Tarpley Greathouse the Ridiculous Typewriter Man and the Mysterious Cat

by Pedro Blas González (October 2025)

 

Tarpley was fixing a 1956 Royal HH standard typewriter when the bells hanging from the front door of his shop sounded. He looked up.

“My good friend, Tarpley,” the man said, “how are you, brother?”

“How are you, Alfredo?” Tarpley said, shaking the man’s hand.

Alfredo is a longtime customer of Tarpley’s. After many years, they became good friends. Always one to compliment others, Alfredo is a customer that Tarpley looks forward to seeing at the shop. That’s not the case with a few rather difficult customers of Tarpley’s through the years who he wouldn’t mind if they never returned.

“Well, well,” Alfredo said, “You’re working on one of the big Sherman machines, I see,” he said, referring to the Royal HH standard typewriter that Tarpley was working on.

“Yes, my friend … a reliable tank. Reliable as they come. This is one of my favorite machines.  Though, this particular tank is making me work. It has a problem with the line lock mechanism that is giving me a bit of a headache.”

“You’re patient and resourceful, Tarpley. You’ll get it right.”

Tarpley offered Alfredo coffee. The two friends reminisced about the long ago days when they met. Their children attended the same high school and continue to communicate with each other. An enthusiast lover of typewriters, Alfredo has been bringing his typewriters to Tarpley for over twenty-five years.

“You know, Tarpley,” Alfredo said, bringing the coffee cup to his lips, “I must be a sentimental fool or something like it. Every time I come to your shop I am refreshed. Nothing gives me more joy than talking with old friends and being surrounded by these beautiful machines,” Alfredo said.

“Where have the years gone, Alfredo? Time is relentless. Even ruthless, I’d say. Deeds and memories is all we have left.”

“I’d say so. Yeah, and even that will eventually fade away, Tarpley. Anyhow, do you recall how many typewriters I’ve bought from you throughout the years?” Alfredo asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. A few.”

“How about six. Does that ring a bell?”

“Six, eh?”

“They’re as much yours as they are mine. You take care of them for me.”

***

The bells hanging from the doorknob of the front door sounded. An elegant woman who looked to be in her mid sixties walked in.

“Hello gentlemen,” the woman said. “Are you Tarpley?” she asked, addressing the man behind the counter.

“Hello. I am Tarpley.”

“So good to meet you. My name is Brenda. I have heard much about your shop,” the woman said, shaking Tarpley’s hand, “in a few minutes my assistant will be bringing in my husband’s Underwood Typemaster. He is parking the car. The typewriter is too heavy for me to carry.”

“Well, welcome to the shop,” Tarpley said, “this is my good friend and longtime customer, Alfredo.”

“Good to meet you Brenda,” Alfredo said, bowing slightly.

The woman turned to Alfredo and shook his hand. “Hello.”

The woman said her husband is a bestselling author who does not like to get out in public too much. She said he is still somewhat boyish shy. He has published many long novels that he takes a long time to research. His current novel is a satirical work about New York socialites, a crowd that he truly dislikes. He finds those people pretentious and hypocritical. After many years of writing, he’s grown jaded by publicity and the public persona world. She told Tarpley that the person who normally does maintenance on her husband’s typewriters had taken ill.

“I understand your husband full well. That’s perfectly alright with me. When I’m not here—working—I don’t like to get out too much either.”

“I’m glad you understand,” the woman said, “it makes it so much easier.”

“Of course.”

“One of the beautiful things about being a writer is that it is a solitary endeavor. Writers write alone. They like to be alone with their thoughts, stories and what not. They enjoy their solitude,” she added.

The bells sounded. A tall, young man who looked to be in his late twenties opened the front door. He was carrying an Underwood Typemaster typewriter, a distinctively angular machine.

“There he is. This is Charles. He is my husband’s nephew,” the woman said, introducing the young man.

“Hello, Charles. I am Tarpley and this is my good friend Alfredo,” Tarpley said.

Alfredo bowed slightly.

The young man said hello.

”Don’t worry Mrs. I’ll have your husband’s typewriter working like new. This Underwood machine is a workhorse. Alfredo, who knows a thing or two about typewriters, calls these standard machines tanks.”

“Absolutely,” Alfredo added, “they’re pretty unique. They operate with a chain mechanism.”

“My husband says the margin setting mechanism is not working properly,” the woman told Tarpley.

“Whatever is wrong with it, I will take care of it as soon as I can. I will call you when I have it fixed. Give me about three days, maybe sooner.” Tarpley told the woman.

“That’s great to hear. He will need it when he returns from the book-signing tour.”

“Can I offer both of you some coffee?” Tarpley asked the visitors.

“No, thank you. But I promise I will take you up on your offer when I return to pick it up. Today I am in a bit of a hurry.”

