Benjamin leaned back on the bench. "Dude, I don't think I'm ever eating at a Taco Bell again. Fast food seems somehow offensive now."

I took a deep breath, putting down my empty wrapper. "Um. I have to tell you something."

We'd had trouble from the start finding the most fertile typo-hunting ground, but a pattern had emerged, and here in Santa Fe, it crystallized for me. The more h.o.m.ogenized a place became, the less likely we'd be to find typos. "Filene's Bas.e.m.e.nt was a fluke," I explained, and Benjamin agreed. Most signs coming from corporate would have been checked for problems before thousands of copies were made. The bigger the company, the more widespread would be the single error that got through and thus the more they'd want to avoid that. "Owners expense" aside-and that didn't belong to corporate America anyhow-we'd found many more typos on individually made signs, the ones run off quickly in the store's back office.

Benjamin summed things up. "Okay, so the more independently owned shops you have, the more typos we're likely to find. So now we know where to go."

Yes, but no-he didn't get it. He didn't see the significance significance. "But I like these places better!"

"So do I. The whole real America real America thing isn't about urban versus rural; it's ident.i.ty versus ... Walmart." thing isn't about urban versus rural; it's ident.i.ty versus ... Walmart."

I stood up, clenching my fists. Yes, yes, valid point, but still still. "Benjamin, I-" I didn't know what I meant, or maybe I didn't want to vocalize it, but I flailed in a mental whirlpool, and I had to face the fact that my mission could be a mistake. It'd been impossible to know it when I started out, but the standards I graded on were flunking the wrong people. The soulless, concrete wastelands of strip malls and big-box stores that all sold the same stuff, I gave a clean bill of grammatical health, and then I came to these places, these living last bastions of independent thought and color and energy, and I corrected corrected them. "Are we-am I-Look. What if typos are an element of this kind of setting?" I spread my hands out wide, as if to encompa.s.s all of Santa Fe, offering it a ride upon my shoulders like Atlas's burden. "Am I destroying a part of its character? What if I'm an agent of the very h.o.m.ogenization I despise, waltzing into town and demanding that everyone stick to our rigid grammatical standard, helping corporate agents claim these idylls by 'cleaning up' the language like a new high-rise 'cleans up' the area by evicting the poorer tenants?" them. "Are we-am I-Look. What if typos are an element of this kind of setting?" I spread my hands out wide, as if to encompa.s.s all of Santa Fe, offering it a ride upon my shoulders like Atlas's burden. "Am I destroying a part of its character? What if I'm an agent of the very h.o.m.ogenization I despise, waltzing into town and demanding that everyone stick to our rigid grammatical standard, helping corporate agents claim these idylls by 'cleaning up' the language like a new high-rise 'cleans up' the area by evicting the poorer tenants?"

"Whoa!" Benjamin cut me short. "Dude, no smoking our dogs aloud. Calm down."

He had a point. I took a deep breath. Then he suggested that while it wasn't a bad idea to ask these hard questions, I didn't have to give up immediately. I hadn't explicitly suggested that, but he was right that I'd considered stopping the typo hunt right there on that square. It seemed like a perfect moment for true reckoning, that I could look back and say, "A fajita opened my sinuses and then Santa Fe opened my eyes to the evil I'd wrought!" Benjamin asked if I wanted to head anywhere else, offering that we could play tourists since we'd found a sizable chunk of typos already. I did want to see that cathedral, so we headed that way, after one last thorough nose-blowing.

As we left the park Benjamin reiterated that bringing these questions to the forefront could be healthy. "Everything we do raises contradictions. It's the people who examine them and work to resolve them who'll succeed every time. I have to say, you've hit some valid points, and I don't know what to tell you, but let's enjoy the beautiful day and not worry about it for now." Thus we moved from questions toward a destination many chose for answers.

We entered the enormous barrel-vaulted nave of the cathedral. We pa.s.sed the eight-sided baptismal font in silence and admired the wall of saints and sainthood candidates on the far wall. A display showed that artwork in miniature, with the addition of names. We leaned down to see who was who, and what I saw rattled my heathen bones. They'd identified Saint Francis of "a.s.sissi" in the very Cathedral of St. Francis of a.s.sisi. The extra s s didn't jump out at me like usual typos, didn't merely offend my delicate sensibilities. No, this sp.a.w.n of the Evil One screamed with a thousand banshee wails, for it knew I wouldn't dare correct this error sitting on an ancient-looking placard on church property. Some things were sacred, and though I might be the only typo hunter around, I dared not presume to be a skilled enough artisan to exorcise this thing that transfigured a venerated saint into a paragon of error (not to mention what the extra didn't jump out at me like usual typos, didn't merely offend my delicate sensibilities. No, this sp.a.w.n of the Evil One screamed with a thousand banshee wails, for it knew I wouldn't dare correct this error sitting on an ancient-looking placard on church property. Some things were sacred, and though I might be the only typo hunter around, I dared not presume to be a skilled enough artisan to exorcise this thing that transfigured a venerated saint into a paragon of error (not to mention what the extra s s does to the p.r.o.nunciation of the word; the Catholic Church would not approve). does to the p.r.o.nunciation of the word; the Catholic Church would not approve).

