The Great Typo Hunt Part 10

Okay, so now she'd pa.s.sed the buck and projected her apathy onto everyone else, as if signs only became the store's responsibility after multiple complaints had stacked up on her desk into a thickness sufficient to be bound and sold here: Please Fix Your Signs Already Please Fix Your Signs Already, by Your Customers (2008). I hoped it was merely the idea of having to do the work herself that had made her react so negatively, and so I offered to take care of the mistakes myself, presenting a phial of elixir to vouch for my sincerity.

"No, we'll take care of it," she lied. Upon hearing how unconvincing she sounded, she switched lies. "The volunteer's going to be making new versions of those signs anyway."

I'd heard all of these lines before, but never in such rapid succession, out of the same mouth. We'd gotten a bravura performance in the unlikeliest place; perhaps the bookstore clerk had missed her true calling on the stage. Benjamin laughed as soon as we hit the sidewalk. "Wow! You'd think she'd been following the blog to have come up with all those!"

"What was the problem?" I nearly shouted. "I mean, why? why? I don't understand why she wouldn't at least let me white out that apostrophe?" I don't understand why she wouldn't at least let me white out that apostrophe?"

"She could be an agent of FLAME," Benjamin offered.

The rain-or perhaps reign-of errant apostrophes continued to sluice onto our sunny day. We caught a whole row of plural apostrophes trapped in one sign behind gla.s.s. The juice bar hadn't even opened for business yet, and already it drowned under the weight of excess punctuation. I wished it good luck and better proofreading as we continued on along the street.

No quarrel with apostrophes would be complete, however, without at least one confusion of it's it's and and its its. We stared at the dry-erase board, set on an easel outside the storefront of the Benton Shoe Company, which was NOW IN IT'S 16 NOW IN IT'S 16TH YEAR YEAR. Okay, this could be an easy fix. They'd let us wipe out that apostrophe, right? Before I even thought about it, my finger had stretched out toward the board, touching it, trying to wipe the little mark away. It failed to disappear. At that moment an employee popped through the front doorway, having noticed us staring at the sign. As much as I'd insisted on no stealth corrections, I'd been caught failing at one. "It's the it's it's," I said lamely. "It should be its its."

"Without an apostrophe," Benjamin clarified.

She must have been the person who'd written the sign-months ago, for the dry-erase marker had dried and become permanent. Her initial reply, without the defensive tone that the words implied, was, "I never promised that I was brilliant." She said it with a casual shrug, but she didn't slam the door in our faces. I wondered if we still had a chance at this one, as bad as we'd already made the situation, and as miserable and-dare I say-nightmarish as Elm Street had become. "An apostrophe," I said, "that we can't rub off-it won't come out."

"Here," she said, perhaps taking pity on us, "I know." She reached for my Typo Correction Kit, and I offered her the closest color, which didn't match the sign. She shrugged this detail off as well. "That's all right." Then, with my marker, she turned the apostrophe into a little star. Next she added another star to the board, and another, and another. She'd made a parallelogram constellation, or quadruple fireworks for the store's obsidian anniversary. The apostrophe had been hidden amid the decorations. She handed back my dry-erase marker and with a quick, quirky smile, she zipped back into the store, humming a quiet tune to herself. No, she'd never promised to be brilliant-she'd just proven it.

"Dude," Benjamin said, "that was freaking amazing."

I wished, when I'd started the trip, that I'd had the foresight to create some kind of awards. "For Excellence & Creativity in Eradication, I award you this beribboned Typo Correction Kit." Our fortunes had reversed course. As we moved farther down the street, I bounded nearly as high as Benjamin normally does.

Another dry-erase board with a problem greeted us: STEAK CEASAR SALAD STEAK CEASAR SALAD. The cas.h.i.+er initially told us not to worry because they'd be erasing it tomorrow, which seemed plausible as the salad was among the daily specials. When I told her of our quest and added that this stop represented the triumphal return to my roots, she bade us onward to correction with a heartfelt "Okay," holding back the "whatever" that still spoke through the rustle of her shrug. Benjamin had caught a "ceasar" salad back in Hudson, and now I'd evened the score. My blue dry-erase marker didn't quite match their light green, but it'd be gone tomorrow anyway. As I wiped it away, I turned to Benjamin and cried, "Me too, you brute! Then fall 'ceasar'!"