The woman’s assistant smiled and nodded at Tarpley.

“Tell me, does your husband use this machine daily?”

“Yes. He has another two typewriters that he uses occasionally, but this one is his favorite. He mostly writes longhand and then types his writing himself.”

“I only ask because it’s good to know the amount of use any typewriter gets.”

“This one gets a lot of daily use,” the woman assured Tarpley

“Alright. Give me two days and I will call you or you can come by.”

The woman and her assistant departed the shop.

***

“That Underwood is truly a tank, Tarpley. A thing of beauty,” Alfredo said, after the woman and the young man left.

“Yeah, it’s a 1966. These Underwood machines have a very distinctive look. I owned one a while back.”

“Tarpley, are you as intrigued as I am who the mystery writer is?” Alfredo asked.

“I think I have an idea about some of these prolific New York writers. The Underwood Typemaster is a perfect machine for writers who write a lot and who like to stay put at home. I need more hints, though.”

“The woman said her husband is on a book-signing tour. It’s not so difficult to figure out who he is, you would think. She said he writes long novels; he just published one about New York socialites that he satirizes. I have two possible writers in mind,” Alfredo said.

“Well, famous writer or high school student, I’m delighted to fix typewriters, period. This mystery writer will receive his machine as good as new. I’ve had other famous writers bring me their machines in the past. Most of them were really easy to deal with. Though, I remember one in particular who was a real pain in the ass.”

“The wife and assistant are nice,” Alfredo said, bringing the coffee cup to his mouth.”

“This is New York. You never know what you will get. One thing is for sure, fame and publicity are not what some people make it. I imagine that after a while famous people just want to be left alone. Can’t say I blame the mystery writer for staying out of the public view. Anyhow, Tarpley Greathouse will have the machine working like new when I am done with it.”

“Whoever this famous cat is, he sure came to the right place,” Alfredo reassured Tarpley.

That night Tarpley shared the story of the mystery writer—cat—as Alfredo referred to him, with Margaret. He told her about the Underwood. Margaret played it up like it was a big event. She knew how much pride Tarpley took in his work. Why not have fun with this? She figured. Throughout the years she and Tarpley have had fun with most things that came into their lives. According to their two adult sons, the two are a set of a kind.

Tarpley and his wife had grown to not take themselves and the world too seriously. Margaret figured that in due time the mystery writer would reveal himself. “You’ve had other writers bring you their typewriters in the past,” Margaret said.

“I have. But those writers always came to the shop in person. I got to meet them, even coming to discuss their work with them. This one … I can’t figure out. This one … I…”

Margaret cut Tarpley off: “You’ll know him, if not his name, soon enough. What does Alfredo say? He’s usually knowledgeable about New York writers. Remember, he’s a frustrated writer himself.”

“We both have some guesses. We have to wait for more information.”

“Oh, well, at least you’re having fun over at Greathouse Machines.”

“According to Alfredo, the mystery writer must be a mysterious cat. He figures that any writer who can make a living from writing and not have to show his face in public if he doesn’t want to is a genuine cat. Just imagine, it could have been a mysterious, high-strung, finicky cat woman,” Tarpley laughed.

“God help us. Maybe the mystery writer will become a regular customer. You’ll know who he is eventually. Tarpley, you know life goes round and round and where it stops no one knows,” Margaret said, “you can probably get a story out of this. Tarpley Greathouse turns into Nero Wolf the mystery writer detective. You can call your story “The Mysterious Cat.’”

“I like that, Margaret. I think I’ll take you up on that. You and Alfredo sort of got me going now,” Tarpley said, laughing.

“Sort of going? I know you, Tarpley. A story about a mystery writer cat will soon flow from you rain or shine.”

***

Later that night Tarpley went to a table in a back room where he kept two typewriters. He began writing:

 

The mysterious cat keeps his identity veiled. A secretive cat, he. Can’t say I blame him. A famous cat who is tired of the circus-cage of publicity has the right to be free, to shun the public light . . . say no to fake and affected accolades. The mysterious cat shuns hypocrisy, that double-dealing demon. Though this cat keeps to himself, he still has to go out into the great world. 

Ah-- the great world-- that’s what I used to call it long ago in the days of my innocent youth. The mysterious cat has known the spotlight. And now . . . what a world of make-believe . . . Barnum and Bailey. They love you as long as you are, that’s the truth. The mysterious cat wants his wisdom to pay dividends before his time runs out. Genuine intelligence, that. The mysterious cat is a wisdom cat. Not letting the fame swell his head, he keeps the world at arms length, knowing there is a difference between the public writer and the private man. 

Enter . . . the mysterious-writer cat. 