Perhaps because I seemed so enraptured by the exhibit, Juan, one of the tour guides for the cathedral, approached us. Benjamin thought that he shattered the quiet and general sense of peace, but for me that peace had already been slain by a single s s. A friendly older gent, Juan didn't hesitate to fill us in on any cathedral trivia we had questions about, as well as things we had not yet thought to question, so Benjamin eventually warmed to the garrulous chaper-one. I also sensed that with Juan lay my best chance for seeing the error corrected. After we'd chatted long enough to confirm that he sincerely cared about the place and about educating its visitors, I gestured back toward the exhibit that named the people on the far wall. Immediately he began telling us stories explaining why these individuals had been chosen for the cathedral's coveted Top 15. By taking a backward step after every new anecdote of Juan's, I managed to get him to follow me.

Now I'd gotten him close to the exhibit, and then I stopped and stared at his name tag again. No! Betrayed at every turn in this my Gethsemane. By some inconceivable oversight, his name tag listed him as an official tour guide for the St. "Frances" Cathedral. The venerable saint's sister? The typos had now gone mobile on us.* "I'm sorry to interrupt," I lied. "But this is St. Francis Cathedral, right?" "I'm sorry to interrupt," I lied. "But this is St. Francis Cathedral, right?"

He confirmed that it was, giving me a funny look, perhaps wondering what he'd said that had made me so incredulous. I explained by indicating his name tag, which had swapped its i i for an for an e e. "Well, you know, the Spanish have their own way of spelling things," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, a slight eye roll, as if to add "those crazy Spanish." A quick glance at Benjamin's wide eyes confirmed my own reaction. The Spanish version was, in fact, Francisco Francisco. If we'd been talking about Saint Francis's original Italian Italian name, Giovanni Frances...o...b..rnardone, that argument would have held more water. But no, the church took its name from old Giovanni's Latinized name. It was a goof, a flub, and no cross-cultural shrug could deny it-or the exhibit error. I had now caught misspellings of both Francis and a.s.sisi in the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of a.s.sisi! name, Giovanni Frances...o...b..rnardone, that argument would have held more water. But no, the church took its name from old Giovanni's Latinized name. It was a goof, a flub, and no cross-cultural shrug could deny it-or the exhibit error. I had now caught misspellings of both Francis and a.s.sisi in the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of a.s.sisi!

Juan had wandered off on another story, and as soon as I sensed the end of it, I pointed down at a.s.sissi. How would he defend this one? He fed me the same line. "I believe that's the Spanish Spanish way of spelling it." way of spelling it."

His repeated calumnies revealed his allegiance once and for all: this guide served a dark idol. No powers of mine could stand against the unholy agency of Juan's denial. I don't remember leaving the cathedral, but the next thing I knew I was standing on the terrace out front. "You okay?" Benjamin asked me.

I nodded, though I still felt dizzy.

He smirked at me. "Still want to give up your mission?"

I shook my head firmly. The questions and doubts plaguing my mind when I'd entered that building had been scrubbed away by the vinegary solution of St. Frances of a.s.sissi. Ask, and ye shall receive-but be careful what you ask for. I squinted in the sunlight, still feeling unsteady. I decided I'd had enough for one day, and we retired to our dwelling among the donkeys.

"Frances," it turned out, had been our ninetieth typo found. Benjamin suggested we press for an unprecedented ten typos the next day. "If we hit one hundred tomorrow with a big day like that," he argued, "we could take the day off at the Grand Canyon, since there won't exactly be a lot of text scrawled on the canyon walls anyway. You could use a day off, Deck. It'd be good for you." I agreed. One day off for actual tourism wouldn't be bad. We'd be seeing the Grand Goldang Canyon, after all. Benjamin wasn't telling me something, but I let that pa.s.s, too.

We stared up for a while at the clear night skies, which allowed for extraordinary stargazing, and then headed back inside the cabin. I admired my new cowboy hat one last time in the bathroom's streaked mirror. Let this be a symbol, I thought, of the inarguable importance of the mission, a continual reminder to me of my realizations in Santa Fe. Henceforth, when I put the hat on, I would a.s.sume my League ident.i.ty-the righteous marker-slinger.

"No smoking for donkeys allowed," Benjamin muttered as he drifted to sleep in the lower bunk. I relaxed in my own bed, relieved and grateful that this day had ended, but also drawing a renewed sense of purpose over myself like a Pueblo blanket. The next day, everything would change.

As we crossed the Arizona border the next morning, Benjamin literally cried out. I'd occasionally exaggerated our reactions when scribing the blog, but in this case it was absolutely true. Mid-sentence, Benjamin interrupted himself with a Charlie Brownlike "Argghug-ghhhh!" The first thing we saw in Arizona was an errant apostrophe the size of my companion's head.

A ma.s.sive billboard beckoned us to a local tourist trap with BRING YOUR CAMERA'S BRING YOUR CAMERA'S.

Bring my camera's what? My camera's lens cap? We got off at the exit and circled back, parked close, and walked toward the billboard. A low barbed-wire fence stood between us and the field from which this monstrosity taunted us. We found where the ground rose the highest, and hopped over the fence. Then we crossed the brush, dodging cacti and tromping through stubby, thirsty gra.s.s, a sign that it hadn't rained here in a while. That was agreeable for my purposes, since the only way I could figure to correct this was to cover the black paint with yellow chalk. It'd disappear once the rains came, but for now it would look swell. As I applied the chalk, the apostrophe began to flake away, so I could at least shrink the readability of the gigantic blotch that greeted travelers to Arizona. Satisfied that we'd done some good, we pressed on, and more than a mile up up, to Flagstaff.