After noting that a like-minded individual had added some apostrophes to a sign desperately needing them-quickening the manufacture of good spirit in my heart's grimy mills-I decided we'd successfully covered the main chunk of the street and should head back to the car. We agreed upon one last stop for drinks, mayhap smoothies, at the Bridge Cafe. Benjamin noted that the cafe had to be a cool place because it hosted poetry slams.

Of all the typos I'd ever noticed, this would have to be one of the slightest infractions. Even apostrophes or lack thereof come down to a single mark, but this was in effect a sliver of a letter. Gorgonzola Gorgonzola, up on the chalkboard, had been spelled "Gorganzola". I smiled at how easy it'd be to have someone to reach up and, with the slightest finger-swipe, take the tail off that a a to make it an o. I approached one of the two men behind the counter, and he accepted a TEAL card and heard us out, turning to see if he could spot the error. Before he had a chance to say anything, however, the other guy jumped in, practically shoving the first employee to the side. "So who says it's wrong?" to make it an o. I approached one of the two men behind the counter, and he accepted a TEAL card and heard us out, turning to see if he could spot the error. Before he had a chance to say anything, however, the other guy jumped in, practically shoving the first employee to the side. "So who says it's wrong?"

The first guy stepped back away and let his supervisor (was he that?) take over, which was too bad, since he'd seemed open to making the correction. Now I had the privilege of talking to this other guy, whose style of service had been a tad abrasive even with his last customer. "Well," I said, "the first a a needs to be an o. It's the tiniest of changes ..." needs to be an o. It's the tiniest of changes ..."

"Everybody makes mistakes," he replied, which I felt I could nod along with, except for its immediate postscript: "Why should I fix it? Because you say so?"

"No. Because it's wrong." His logic had caught me off guard. Since everyone makes mistakes, there's no reason to fix them? The ball bounced over the shortstop's glove; why should the outfielder bother to run it down?

"We'll be sure sure to take care of that for you," he said in a sarcastic and challenging tone. I couldn't believe this guy felt the need to stare me down over a typo, but that's what he'd decided to do. His jaw was set, and his eyes hard: full macho mode. to take care of that for you," he said in a sarcastic and challenging tone. I couldn't believe this guy felt the need to stare me down over a typo, but that's what he'd decided to do. His jaw was set, and his eyes hard: full macho mode.

"It's just taking the tail off the a," I reiterated.

Again using a contrary inflection, he said, "Thank you. Anything else?"

I looked to Benjamin, who'd already picked out what he'd planned to drink. He shook his head no. We'd slake our thirst somewhere else. Sometimes you have to walk away.

As disappointed as I felt for not fixing literally the easiest of all the typos I'd ever detected, Benjamin looked even lower. Apparently he'd expected a very different atmosphere, judging solely on the basis of the cafe's poster about its slam nights. "Poets gravitate to places with the right atmosphere atmosphere, man. That completely caught me off guard. What was that guy's problem?"

"His misspelling? Everyone makes mistakes, like he said."

"Yeah, everyone makes mistakes, but that doesn't mean we all defend them."

And defensive was exactly what we'd seen, which brought me back to Albany and renown renown. As Benjamin and I began talking over the various responses we'd had over the last few days, we realized they'd covered a surprising range.

Forget the typos. Mission aside, I'd taken a tour of basic human interactions. We'd seen a wide sampling of how people dealt with challenges, problems, or general requests made of them on a fundamental level. We're fast approaching seven billion people on this little blue period in the text of the cosmos, and every day we b.u.mp into dozens of each others. Each interaction does not necessarily equate to one person wanting something from the other; sometimes they possess a common goal. (My mission was supposed to be the latter: enlisting people's aid in improving their own surroundings.) When someone initiates an interaction with us, we have to decide how to react. I'd noted earlier how the customer service aspect that dominates many of these situations provided a basic script, but over the past few days I'd caught a lot more reactions of the unscripted variety. As human beings, how do we choose to react in that instant when someone walks toward us, smiles, and begins to speak?

