Riding in my backpack chattering gibberish she charms the man who is in a good mood so he repairs my typewriter on the spot, no waiting, for two six-packs of Bud. He throws in a free ribbon, too. “Don’t tell Boss,” he says, winking at my daughter, who is as yet too innocent of her power.
Freshly written, but the incident happened in 1979 when a broken typewriter was a calamity emergency, and my daughter was a stream-of-consciousness babbler of nonsense.