Including the grandiose start back on the border, we'd manage to go six for nine for the day, breaking a personal best for typo finds (topping the eight we'd caught in New Orleans). As I moved through Flagstaff's intimate, frontier-town-like streets, I began to reexamine my ideas from the day before. Here again a town thrived with independent businesses and approachable people who for the most part appreciated our efforts.

We hit an obstacle or two along the way, of course, like when we caught a typo in neon and I didn't have any spare gla.s.s tubing handy for the rechanneling of inert gases. Flagstaff's true spirit came out, however, when we spotted mistakes in a sign propped up in the plate-gla.s.s window of a greasy-spoon diner. When we brought them up to the server, she thanked us for noticing the errors and seemed grateful that we wanted to fix them ourselves. Her only hesitation was wondering how much we charged for our "service." I replied that we worked for free, so she happily allowed us to attend to the "strawbery," "lemonaide," and "decafinated coffee" on the sign in the window.

At Benjamin's urging, I again put my Rocks & Minerals Rocks & Minerals experience to the test at a gem shop. As in Santa Fe, I ended up catching a vowel in distress ("hemit.i.te" rather than experience to the test at a gem shop. As in Santa Fe, I ended up catching a vowel in distress ("hemit.i.te" rather than hemat.i.te hemat.i.te, wouldn't you know), and again I couldn't keep myself from purchasing something nifty. Benjamin practically bounced as we caught the typos offhandedly, periodic discoveries during our exploration of an authentic community of artists and artisans. "I could live here! I've gotta come back with Jenny."

We treated ourselves to a nice Italian restaurant, where a kid's (not kids'!) birthday party sent the sole waiter scurrying to keep up. I, of course, found our ninth error for the day on the menu. When I showed it to Benjamin, he shrugged and said, "We're eating here. Maybe ... we should forget it. I mean," and here he indicated the table filled with shouting children, "he's got a lot on his mind already."

"No, we've got to at least tell him," I argued, and Benjamin smiled.

He'd been testing me. "You're back back."

I thought he meant my frustration the day before, but he traced its roots back even further. "You went up an employee-only ladder in Austin. I stood on your car car to get one in Fort Stockton, right after you made a big to get one in Fort Stockton, right after you made a big X X on the side of a building. We've gotten bolder, taking on big errors." on the side of a building. We've gotten bolder, taking on big errors."

I saw it immediately. I'd gotten bored with small-fry typos. El Paso hadn't featured anything big enough to stack up. The constant, lengthy driving and blogging had added to it all, and I'd begun to burn out. Benjamin had noticed it in Albuquerque, of course. We'd stumbled on the Kelly's/Kelley's sign, an error a bit too high to correct, and I'd shut down and said forget it. But Benjamin, donkeylike to the end, hadn't been dragged along on this crazy adventure only to let me abandon it. He'd committed to it somewhere along the line, and he'd charged forward, perhaps fueled by his anger at me for giving up. "Your whole thing yesterday," he said now, "that would have been an excuse."

"But it was a valid point."

"That typos are part of small-town character? That's condescending. Typos aren't charming. Misspellings are not not the source of their independent spirit. These guys are fighting for their lives in a bankroll-obsessed, corporate-leaning America that's eight years into an administration that gives handouts to the big guys for successfully crushing anything in their paths. You're not hurting the little guys; you're helping them by leveling the grammatical playing field." the source of their independent spirit. These guys are fighting for their lives in a bankroll-obsessed, corporate-leaning America that's eight years into an administration that gives handouts to the big guys for successfully crushing anything in their paths. You're not hurting the little guys; you're helping them by leveling the grammatical playing field."

How could I have forgotten that? I'd been trying to define the whys whys of my mission ever since Jane had asked me at my going-away party. Somewhere along the line I realized that-unfairly or not-stores and their products would be judged by their presentation. That included grammatical correctness. The big-box stores used professionally made (and edited) signs to enhance the visual appeal of their stores. The little guy printed something out and taped it to the tables, walls, or windows. They started out at a disadvantage, but a grammatical error could set them even further behind. No matter how many cliches warn us against it, we are visually oriented creatures, and we do judge the books by their covers. By checking over their signage, we could help the independents ward against negative judgments, perhaps adding a small measure to their perceived legitimacy. of my mission ever since Jane had asked me at my going-away party. Somewhere along the line I realized that-unfairly or not-stores and their products would be judged by their presentation. That included grammatical correctness. The big-box stores used professionally made (and edited) signs to enhance the visual appeal of their stores. The little guy printed something out and taped it to the tables, walls, or windows. They started out at a disadvantage, but a grammatical error could set them even further behind. No matter how many cliches warn us against it, we are visually oriented creatures, and we do judge the books by their covers. By checking over their signage, we could help the independents ward against negative judgments, perhaps adding a small measure to their perceived legitimacy.