As I sat down to my blog, I couldn't shake the Bridge Cafe guy's skewed recognition that we all make mistakes. I t.i.tled my day's entry: We All Make Mistakes. Now How Do You Deal? We All Make Mistakes. Now How Do You Deal? I played with the idea, but I felt fettered by the single day's events. I couldn't tell the whole story that way. Albany, Hanover, and Manchester felt like a family of experiences, much like the Three Bears (a simile that would win Jane's approval). Papa Albany Bear had been too aggressive. Mama Hanover Bear had been gentle. And Baby, no, Teenage Manchester Bear had been juuuust ... all over the place. Benjamin and I continued to debate motivations and explanations through the next day's hunt, again in Manchester. I played with the idea, but I felt fettered by the single day's events. I couldn't tell the whole story that way. Albany, Hanover, and Manchester felt like a family of experiences, much like the Three Bears (a simile that would win Jane's approval). Papa Albany Bear had been too aggressive. Mama Hanover Bear had been gentle. And Baby, no, Teenage Manchester Bear had been juuuust ... all over the place. Benjamin and I continued to debate motivations and explanations through the next day's hunt, again in Manchester.

With the renown guy, I'd had no hope right from the start. He'd immediately changed the discussion from focusing on the typo to the question of who's right. Once we'd devolved into "I'm right and you're wrong," his position had become entrenched because his very ident.i.ty-as the person who is right right-was at stake. "That's a huge thing that I see in customer service. When customers feel like they're being told they're wrong, they get hostile," Benjamin added.

The renown and gorganzola affairs had shared that confrontational defensiveness. "Why should I fix it? Because you say so?" "What school do you teach at?" They'd responded to my request by asking who I was to be correcting them. As much as I'd tried not to blame people for mistakes, focusing instead on the mistakes themselves, some people refused to let that distinction play. Anything they did became linked to their ident.i.ty, and anyone who suggested the slightest tail-off-a-letter change to what they'd done became the enemy. I marveled at how, once again, tiny little typos had led me to a much larger communication issue, one that could apply across the broad spectrum of our daily experiences. Too often, we get stuck arguing from that perspective, placing egos like roadblocks into the situations. Perhaps I should have invested first in the appeas.e.m.e.nt of those egos, before even broaching the topic of the mistakes, with a sincere "How's your day going?" In his book I'm Right, You're Wrong, Now What? I'm Right, You're Wrong, Now What? the clinical psychologist Dr. Xavier Amador sums up his approach to conflict resolution as, "Why would anyone want to listen to you if he felt you had not first listened to him?" the clinical psychologist Dr. Xavier Amador sums up his approach to conflict resolution as, "Why would anyone want to listen to you if he felt you had not first listened to him?"

So what about the other reactions we encountered? For some, the ambivalent nature of apathy rears its fuzzy-logic head. We'd already witnessed how apathy could be boon or bane for us, but now I could field effectively alongside that most infamous of all shortstops, I-Don't-Give-A-Darn.* The prerequisite for apathy was creating a boundary line between oneself and the rest of the world. Once that boundary was set, apathy could take root, either from basic frustration at forces outside one's control or from a consciously predetermined refusal to allow the outside any concern. Our Noodler represented the latter, and as soon as he identified us as "not my problem," he could shoot us down with practiced ease. We didn't even have time to state our relevance; we were interlopers, and we stood outside the boundary. On the obverse of the apathy coin, my ceasar-salad correction had been allowed because the woman hadn't cared about the words that would be wiped away. Telling us yes had been the fastest way to resolve her sole concern: eliminating our existence from inside her boundary line. The prerequisite for apathy was creating a boundary line between oneself and the rest of the world. Once that boundary was set, apathy could take root, either from basic frustration at forces outside one's control or from a consciously predetermined refusal to allow the outside any concern. Our Noodler represented the latter, and as soon as he identified us as "not my problem," he could shoot us down with practiced ease. We didn't even have time to state our relevance; we were interlopers, and we stood outside the boundary. On the obverse of the apathy coin, my ceasar-salad correction had been allowed because the woman hadn't cared about the words that would be wiped away. Telling us yes had been the fastest way to resolve her sole concern: eliminating our existence from inside her boundary line.