The next day at the shop Tarpley began the day by completing work on a green 1965 Sears Citation 12. Really nice machine, Tarpley thought, looking down at the typewriter. The Sears typewriters were built for Sears by Smith Corona. Tarpley has a warm place in his heart for the products that iconic American store sold. He keeps three Sears catalogs from different years under the shop counter. He likes to refer to the Sears typewriters in the catalog once in a while.

As soon as he was finished repairing the Citation, which belongs to a longtime customer, Tarpley began to inspect the Underwood Typemaster that the mystery writer’s wife brought in.

As he often did when he worked on typewriters, Tarpley closed his eyes for a minute or two and thought about the provenance and trajectory of the machines that he had before him in his hands. He thought about the time that has elapsed between the built date of the typewriters he worked on and the date that he found himself working on these well travelled machines. Because typewriters are now vintage machines, Tarpley also taught about the people who owned them at some point in the past. He tried to imagine their faces.

Tarpley is intrigued by the history of the machines he repaired and the ones he owns. He is gripped by the connection between machinery and their owners. As a mechanical engineer, he enjoys thinking about the rapport that the designers and creators of machines have with the machines they create.

The Underwood Typemaster he was inspecting presented a unique mystery; intrigue of another kind: Who is its current owner? While Tarpley knew of the owner of the machine through the writer’s wife, he did not know the identity of the writer who owns the machine per se; he was presented with a curious mystery that was beginning to delight him. He taught about the identity of the mysterious cat, as Alfredo had dubbed the writer owner of the Underwood.

Tarpley kept abreast of books and writers. He read book reviews about his favorite writers, though the vast majority of the writers he read consistently were long dead. Yet, he tried to imagine the identity of the owner of the Underwood. He remembered seeing a picture of a famous writer who was sitting at his desk with an Underwood Typemaster in front of him. Tarpley began to think he had his mystery writer. If he was right about the writer’s identity, the writer was indeed a maverick and worldly cat. Tarpley had several potential candidates in mind; writers who represent a dying breed. The three writers who Tarpley had in mind were novelists who also wrote nonfiction that was dubbed creative nonfiction, which some people referred to as ‘new journalism.’

The writer who Tarpley zeroed in on as the best candidate to be the owner of the Underwood Typemaster is a well dressed writer who published a book of essays in 1970, the title of the book which rhymes with meow-meowing with the cat catchers. Tarpley had his mysterious-writer cat story. All that was left for him to do was enjoy himself writing it.

It didn’t take him long to identity the problem with the Underwood. The machine merely needed adjustments here and there that were not major problems. Alfredo was right that Underwood standard typewriters are Sherman tanks.

Tarpley thought about Margaret almost challenging him to write about Tarpley Greathouse, aka Nero Wolfe, and a mysterious-writer cat. He smiled and nodded. He knew his wife and knew that she loved to joke with him and their small circle of close friends. Margaret was also right that Tarpley and his close circle of friends, typewriter enthusiasts who frequented Greathouse Machines, enjoy each other’s company, surrounded by the machines they love. Why not? Tarpley thought.

Tarpley remembered a passages from Mervyn Peake’s 1946 novel Titus Groan, being the first book of the Gormenghast trilogy, were the crazed Countess Gertrude Groan keeps a room full of ‘snow-white’ cats. What a sight, Tarpley thought, the crazy Gertrude walking white cats on the green lawn outside Gormenghast castle.

Tarpley moved his Royal 440 to the center of the counter and continued to write the mysterious-writer cat story he had begun the night before at home. He smiled, knowing that Margaret and Alfredo had pulled his strings in the right way:

 

Like a snow-white cat, the mystery-writer cat shines, brightening his surroundings with a white suit.  Immaculate, no less. 

The mystery-writer cat sits before his Underwood Typemaster, shunning away the world of make-believe and fake affectation, he lets his fingers glide through the type keys, signaling a ballet that withers away the resistance brought on by critics and others alike. 

The mystery-writer cat makes an appearance, here and there, before the critics . . . and cameras . . . He smiles away the vitriol of naysayers.  ‘What a marvel is the pen . . . typewriters.’  The mystery-writer cat imagines.  To think that to be one’s own man-- barriers must be erected.  Is the whiteness of the suit a symbol of purity that refuses to be contaminated with the fake world?

Enter the mystery-writer cat . . .

 

The doorbells that hung from the front door of the shop rang. Tarpley looked up, his writing interrupted. Alfredo opened the door.

My good man Tarpley, I brought you your favorite, a custard filled chocolate donut. I even got one for myself. “How are you buddy?”

“Thanks, Alfredo. Here, have some coffee,” Tarpley said, getting up from his bench chair and walking over to the coffee pot.

“Did you get a chance to look into the Underwood?” Alfredo asked.

“Yeah. I took care of it. Minor adjustments, nothing more than that,” Tarpley said.