Meanwhile, even amid my crisis of faith, we'd been getting better at this. The lesson here wasn't merely about whom to help, but where we could get better hunting done as well. Today we'd found an all-time high. Looking back over the last three and a half weeks, I noticed that our typo finds had been gradually increasing. Before Benjamin had come along, the best I'd managed was three finds in a single day. He'd immediately triggered a four-typo day, and we'd had only one day under under three finds since he'd been along. Together we'd redefined what a successful day looked like. During the past four days we'd found twenty-eight typos. So I could stand for a day of refocusing, and what better place than out in the text-free wilds of the Grand Canyon. Thus we decreed we'd attempt a day off. Then I'd return refreshed, and kick off the new hunt with my hundredth typo found. three finds since he'd been along. Together we'd redefined what a successful day looked like. During the past four days we'd found twenty-eight typos. So I could stand for a day of refocusing, and what better place than out in the text-free wilds of the Grand Canyon. Thus we decreed we'd attempt a day off. Then I'd return refreshed, and kick off the new hunt with my hundredth typo found.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 99 Total corrected: 61 * A phenomenon that had occurred only once before, in a Subway in remote western Texas. Benjamin and I had physically pursued a fellow whose name tag proclaimed him the "Restaraunt" Manager. A phenomenon that had occurred only once before, in a Subway in remote western Texas. Benjamin and I had physically pursued a fellow whose name tag proclaimed him the "Restaraunt" Manager.

10

Over the Edge

March 28, 2008 (Grand Canyon, AZ)Into the House of Stone & Light our undaunted Heroes tread, and in the midst of consumerist pollution at the edge of all things Grand, discover the fabled One Hundredth Typo, one with the power to determine the Leaguers' fate forevermore.

Train horns took on an ethereal quality throughout the night, intruding into dreams as a forlorn wail of angels or oceans boiling in an apocalyptic vision. At other times the sharp call of warning jerked me from the absolute blankness-the depths of that well from which we draw the vital energies. A lady at the shops downtown had estimated that five trains pa.s.s through Flagstaff per hour, every hour, so figure on at least thirty whistles for the night entire. As a faint glimmer signaled the end of the long darkness, we both sat up. Benjamin mumbled, "The last time I had that much trouble sleeping, my parents were still burping me." Of course, he'd had the added fun of unrolling his sleeping bag on the hardwood floor. I'd reserved a two-bed hostel room, but I had not, well, gotten gotten one. Benjamin had shrugged it off, saying that he needed to stay tough for the Appalachian Trail. He thought that all the Econo Lodges, along with a few friends' couches, might be making him soft. one. Benjamin had shrugged it off, saying that he needed to stay tough for the Appalachian Trail. He thought that all the Econo Lodges, along with a few friends' couches, might be making him soft.

I rubbed bleary eyes. The dawn cast its roseate light on my camera bag, hanging from a nearby chair. My Typo Correction Kit, still clipped to the camera bag, seemed luminous. One hundred typos, so near at hand. Today would-no! Benjamin had convinced me that I needed a day off, that I'd be a stronger typo hunter for it. My wave of fatigue and doubt had mostly reached its sh.o.r.e, but I should take this day to enjoy the glorious dimensions of the Grand Canyon, be a true tourist, committed to self-indulgence. I could be like everyone else, right? As I fumbled for a towel and my toiletries bag, I hoped Benjamin had guessed right about the Grand Canyon's absolute lack of text. It'd be like the Carolina beaches. What text could there be when the splendor of nature spoke in a language free of prepositions and apostrophes? I looked back at the camera bag, which lay innocently where I'd placed it last night, and again felt my eyes drawn toward the Kit. I could separate separate them. Take the camera but leave the Typo Correction Kit upon the chair. Yet that felt so wrong, and if we stopped in a diner after working up an appet.i.te hiking around and them. Take the camera but leave the Typo Correction Kit upon the chair. Yet that felt so wrong, and if we stopped in a diner after working up an appet.i.te hiking around and then then spotted the One Hundredth Typo, only to be without any tools of the League's trade ... spotted the One Hundredth Typo, only to be without any tools of the League's trade ...

The resolution was simple enough. I'd detach the Kit in the car, leaving it handy for any stops after the Canyon visit. I felt strangely unsettled each time I glanced at it, where it remained slung across the back of the chair, almost too too still. Like the paintings in haunted mansions with eyes that tracked the cartoon hero. I scooped my accessories up quickly without even looking at them, grabbing the camera and Kit together. We climbed into Callie and, after barely maneuvering her past the overstuffed parking lot and the granola kids using it as their playground, we sailed down the highway for what would be the most consequential typo we'd ever encounter. still. Like the paintings in haunted mansions with eyes that tracked the cartoon hero. I scooped my accessories up quickly without even looking at them, grabbing the camera and Kit together. We climbed into Callie and, after barely maneuvering her past the overstuffed parking lot and the granola kids using it as their playground, we sailed down the highway for what would be the most consequential typo we'd ever encounter.

Crucial moments in history often pivot on the smallest details. What if Edward the Confessor had died a few minutes early, before he could promise his throne to Harold, thus precluding William's need to be a Conqueror, the Battle of Hastings, perhaps even the whole Norman invasion, fully changing the course of the English language? What if Gary Gygax had never thought to pair Dungeons with Dragons?

I met my own moment of truth in a parking lot, after we arrived at the first viewing area on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

I turned Callie into the lot and pulled into a back corner s.p.a.ce. A sidewalk designated the border between the workings of man (pavement) and the beginning of the natural world (some gra.s.s and rocks). A little trash can stood on the sidewalk for our convenience. We planned to return to the car for peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches, so this seemed perfect. Benjamin and I emerged from the car, turned toward the Canyon, and together stood and stared, awestruck-and not by nature's grandeur.