Still more intriguing to me had been our bookstore lady, who'd gone out of her way to lie for no reason we could nail down. She'd lied so consistently that I couldn't even hazard a guess as to her motivation. I can't be sure if this was the case, but Benjamin did observe, "There are are people who have a problem with everything, no matter what. They argue for the sake of arguing." Yet even if this explanation fits, how would such people get through an ordinary day? Does that kind of argumentative nature confer a feeling of superiority, or do the topics of argument truly feel that important to the arguer? It might come down to control, a narrow focus on insignificant details as the only controllable things (e.g., no customer's going to tell people who have a problem with everything, no matter what. They argue for the sake of arguing." Yet even if this explanation fits, how would such people get through an ordinary day? Does that kind of argumentative nature confer a feeling of superiority, or do the topics of argument truly feel that important to the arguer? It might come down to control, a narrow focus on insignificant details as the only controllable things (e.g., no customer's going to tell me me what to change in what to change in my my store). Or by sticking to the molehills and minutiae, one gains an excuse for not facing the difficult mountains that do loom outside the kitchen window. (Uncharitable persons might claim this about the TEAL mission itself.) Beyond our speculations, I fear I haven't the insight to definitively draw back the veil. Hudson's Miracle on Main Street fiasco returned to my mind then, but that hadn't been arguing for the sake of arguing so much as it had been a desperate groping for authority (the makers of the sign must know better than any of us; the dictionary will tell us; here's a woman I work with, know, and trust). store). Or by sticking to the molehills and minutiae, one gains an excuse for not facing the difficult mountains that do loom outside the kitchen window. (Uncharitable persons might claim this about the TEAL mission itself.) Beyond our speculations, I fear I haven't the insight to definitively draw back the veil. Hudson's Miracle on Main Street fiasco returned to my mind then, but that hadn't been arguing for the sake of arguing so much as it had been a desperate groping for authority (the makers of the sign must know better than any of us; the dictionary will tell us; here's a woman I work with, know, and trust).

Not everyone had to react so negatively. I thought back to Hanover, where one guy caught himself pa.s.sing the buck and took responsibility for it. He may not have created the typo, but he was there in the moment and could make the change happen. He'd even pointed out the brother typo of the one I'd caught, so we'd nabbed that one, too, working together. I considered that to be an excellent model to carry across life's vistas of possibility. Who cares who made the mistake? I only care about how it gets fixed. Immediately following that one, I'd come upon the candy-store clerk, who turned a mistake into a teachable moment, the epitome of lemonade from lemons. At Molly's, they'd rolled with our request so well that I had to revisit my thoughts about judgment, which Benjamin had shot down back in Chicago. While others might judge the mistakes and think less of a restaurant that had them, their response to our request had offered so much more vital information to judge them by. In showing such good humor and letting us correct the typos, everyone nearby feeling comfortable to join in the moment, they'd proven proven themselves. The very atmosphere that Applebee's, T.G.I. Friday's, and their ilk simulate in their advertis.e.m.e.nts actually existed here; we felt it. Thinking about it gave me a pang for Hanover like I hadn't experienced even during my reunion. themselves. The very atmosphere that Applebee's, T.G.I. Friday's, and their ilk simulate in their advertis.e.m.e.nts actually existed here; we felt it. Thinking about it gave me a pang for Hanover like I hadn't experienced even during my reunion.

