Today I want to share the lost history of an industry that served writers for decades, and which no longer exists. In a storefront 20 feet wide 50 feet deep, Harmon Rangell sold typewriters from 1962-1996. I encourage you to read to the end of this essay, where he shares wisdom on writing and the power of human connection. Here he is leaving his store on 23rd street in New York City in the 1960s:
He was just down the block from the famed Chelsea Hotel, which meant his store was filled with conversations with writers who would come in to buy or service the machines they used to create. He would say hello to Norman Mailer as he walked by, and embraced the vibe of that street during that time, with Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsburg, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Miller, and Leonard Cohen all writing at the hotel.
I saw a Facebook post from Harmon this past week and immediately reached out to interview him. He graciously accepted, and I was giddy with excitement to chat with an 83 year old who ran a typewriter store for more than three decades!
Harmon recounted those who wrote on his typewriters: Susan Sontag, Annie Leibowitz, John Patrick Stanley (who wrote Moonstruck), Gail Sheehy, David Mamet, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Russell Baker, Janice Ian, James Rado & Gerome Ragni (who wrote Hair), and many others. Or the times that Robert Duvall and John Savage sat at his desk chatting, while they waited for something to be repaired or looked for a new typewriter.
Writing was all around us then, as now. But the tools to write for publication were heavier, and required craftsmanship to fix. Of course, still today, we have machines all around us that are used to write: laptops, phones, and computers. But these are also machines of distraction. It’s fascinating to consider an era where a single-use writing machine were so prevalent, valuable, and so much a part of our culture.
Harmon reflected on his vantage point at the time: “Finding a guy like me doesn’t exist anymore. People come in and schmooze with me, and tell me about a novel they are writing, then talk about machines. There is no venue today for someone to do that. Or about what the machine means.”
He says that “a lot of the writers had a personal connection to their typewriters,” and talked about author Pete Hamill who kept using an old manual Underwood typewriter instead of upgrading to new models. “There is something to the tactile cause and effect,” Harmon described. Or how journalist Jimmy Breslin rejected Harmon’s suggestion to just buy a new machine, instead opting to keep fixing his old typewriter, saying “No, that’s mine, that is the one I like.”
Of course, it wasn’t just writers who frequented his store. He once received a call from the Ford Foundation when small portable calculators came out, which Harmon also sold. They asked for some information, and he instead responded, “I’m coming up!” He ventured uptown to meet with the Foundation’s then president, McGeorge Bundy, who had previously served as the U.S. National Security Advisor to Presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson. It’s interesting to consider all the interesting people Harmon met simply because of his small store.
As writers of the day hoped to stand out in a crowded field, so did Harmon with his store. There were four other typewriter stores on his block alone (23rd St between 6th and 7th Ave.) What he sold was a commodity, and one that he could be undercut in price by from larger stores. How did he stand out and grow a unique reputation? As he tells it: “I tried to make [my store] unique. I kept it neat, and there were places you could type and try out a machine. I had classical music playing, and cactus all over the place. I tried to make the place different. I talked about anything other than typewriters to connect with customers through music, art, and literature. My place was different.”
It was never easy to keep the business going, especially as the technology kept changing.
Harmon reflected on the progression over the years: “I watched the typewriter business develop from manuals, to electric, to selectric (where you can change the type), then correcting ( with lift off tape that would lift off the error), to dual pitch (where you could choose to type 10 or 12 letters to the inch.) Then the tremendous jump to electronic typewriters that were non mechanical. That changed the whole business. Typewriter mechanics were really craftsmen — really smart people who understood how the mechanics worked. It was an adjustment, not changing parts. When it changed to electronics, it was all changing parts. It changed the business completely.”
He described the early word processors that allowed for “20-30 characters [on a small screen] with 2k of memory (one printed pages worth), and daisy wheel printers, which sold for $2,000 in the late 70s and early 80s.” Harmon told me how amazed customers were that a machine could remember the template of a letter that they wouldn’t have to retype over and over.
When I asked about how he summed up the experience, he immediately talked about risk. How he always had to be inventive to find new opportunities in a constantly evolving industry. Here he is from a newspaper article about him from the 1980s:
Of course, we all know how this story ends. A computer in the 1970s cost between $20,000 – $30,000. But then, “all the sudden computers came down to $4,000-$6,000. All the big guys closed up — IBM , Smith Corona. Just closed their doors.”
Once computers took over, he would buy used typewriters by the dozen, but with much less profit to be made. Harmon describes how, “companies had storerooms of manual typewriters that they couldn’t do anything with.” He would walk into a bank or insurance company, the would bring him to a storeroom where 50-80 typewrites would be piled up. They’d look at Harmon and ask in bewilderment: “You want to buy these?!” He would pay $3 to $5 each, and sell them for $20 a piece.
Here he is in a New York Times article from the early 1990s, describing him as the last of the typewriter stores in Manhattan:
In the 1970s and 1980s New York was a notoriously dangerous place, but Harmon said he never felt afraid, but he was robbed plenty of times. He described the time that “a truck backed up on the sidewalk, hooked a chain to the gate, and ripped the whole thing off the front.” Or another time, how “they chopped a whole through the back wall.”
I asked if he ever consider closing up shop during that time? His answer: “Every f*cking day!”
Harmon was 60 years old when he let go of the business, and had to craft a second act for himself, this time selling photocopiers, scanners, and related electronics for large companies. Like many in NYC from that era, he bemoaned that he didn’t invest in real estate: “I could have bought the building for $100k, with $10k down, and likely sold for $3 million. I could have been a rich man.” Here is a more recent photo of Harmon:
He is a writer as well, publishing a novel in 2016, other essays, and I’ve seen his artwork shared online too. I loved how he described the difference between getting one’s work published today compared to decades ago:
“I marvel at the difference — I wrote a piece the other day, and [years ago] I would have mailed it to an editor who would receive it with 300-400 others and maybe get back after a few weeks. But instead I posted it to Facebook and 300 people commented on that. It’s very satisfying, but it’s not making me any money.”
I asked what he misses most about the typewriter store, and he immediately replied: “Human interaction. I was on all the time. People would come in, and I realized I had no exclusivity — so I sold me. I’m going to make a connection with these people, and once they do, why not buy from me? I enjoyed that interaction. It was satisfying.”
Listening to him is a form of time travel for me. To consider the world he experienced, and his place within it. Harmon was born in Brooklyn, moved to Queens at age 9, and went to college in the Bronx. This reminded me of my own family history: my mom grew up on the lower east side of Manhattan before moving to Queens, and my dad spent his childhood in the Bronx.
One summer Harmon got in a 1951 Chevy with a few buddies and drove across the country. He later spent 2 years in the military, serving in Germany just as the Berlin Wall was being built in 1961.
Here he is in the mid-1950s playing poker with friends, Harmon is on the right in the eyeglasses:
He has kids and grandkids who are all grown, and he seemed to indicate the it’s unlikely that these younger generations want to hear stories about running a typewriter store. But I found every word he shared to be fascinating, and it feels like an honor to be able to share his story with you.
In this way, you become a part of his story, and he a part of yours. Please leave a comment for Harmon if anything here resonates with you, he will be reading them.
Thank you for being here with me.
-Dan