The parking lot had filled like any humdrum lot in front of a mall or grocery store. Everyone had crowded to the front. Now, I don't doubt there were a few older folks in the throng who hoped to see all they could with a minimum of cardiac exertion. Those folks aside, it struck us as strange that at a park where the main purpose was to wander around and take in the sights, a place where, besides gawking, the only thing that you could really do do was walk, everyone had parked as close as possible. The reasons for parking so close eluded me. No one would have an armful of groceries to bring back from the canyon. Was it an automatic behavior, so deeply ingrained that finding the closest spot had replaced just finding a s.p.a.ce in many minds? Benjamin commented on it before I did. "Herd instinct to corral together? My dad told me a story about getting somewhere early-I mean first-in-the-parking-lot early-and parking off to the side to read. Not up at the front s.p.a.ces near the doors. Next car comes in parks in the very next s.p.a.ce beside him, for no reason at all." was walk, everyone had parked as close as possible. The reasons for parking so close eluded me. No one would have an armful of groceries to bring back from the canyon. Was it an automatic behavior, so deeply ingrained that finding the closest spot had replaced just finding a s.p.a.ce in many minds? Benjamin commented on it before I did. "Herd instinct to corral together? My dad told me a story about getting somewhere early-I mean first-in-the-parking-lot early-and parking off to the side to read. Not up at the front s.p.a.ces near the doors. Next car comes in parks in the very next s.p.a.ce beside him, for no reason at all."

I turned back to Callie and reached in for my camera. I touched the carabiner clip that linked the Kit and camera. The moment slowed, as if the wilds had cast their atemporal magic over me, and I had eons to contemplate my ident.i.ty. The fact that I'd parked so far away from everyone else, that I hadn't thought anything of walking the extra few yards to get to the Canyon, made me feel distinct and alone. Not in a bad, us-versus-them way, but not in a good, I'm-proud-of-my-uniqueness way either. I had merely come to a point of recognizing my Jeffness Jeffness. In that moment of recognition, detaching the Typo Correction Kit seemed a blasphemous act, a retreat from myself. I could not escape my calling. Jeff Deck had become an editor, and editing had entwined itself in Jeff Deck's nature. I touched the brim of my hat unconsciously and lowered the strap gently down around me, and once the camera and Kit had settled to their rightful place at my side, worn like a rapier to be easily drawn in a moment of need, time returned to normal, and Benjamin bounded forward.

Through the parking lot, down to where the sidewalk truly ends, we came at last to the Grand Canyon, a testament to the persistence of erosion. The Colorado River has rolled on for six million years without a vacation day or off-season. Its tireless dedication to carving away rock could give even Iron Man Ripken pause (and should make Sisyphus wonder why he hadn't thought of that). The thing about the Grand Canyon that it took me a moment to understand was that I couldn't see it all. I mean, your first impression is Wow, that's pretty big Wow, that's pretty big. Then you look off in another direction, and the inexpressible beauty of shadow and light, sharp angles and smooth slopes, and contrasting colors covering a startling range of the spectrum make you fall into the scene (but not physically into the Canyon, if you're lucky). Then funny things happen to your vision as you try to make your eyes zoom in on particular features and patches of color that yank your attention around, jerking your head from here to there, and your depth perception and perspective go all out of whack. So Benjamin, meanwhile, is gazing out to the distance, trying to get a handle on the proportions. That's when the fact-that this is merely one viewing point among many along the rim, not to mention the rim opposite-sinks in, and intellectually collected factoids succ.u.mb to the natural reality. The Grand Canyon is so enormous that it's impossible to see see it. To view the whole phenomenon in its entirety, you'd have to be so high above it that all definition and detail would be lost to you. I knew about bacteria and nan.o.bots and other infinitesimally small things, but I'd never once thought something could be so big as to be equally invisible to the naked eye. I thought back to Galveston, where I'd observed people focusing too narrowly and missing the larger picture. Now I felt more sympathy for them. it. To view the whole phenomenon in its entirety, you'd have to be so high above it that all definition and detail would be lost to you. I knew about bacteria and nan.o.bots and other infinitesimally small things, but I'd never once thought something could be so big as to be equally invisible to the naked eye. I thought back to Galveston, where I'd observed people focusing too narrowly and missing the larger picture. Now I felt more sympathy for them.

For a bit of extra height, which somebody for some reason had thought would be helpful, the South Rim featured a faux Native American watchtower. The Park Service had commissioned its construction in the 1930s, crafting sandstone and rubble and steel into a giant imitation of Anasazi towers, as if local peoples had used it to gaze soulfully out over the Canyon for centuries. It was, in fact, on the registry of National Historic Landmarks, though we didn't realize that at the time. Benjamin and I went inside, where I was jarred by an abrupt switch from unsullied vista to capitalist hunger for the contents of my wallet, as the bottom floor was a gift shop. I could have sworn we'd pa.s.sed a gift shop near the parking lot, too. The idea of so many trinket purveyors populating what I'd naively a.s.sumed would be a meditation on Earth's raw delights made me dizzy, dizzier even than when I later peered down from a ledge. Somehow we wended our way around the gnashing teeth with our pants pockets intact. Before ascending the stairway to higher levels of the watchtower, I turned momentarily from our spectating goal. Though there wasn't much text in here, I couldn't help but examine it now. Since my hopes for a text-free zone had been dashed, since I knew now that not even the Grand Canyon could stand as a last bastion last bastion of the world without our interference, I figured I might as well interfere. Nothing amiss that I could see, though, so we left the postcards and T-shirts and other gewgaws behind. of the world without our interference, I figured I might as well interfere. Nothing amiss that I could see, though, so we left the postcards and T-shirts and other gewgaws behind.