Topping it off, though, was our Benton Shoe lady. That had likely been her own apostrophe, placing her with the many Americans who lack apostrophic confidence apostrophic confidence. In the end, though, what mattered most about her was her creativity and easygoing nature, as she casually made one of the most inspired typo corrections of our entire journey.

As if to screw the point deeper into the paneling of my head, the next two days offered almost perfectly symmetrical experiences. Once each day, we spotted a sign from the car, parked, and went inside the establishment to speak to someone. Both people we told used an air of professionalism to cut our interactions short. In spite of those surface similarities, the results were radically different. Outside The Derryfield, a restaurant and nightspot that my mom had patronized back in the day, an LED sign flashed a string of red messages, including one that advertised PRIME RIB NITGHT PRIME RIB NITGHT. We had to wait as it cycled through a couple times, timing the moment right to get the picture, which we used as our evidence inside. A hostess grabbed a manager, who said he'd fix it and then walked away. The curt nod punctuating his sentence let us know he'd heard us and that the interaction had therefore concluded. Had we been lied to, or had he done it? We drove on for more typo hunting, and when we pa.s.sed by later, we saw that the offending t t no longer existed. Benjamin had offered a smile as he thought back and said, "That guy's a pro. He might have seemed abrupt, but that's the att.i.tude of someone who gets things done." That nod had probably reflected this latest item entering his mental to-do list, and I didn't doubt that everything that went on that man's list got crossed off. no longer existed. Benjamin had offered a smile as he thought back and said, "That guy's a pro. He might have seemed abrupt, but that's the att.i.tude of someone who gets things done." That nod had probably reflected this latest item entering his mental to-do list, and I didn't doubt that everything that went on that man's list got crossed off.

By contrast, in the second instance, our efforts received a "No ... we don't do that." We stood inside a credit union, where the marquee outside advertised a HOME EQUTIY SPECIAL HOME EQUTIY SPECIAL.

I stared at the woman behind the desk, confused. I'd explained our mission and asked to borrow a ladder, but she seemed to be answering a different question. "Uh. Don't do what?"

"Buy whatever you're selling." Spoken with the professional authority she'd swaddled herself in, using it as a flak jacket to protect her from really hearing us. Even as I tried to clarify that we weren't selling anything at all and only wanted to point out that they'd misspelled equity equity (which I'd thought to be a key term for a banking inst.i.tution), I could see that she'd given us her official decree. The conversation had already ended, regardless of how long we kept talking. (which I'd thought to be a key term for a banking inst.i.tution), I could see that she'd given us her official decree. The conversation had already ended, regardless of how long we kept talking.

"What a piece of work is man," Benjamin began to muse. As for me, I'd done enough investigation into the knotted guts of human behavior to last me for quite a while. The time for home had come.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 432 Total corrected: 233 * Or, depending on how Abbott and Costello judged the sensibilities of their audience during their routine, he might manifest as I-Don't-Care or I-Don't-Give-a-d.a.m.n. Or, depending on how Abbott and Costello judged the sensibilities of their audience during their routine, he might manifest as I-Don't-Care or I-Don't-Give-a-d.a.m.n.

17 The Welcome-Back Committee

May 1722, 2008 (Somerville, MA)Home once more, his Mission complete, still the unslakeable fires for communication Clarity blaze mightily, and new Vision begins to bubble in the cauldron of our Hero's mind, a reaching out to all those who-actually, no, the Government has other plans.

We took the last miles of the TEAL journey at a tear. Surely only Odysseus returning to Ithaca had experienced the depth of eagerness that I did now. The drive from Manchester to Somerville took about an hour, but felt longer. So many times had I traversed this bland stretch of I-93 on visits to my mom, but never had there been such import to my return. I had traveled nearly twelve thousand miles on my monumental circuit around the country, and now I returned to where I'd begun-albeit with a ton more stuff in the car and a short, bearded fellow in the pa.s.senger seat.

