never-wases.
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