Up the first flight of stairs we went, the needy roar of the gift shop still echoing in our ears, when I saw it for the first time.

A little chalkboard sign greeted us, leaning at an angle to catch the eye of everyone coming up the stairs, ready to explain the significance of the Desert View Watchtower, built in the 1930s. Benjamin admired the artwork adorning the walls and noted the slightly narrower staircase that ran along the wall to get us to the next level.

Meanwhile, I'd noticed a typo. No, I'd noticed two on this thing. I pointed out "emense" for immense immense and "womens'" (a Filene's Bas.e.m.e.nt cla.s.sic) for and "womens'" (a Filene's Bas.e.m.e.nt cla.s.sic) for women's women's.

One hundred typos. We'd done it. I'd found one hundred typos so far on this trip, and even when I'd meant to take a day off, here I'd continued the streak of no typoless days since I'd started on the quest. I pointed the problems out to Benjamin, who finally turned his attention from the upper levels (this level had no roof per se) to read the sign. The question, however, was, were we going to correct it now that we'd found it? "Can we put that off for a moment?" Benjamin requested. "I have a confession."

Benjamin is afraid of heights. As a small child this had kept him from going up on those taller outlooks at amus.e.m.e.nt parks and forced him to refuse the chance to go up into the Empire State Building. Eventually he'd struck back against the fear. He started climbing trees when camping and then made himself go up, shaking legs and all, to those greatest heights at amus.e.m.e.nt parks, even letting a trusted friend drag him onto the roller coasters (which he instantly loved). He'd never gotten over his fear, but he would actively charge forward against it. He had to do it that way, charging forward. He couldn't stand here waiting to go up. I didn't think we'd be getting all that high up, but the height wasn't the main factor. The layout of the tower was. You'd go up a narrow staircase along the curved edge, windows conveniently placed to let you know that you weren't just high up inside the building, but exceedingly exceedingly high above the Colorado's millennia of carvings. The lack of floors/ceilings in the upper rooms, where you climbed in an outer ring from one staircase to another, gave you nowhere to look to pretend you were back on level ground. Once you began going up, you committed yourself to the vertical reality of the situation. So we went in haste, Benjamin promising we'd decide about correcting the sign after we'd played tourists for a spell. The windows proved to be the worst part, but Benjamin made it up level by level to the top floor, a small cage of thick plastic windows. Heavy binocular machines blocked an otherwise appealing view through those full-length windows, offering (for a mere quarter) whole seconds of in-depth scouting. I didn't want to see small bits of it clearer. I wanted to see the whole breadth better. These infernal devices stirred me into a defenestrating mood, but alas the windows were too thick and the machines too heavy even if they hadn't been bolted down. Also, I didn't want to pollute the Grand Canyon with large hunks of metal. We headed back down rapidly and decided we'd best experience the Canyon back outdoors-where it actually existed and where we belonged. high above the Colorado's millennia of carvings. The lack of floors/ceilings in the upper rooms, where you climbed in an outer ring from one staircase to another, gave you nowhere to look to pretend you were back on level ground. Once you began going up, you committed yourself to the vertical reality of the situation. So we went in haste, Benjamin promising we'd decide about correcting the sign after we'd played tourists for a spell. The windows proved to be the worst part, but Benjamin made it up level by level to the top floor, a small cage of thick plastic windows. Heavy binocular machines blocked an otherwise appealing view through those full-length windows, offering (for a mere quarter) whole seconds of in-depth scouting. I didn't want to see small bits of it clearer. I wanted to see the whole breadth better. These infernal devices stirred me into a defenestrating mood, but alas the windows were too thick and the machines too heavy even if they hadn't been bolted down. Also, I didn't want to pollute the Grand Canyon with large hunks of metal. We headed back down rapidly and decided we'd best experience the Canyon back outdoors-where it actually existed and where we belonged.

As we transitioned back from the gimcrack/knickknack mind-set to appreciating the magnificence of the Canyon, I started snapping pictures, including the obligatory fake-angled shot of Benjamin clinging for life to a shrub at cliff's edge. We followed a well-worn path leading past the railing that delimited the standard tourist area, into narrowing territory. The Canyon a.s.serted its presence now on either side of us, but Benjamin gritted his teeth and forged on. We descended an outcropping of rock and rose again onto a ledge jutting out into the abyss. Here we again paused for pictures, and my fellow Leaguer snapped a portrait destined for fame, or at least for court doc.u.mentation, depicting me with nothing but red chasm around me, wearing the camera strap around my chest like a sash, the Typo Correction Kit dangling benevolently at my side.

We discovered that our cell phones didn't get any reception, and I thought it for the best. The last thing the place needed was a bunch of people shouting, "Can you hear me now?" and attempting-and failing-to describe what they saw before them.