No welcoming parade greeted us as we pulled off the highway. No flotilla of floats impeded our progress as I turned Callie onto Cherry Street. It was a cool, sunny May morning. The neighborhood looked as I had left it. My house was as gloomy and dark as it had ever been. Nevertheless, I sprang out of the car, sensing that I I was different, and that I had only begun to comprehend the enigmas underlying mankind and cacography. was different, and that I had only begun to comprehend the enigmas underlying mankind and cacography.

We entered the silent apartment; my roommate was away for the weekend. I stood in the dim hall for a moment, my keys still in my hand, as the entire trip rushed back over me in recall. Seventy-three days of travel, more epic an adventure than I had ever undertaken. I had hunted typos through frigid snows and baking heat, in teeming cities and lonely outposts, amid mountains and plains and dreaming sh.o.r.es. I had put myself in various perilous situations, but none of my fears about the journey had come to pa.s.s. I had not met violence, nor lost my car to theft or the elements, and I had averted both greasy-spoon-induced E. coli E. coli and cha.s.sis-twisting calamities. Surely some higher patron of grammar had gilded my path. Then I glanced at the sloping range of mail on the foyer table and winced. The nice folks at Emory University Hospital at Atlanta apparently expected recompense for fixing my eye. Other creditors had been awaiting my return with varying degrees of patience. I had a welcome-back committee after all, it seemed. and cha.s.sis-twisting calamities. Surely some higher patron of grammar had gilded my path. Then I glanced at the sloping range of mail on the foyer table and winced. The nice folks at Emory University Hospital at Atlanta apparently expected recompense for fixing my eye. Other creditors had been awaiting my return with varying degrees of patience. I had a welcome-back committee after all, it seemed.

"Come on, man," said Benjamin. "There's a heap of junk in that car that we've gotta unload."

"Sorry, it's just hard to believe that I'm back here," I said. "And just when we got a handle on why typos happen. Too bad this is the end, huh?"

He chose to take my query at face value. "No, we've still got one last hunt to do with Jane, remember?"

We went back out to the trunk and started hauling our bags and other detritus inside. During these labors, I realized that my return was missing something, a certain crucial action that would close the circle of this journey in satisfying, Campbellian form. I checked my watch. We still had time to kill before Jane came up from Allston.

"Why don't we take a stroll to Davis Square?" I said, strapping on the camera and Typo Correction Kit. "There's a score I have to settle."

We headed down the street, and when we came to a particular sign hanging on a particular fence, I stopped and stared it down. Benjamin whistled. "That's the one, isn't it?"

"That's the one," I affirmed.

NO TRESSPa.s.sING.

"Do it, man," said Benjamin. "Time to drive the ruffians from the s.h.i.+re."

I knew how best to handle this ancient foe-with the final dregs of the bottle of elixir that had served me so well in skirmishes around the nation. I uncorked it and slowly painted over the second s s, not with malevolence, but with a sense of justice at last being done.

"Tresses shall henceforth be freely pa.s.sed," freely pa.s.sed," I declared in ringing tones. I declared in ringing tones.

We circled the Square, if that's possible, and headed back toward my street. Jane called me then, on her walk to my house from the Porter subway station. We spotted her rolling her overnight bag behind her farther down Cherry Street, and she hid behind a telephone pole-then burst out and pelted into my arms. "You're not gonna leave me again, right?" she said into my shoulder.

"I'm here to stay," I murmured back, closing my eyes and enjoying her nearness. And I would have stayed put, had the choice been up to me, but an awful destiny awaited Benjamin and me.

Jane and I reluctantly disengaged, remembering that we had one last hunt to do. We swung by my apartment to drop off her bag and prepare for a longer outing. I'd kicked off my mission in Boston, and searched out and corrected typos in various strange territories. Now I would have to complete what my NO TRESSPa.s.sING NO TRESSPa.s.sING correction had begun, and face my own neighborhood, here north of the Charles. correction had begun, and face my own neighborhood, here north of the Charles.