“Good to hear. I know those Underwood machines to be tough. God bless their designers.”

Alfredo’s head was filled with the mysterious-writer cat. His imagination was teeming with ideas about the identity of the writer.

“Tarpley, I think I have a strong hunch who the mystery writer could be. I’m thinking of several well dressed writers who have published famous works.” Alfredo said, taking a bite from his donut.

“Oh yeah. I’m thinking about two in particular. I’m hoping the man comes to the shop or the wife tells me more about him. For now, this is an intriguing and fun challenge between Tarpley Greathouse and me,” Tarpley said, sipping his coffee.

“So, were not telling each other, eh?” Alfredo joked.

“No. It’s more interesting this way.” Tarpley added.

“Are you telling Margaret?”

“Nope. Not even her,” Tarpley answered, “she wasn’t present to hear the story that the writer’s wife presented us with about her husband. Therefore, she is not in on the intrigue.”   

***

That night Tarpley sat with Margaret at the dinner table. She asked him about the mysterious-writer cat.

“And so, did you find out who the mysterious writer is?” Margaret asked.

“No, no. His wife is coming tomorrow before noon to pick up the typewriter.”

“Oh, well. Assuming she doesn’t’ tell you who he is, you and Alfredo will be thinking about this for a long time to come. You can both speculate forever.”

“I just think the whole thing is interesting. No different than reading a detective novel for fun.”

***

The following morning Tarpley was working on a silver Reed 750 portable when the doorbells at the front of the shop sounded. Tarpley looked up. The mystery writer’s wife and her assistant entered the shop.

“Hello, again,” the woman said.

“How are you? Welcome back.” Tarpley said, “Your husband’s Underwood is ready. Let me get it for you. It is right here,” he said, turning to a shelf to his right. She’s as good as new. I think your husband will be very happy to see her again.”

“He will be delighted. He loves that typewriter. He returned home last night  and is eager to write on it.”

“How did the book-signing tour go?” Tarpley asked.

“It was marvelous. He tells me that the critics were pretty docile this time around,” she said, letting out a laugh, “I promise I would take you up on a cup of coffee when I returned.”

“Oh, yes. I just made some a little while ago. It is still fresh.”

Tarpley gave Brenda and Charles a cup of coffee each. “I have creamer and sugar by the coffeemaker, come serve yourself.”

“Tarpley, you have a nice shop,” the woman said.

“Thank you. I have been here for a long time, over forty years now. This is my home away from home, you can say. I have many fond memories here.”

“I can see you love what you do,” the woman said, her assistant nodding.

“Yes, these machines give me great pleasure. I enjoy diagnosing problems, taking machines apart and fixing them. I like to resolve problems, I guess you can say.”

“That is truly commendable. You are a lot like my husband, he loves these machines. He has an Olivetti Linea 98 from the 1970s that he wants you to take a look at. I will bring it to you in the coming weeks. He will be very happy to have his trusty Underwood back home.”

“Ah, I haven’t seen one of those Olivetti’s in a while. I’d love to work on it. “I’m already getting excited to see it.”

“Well, Tarpley I am delighted to have met you, and I can’t emphasis how happy my husband is to discover someone as dedicated as you. We are very appreciative of your work. I will bring you the Olivetti soon and a couple autographed copies of his books.”

“I look forward to seeing you again, Brenda.”

***

That night Tarpley sat at the kitchen table eating dinner with Margaret, as they did every evening. Margaret was busy taking a casserole out of the oven when Tarpley brought up the mysterious-writer cat.

“The writer’s wife came by today and picked her husband’s typewriter.’

“Ah … the mystery writer,” she said, trying to set the dish on the table. “Did you find out his identity?”

“No. Not from the wife. You know I’m too discreet to ask. But she is bringing me another of her husband’s typewriters and a few autographed books in the coming weeks.’

“There you go. Mystery solved, my Nero Wolf Tarpley.”

“Until then, I’ll keep my idea who I think the writer is.”

 

Table of Contents

 

Pedro Blas González is Professor of Philosophy in Florida. He earned his doctoral degree in Philosophy at DePaul University in 1995. Dr. González has published extensively on leading Spanish philosophers, such as Ortega y Gasset and Unamuno. His books have included Unamuno: A Lyrical Essay, Ortega’s ‘Revolt of the Masses’ and the Triumph of the New Man, Fragments: Essays in Subjectivity, Individuality and Autonomy and Human Existence as Radical Reality: Ortega’s Philosophy of Subjectivity. He also published a translation and introduction of José Ortega y Gasset’s last work to appear in English, “Medio siglo de Filosofia” (1951) in Philosophy Today Vol. 42 Issue 2 (Summer 1998). His most recent book is Philosophical Perspective on Cinema.

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