The Great Typo Hunt_ Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time - Jeff Deck [15]
I grabbed photographic proof for the blog as the line moved forward. We had to make this correction thing happen in a jiff. There wasn’t a lot of extra room, and surely our ministrations would call attention to ourselves if we gummed up the queue. I lent Benjamin a black pen and a draught of elixir. “We’re surrounded by typos,” he whispered to Jenny as the line moved again.
Guessing that each child would be getting his or her own Rocket Ship to take home, Benjamin didn’t hesitate to add in the s to eliminate the second error, but the potential coloring contest configurations made the resolution of the other more questionable. Sure, they might have a single contest, but kids who wanted to color could easily color through pages upon pages. There could very well be a second contest, and a third, later in the evening. Or maybe they had separate contest categories: most creative, best use of color, most realistic, most surrealistic, best evocation of the Old Masters. He could be overthinking it, but only one version could be true; they could have either “a Coloring Contest” or “Coloring Contests.” And, as is writ in the Book of the League, what profits a man if he gain a typo correction but lose the true meaning of the words? This was an object lesson in how typos foster chaos and confusion. He’d need to know more to complete his first correction, but how?
Meanwhile, I asked the host if I could add an extra d to the chalkboard. Before he could rebuff me, I produced my little cylindrical trump with a flourish. “I have a piece of chalk right here.” A pair of teenage girls, waiting in front of us, burst into hysterical giggling. While field orthography is a serious matter, I can understand their reaction. Quelle coincidence, a man spotting an error and happening to have on him the proper instrument for its destruction. The host allowed me to proceed as the tittering teenagers were shown to their table, peeking back over their shoulders. As I inserted the d, I realized how smoothly and unconsciously I had spoken up to the host, my former hesitations and inhibitions all but forgotten. Just having a friend nearby had helped me find my voice.
“What should I do about the first one?” Benjamin asked us.
“Three?” said the host. Three typos, yes, but also the size of our party. I’d completed my chalk-work none too soon.
Like a mongrel latching onto ankles, Benjamin had taken various pursuits between his teeth over the years: religion, politics, slam poetry. I watched carefully to see if he’d show the same tenacity in typo affairs, considering all those other causes already lodged in his bicuspids. How many legs could conceivably fit into one mouth? As I pondered this, Benjamin queried the young man escorting us to our table about the notice out front, with uncharacteristic subtlety. “I saw that you have a Kids’ Night here. One night they have a coloring contest? Or is it a series of contests, like for most original, most realistic …”
While gesturing us into our booth and handing out menus, the man replied that, to his knowledge, the night in question revolved around a single coloring contest. Benjamin and Jenny huddled together in a conspiratorial manner. I wondered if he’d really attempt this daring super-spy stealth correction or if, perhaps, the novelty of his first typo correction would fade at the sight of a stack of pancakes. I still hadn’t fully decided on my rules of engagement: when to ask permission, and so forth. I seemed to be leaning toward stealth corrections in minor cases when it didn’t seem worth troubling anyone, or there was no one around to trouble. I never really set specific guidelines for myself. And I might have already broken a minor rule; I’d made a correction at an eatery before I’d been served my food. I didn’t think I had to worry about the diner staff concealing sputum in my meal, though—nobody had taken