The three of us crossed into Cambridge and took a stroll down Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue. Our party lent a nice symmetry, I thought, to the circuit of the League. Josh, Benjamin, and I had hunted in L.A.; Jane, Josh, and I had hunted in Seattle; and now Benjamin, Jane, and I plied TEAL's trade here at home. The afternoon remained brisk. We strolled under a bright blue sky.

Independent shops and eateries festooned the road down to Harvard University. We popped into them along the way, enjoying the day and browsing their wares. How this hunt contrasted to that first one I'd undertaken in Boston. Then, I had not known where to search out typos, and when I had stumbled across a few, I drew back from them, hesitant and afraid. Now we wielded our corrective tools with impunity, b.u.t.tressed by the solid stone of our experiences.

As we wandered through a craft shop, Jane asked, "Is TEAL all done?"

Benjamin chuckled. I said that I'd like to see us go on and do more, that we ought to carefully expand our mission. I also had an interview coming up with Boston's Fox News. This would be the last typo hunt for the trip, though, so in that sense we'd reached the end.

"Can I help you prepare?" Jane asked, her eyes anime-wide with enthusiasm.

"Sure. Ask me a practice question. I'm ready."

She maneuvered over to where Benjamin was. Though they'd only met today, they were already getting along well. He whispered something to her.

"So," she said, holding out an invisible microphone, "where did you guys end up finding the most typos?"

The cla.s.sic question. Everyone asked it sooner or later. "Everywhere," I said. Starting out, I'd heard many snarky comments about where I'd be most likely to find typos, born out of stereotypes about certain sectors of America. In practice, though, we had found errors in every geographical corner and on every socioeconomic stratum. Typos were a universal, cla.s.s-and region-blind phenomenon. "Pretty much everyone could use an editor."

"Case in point over here," Benjamin said. Jane and I saw that his old foe, subject-verb disagreement, had returned: "... each draws like a pencil, doesn't rub off on hands, and-amazingly-take about 10 years before it disappears." Even here in a shop full of cleverly manufactured goods, in one of the wealthiest and most educated communities in the state, typos could still happen. I added the s s to "take" and we moved on. Benjamin brushed his hands together. "Glad I got to see one last disagreement go down." to "take" and we moved on. Benjamin brushed his hands together. "Glad I got to see one last disagreement go down."

Farther down the road, an extraneous apostrophe in neon vexed us, for old time's sake. A pox on PASTA AND SALAD'S PASTA AND SALAD'S! We stared at the restaurant window, knowing that the owner would not likely replace his expensive fluorescent tubes just because we said so. "I wonder how much they paid for that," Benjamin said.

"Those plural apostrophes." I sighed with mock despair. "It seems we'll never be rid of them."

"Why not?" Jane asked.

"Self-perpetuating," Benjamin said. "Other people who aren't confident about their apostrophe use will see this. Then they'll be adding plural apostrophes to their own words."

"Viral, huh? So maybe you need a viral solution." solution." And like that Jane gave me an inspiration for what the League's next move might be. She saw it in my eyes, too. "Uh-oh, bear. Why do I have the feeling I'm going to be helping you design something in Flash soon?" And like that Jane gave me an inspiration for what the League's next move might be. She saw it in my eyes, too. "Uh-oh, bear. Why do I have the feeling I'm going to be helping you design something in Flash soon?"

"Hmm," I said significantly. "I wonder what that solution would look like."

We sat down for lunch in Harvard Square and batted around some crazy ideas for what the TEAL site-and what the League itself-could grow into. I devoured my food, barely registering it. I should have been exhausted from my travels, flinging myself back into my own bed for a marathon snoozefest. And yet, now that I was back, armed with everything I knew, I wanted to charge forth and do more. The possibilities seemed boundless and yet within the bounds of my ability. This wasn't the end at all, more like a phase s.h.i.+ft, or maybe our quanta ascending to the next state.

We talked over some ideas as we ate, and agreed that today's hunt wouldn't be the last post. Next I'd start a contest, soliciting typo corrections. I could post entries on what counted as a typo or not, and on strategies for typo hunting-emphasizing the kinder and gentler approach, of course. We had enough ideas for at least five posts, maybe more if people began submitting their fixes.