After some navel-of-the-world-gazing, we adventured back to the watchtower. Benjamin had succ.u.mbed to the lure of the merchandising machine. He wanted to see if they had any postcards featuring gorgeous shots of the Canyon, which of course they did. Seeing as we were back inside the tower, we decided to return to the second level and its error-tainted sign. The floor was more crowded this time with other gawkers coming and going. I withdrew the yellow chalk that would put this sign to rights. Benjamin inconspicuously leaned forward and touched a finger to the apostrophe in "womens'". The foul mark didn't wipe off. We looked at each other. "It's not a chalkboard," he said, shocked.

Here we made a fatal mistake in our reevaluation. The apostrophe's permanence was the biggest hint that this was no mere prop announcing a restaurant's specials du jour. Though it had that appearance, we should have guessed then that this sign was an inextricable feature of the place, more permanent than its resemblance to a held-back elementary school kid's social studies project would imply. But we didn't reexamine the big picture, as we were focused so much on the typo. Call it the Forest-for-the-Trees Fallacy, the very typo-hunting trap that I had warned myself against! Perhaps it was inevitable in a place like the Grand Canyon, which itself denies full vision of the whole. Our recalculations, then, centered only on the error: black background, paint on fiberboard, hmm, a marker could cover that apostrophe over. I pa.s.sed Benjamin my marker. Now that we'd be using more than a finger to wipe it out, he'd have to wait with me for the decrease in traffic. We stepped back, and I noted that another tour was pa.s.sing through. A ranger in glossy green led people down one stairwell and toward another, waiting for a few tourists coming up the stairs to clear the way. We hoped things would quiet in a moment.

Though emense emense loomed as a ridiculous spelling, I wasn't sure, what with the yellow chalk-no, paint?-if the elixir of correction would look presentable on that. So instead of going for the big correction, we decided to start with the small. To pa.s.s our moment of waiting, Benjamin read more of the sign and noted a spot needing a comma, where items in a list slammed together. loomed as a ridiculous spelling, I wasn't sure, what with the yellow chalk-no, paint?-if the elixir of correction would look presentable on that. So instead of going for the big correction, we decided to start with the small. To pa.s.s our moment of waiting, Benjamin read more of the sign and noted a spot needing a comma, where items in a list slammed together. The center of the room is occupied by a snake altar, a sandpainting, religious crooks and wands carved wood figures of kachinas ... The center of the room is occupied by a snake altar, a sandpainting, religious crooks and wands carved wood figures of kachinas ... I remember skimming the sentence twice, first without and then with the proposed comma, and thinking in a Trussian way about how easily, in the absence of proper punctuation, sentences can come to grief. I remember skimming the sentence twice, first without and then with the proposed comma, and thinking in a Trussian way about how easily, in the absence of proper punctuation, sentences can come to grief.

Benjamin nodded at me when a quick look around told him that there were fewer people around. We had little time, so we moved in, striking together. I added two white elixir marks: an apostrophe for women's women's and the somewhat cosmetic comma to help prevent readers' stumbling mid-sentence. At the same time, Benjamin, with a quick stroke of marker, wiped the author's erroneously placed apostrophe from the sign so that no one need ever know. We stepped back, grimaced. and the somewhat cosmetic comma to help prevent readers' stumbling mid-sentence. At the same time, Benjamin, with a quick stroke of marker, wiped the author's erroneously placed apostrophe from the sign so that no one need ever know. We stepped back, grimaced.

To the discerning eye, the two white marks stood out too boldly. While many pa.s.sersby might not have noticed the coloration difference, especially in this dimly lit room, anyone looking for something amiss would certainly see it. I didn't bother with emense emense. Since I had discovered that my yellow chalk wouldn't work, I had no correction tool that could make it look good enough. We decided to be glad for what we'd gotten-we'd corrected a majority of the errors in the sign, two out of three, so we'd still get credit in the all-important tally-and head out. Then we went into that other gift shop a hundred yards down the sidewalk and corrected another typo. Now that we'd ruined the whole day-off idea, I didn't want it to be a single-typo day, especially not after such a fine string of high-count days. That accomplished, we returned to Callie for peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches before driving on to the next site, clockwise around the Canyon.

The next viewing spot was better: fewer people, no tourist shops at all, and a mere wire guardrail to keep cars from going over. We were free to wander right to the edge of a sheer cliff, lie flat upon the rock, and crawl forward so that our heads poked out over the absolute drop.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 101 Total corrected: 63

11

Pressed

April 210, 2008 (Los Angeles, CA, to San Francisco, CA)Lights, cameras, and ... typo hunt! While a new Recruit joins the ranks, and a faithful companion heads for the hills (or rather, mountains), our Crusader comes face to lens with the World of Television.