Having clung to one side of the street on our way down, we headed back up Ma.s.s Ave. on the other side and again ducked in everywhere. Anything to prolong and enrich that last hunt. I hooked my arm in Jane's, and Benjamin strolled along behind us, examining our environs more carefully. For someone who'd begun the trip with no interest in the typo aspect, he was pretty intent on the mission now. He stopped us and pointed out something we'd stepped right over, a workman's graffito on the sidewalk: TO CLOSE TO N-STAR TO CLOSE TO N-STAR. Benjamin took my chalk and knelt by the error, sc.r.a.ping in an extra o o. Not quite satisfied with that, he augmented his work with marker.

"Ahh!" Jane said as he worked. "The typo tried to get our toes!"

"They attack from every angle. They're everywhere." We'd taken out many, but they remained abundant.

"Well then, I guess you better get to work with those ideas," she said, and I petted her arm. Despite her Hippie tendencies, I had her support. I'd explained to her via e-mail and phone how she'd helped me reshape my orthographic worldview after Benjamin and I had slugged it out in the Midwest. I wondered if I could explain my position to everyone sufficiently for both Hawk and Hippie to align themselves with me, to push for a few crucial changes in the way we approach language. E.g., that people could be their own editors, that all it took was a second look at whatever you'd written.

"You know, Jane's right," Benjamin said. "There's work to be done."

"Are you saying you're in for the next phase, too?"

Benjamin handed me back my chalk and marker. "I haven't bought a ticket back yet. I should wait a week to head back south. We could kick things off right now. What do you say?"

In a gift store, we came to my final typo find and correction. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it manifested as an its/it's its/it's confusion. The typo hid in a legend accompanying a little packaged plastic gnome: confusion. The typo hid in a legend accompanying a little packaged plastic gnome: THIS MYTHICAL CREATURE IS SAID TO BRING LUCK TO IT'S OWNER THIS MYTHICAL CREATURE IS SAID TO BRING LUCK TO IT'S OWNER! The mythical creature in question would bring only grammatical confusion to its owner if I didn't step in, so I markered out the apostrophe. Jane watched me as she played with some toys nearby.

"What a tiny apostrophe that was," she said. "The gnome itself looked like a giant next to it."

Such a tiny thing, but such a big difference it had made. The episode seemed a fitting end to our quest. Though I might have made a mistake in not buying the little garden dweller, as I could have used the luck.

When we got back to the apartment, Benjamin hauled his bags into the living room and commandeered the couch. After blogging our finds, I concluded that last post suggesting that everyone should "stay tuned" for more to come, and over the next few days I kicked off a typo-hunting contest (offering a free TEAL s.h.i.+rt as a prize) and wrote posts about about typos and the practice of their elimination, leading up to some bigger discussions ... that circ.u.mstances would soon prevent from flowering. Benjamin and I began to put together big plans for the future of the League. typos and the practice of their elimination, leading up to some bigger discussions ... that circ.u.mstances would soon prevent from flowering. Benjamin and I began to put together big plans for the future of the League.

A couple days before Benjamin left, a visitor arrived at my apartment. Jane and I were out at the time, so my roommate answered the door on that fateful Thursday morning. Benjamin sat in the living room reading Arthur C. Clarke, and overheard the interloper ask for either Jeff Deck or Benjamin Herson. Benjamin popped up and introduced himself to a tall, muscular fellow squeezed into a tan uniform that reminded him of his Boy Scout days. "Is Jeff Deck here as well?"

"Not at the present time, but this is his place," Benjamin answered. "I'm the one just visiting. What's ... this about?"

The uniformed man handed over some photocopied doc.u.ments, and his card. "This is about a sign you vandalized at the Grand Canyon."

Appalled by the man's characterization of the act, Benjamin replied, "We corrected it."

"It was a hundred years old," the ranger said.

"Oh." Benjamin signed that he'd officially received the doc.u.ments, for both of us.