I paced beneath an umbrella resembling a peppermint at an In-N-Out Burger stand, somewhere in the cosmic sprawl of Los Angeles. In one hand I held my cell phone. In the other, a cheeseburger leaked between my fingers. An NBC producer barked at me through the tiny speaker. I was doing my best imitation of a born Angeleno: alternately bringing the phone to my ear and the burger to my teeth, hoping that I would not confuse the routine. Josh Roberts had his shades off, letting the sun soak into his freckled visage. The abundant luminosity of the West was still a new thing for him. paced beneath an umbrella resembling a peppermint at an In-N-Out Burger stand, somewhere in the cosmic sprawl of Los Angeles. In one hand I held my cell phone. In the other, a cheeseburger leaked between my fingers. An NBC producer barked at me through the tiny speaker. I was doing my best imitation of a born Angeleno: alternately bringing the phone to my ear and the burger to my teeth, hoping that I would not confuse the routine. Josh Roberts had his shades off, letting the sun soak into his freckled visage. The abundant luminosity of the West was still a new thing for him.

"Could you hold on a sec?" I said to the partially eaten burger, and I turned to Josh. "He's playing harda.s.s. Wants to film us before before ABC, not after. Says that he called me first." ABC, not after. Says that he called me first."

"Tell him too bad," Josh said. "You just scheduled ABC."

"What if they can't do it after?"

"They'll make the time." He'd finished his own burger a few minutes ago and now plucked survivors from a cardboard dinghy of fries. Josh had ordered his Animal Style (mustard-fried patty, extra everything) off the secret menu, jumping into the adventure of In-N-Out headfirst with both feet (if that's anatomically feasible) as he had with the trip itself. My new TEAL colleague demanded a fully realized adventure. He'd stepped off the plane in San Diego with a binder full of places to visit, shenanigans to undertake, and cuisine to consume along the West Coast; mustard-fried patties were but the barest beginning.

I returned to the producer and told him our slot with ABC was fixed, but we'd gladly do a shooting with NBC afterward. He said gruffly that he wasn't sure about that, he'd have to call me back. I frowned, looked to Josh again. "I don't know if he's going to be able to do that. Maybe I should have tried to move ABC."

"He'll call back," he said. "Listen, Jeff-I've worked with enough producers to know their act. They'll wheedle you, they'll guilt-trip you, they'll bully you, whatever it takes to get the booking. But you're the boss here. It should be on your terms, not theirs."

I nodded at Josh's hard-won wisdom. He'd been immersed in the Biz for a long time through his commercial production gigs back in Manhattan. He was a pro, a clear-eyed operator who could bash through bluffs and feints with the blunt a.s.sertions of a native New Yorker. I, on the other hand, had never dealt with the good folks of the television industry, and my negotiation skills historically consisted of saying "Well, OK," and then running away. The seeming absurdity of the situation didn't help, either. They wanted me me, an itinerant editor, on millions of TV screens?

The producer called back. He'd relented; the League would have consecutive filmings by the two major networks.

The tale of TEAL had, by this time, proved irresistible to various journalistic outlets. Our coverage s...o...b..lled in the typical pattern that media stories follow these days, starting as a tiny sphere picking up jacks and thimbles, gaining greater ma.s.s as it went, until the ball of our exposure was gigantic enough to accrete cities and islands and the Earth itself. It began with an NPR morning show in New York. Since at that point I was less than twenty-four hours into the trip, and a thorough neophyte at media appearances, I succeeded in giving as awkward and ineloquent an interview as humanly possible. Elderly listeners developed arrhythmia and high blood pressure, and younger listeners swore off radio for life. The public-speaking industry held an emergency conference to address this new threat to oratory. Yet somehow the piece interested enough people for the Boston Globe Boston Globe to pick up the thread. From there, more radio, print, and online outfits put in their nickel on the League, until we arrived at the present surreal juncture. to pick up the thread. From there, more radio, print, and online outfits put in their nickel on the League, until we arrived at the present surreal juncture.

We headed for my cousin Steph's old apartment in Hollywood; she had moved out the prior week, but the place was available for a few more days. Benjamin was staying with a friend, so we wouldn't see him until tomorrow for the ABC filming. As soon as Josh and I got to Hollywood, we understood why my cousin's move had been a sage idea. We spent many fruitless hours circling the streets for a parking spot, like buzzards in a carrion drought. We ended up stashing Callie overnight in a sketchy garage for a jacked-up, illicit after-hours rate. The neighborhood, however, did have one advantage: with its many stores and cafes and tourist attractions, it would be rich territory for typo hunting.

The next day we met the ABC World News ABC World News filming crew on Hollywood Boulevard, a block or two from my cousin's old place. Benjamin had rejoined Josh and me-in fact, it was the first time that the three of us joined forces for typo hunting. But other factors complicated this auspicious occasion: the giant video camera floating in my wake, and the affable, gray-haired correspondent sauntering at my side. Ordinarily the success of our craft rested on careful wording and subtle approaches-but today the League was a spectacle. filming crew on Hollywood Boulevard, a block or two from my cousin's old place. Benjamin had rejoined Josh and me-in fact, it was the first time that the three of us joined forces for typo hunting. But other factors complicated this auspicious occasion: the giant video camera floating in my wake, and the affable, gray-haired correspondent sauntering at my side. Ordinarily the success of our craft rested on careful wording and subtle approaches-but today the League was a spectacle.

I presented as natural a face as I could to the TV folks, but secretly I chafed with worry. Unsupervised, un.o.bserved, TEAL could work at a languid pace if it so desired, and it was free to fail due to wrong turns or simple bad luck. Now, though, the pressure was on. I had had to find typos, and quickly, or we'd look like fools. And we had to get at least some of them corrected, or we'd look ineffectual, pointless. The correspondent and the camera guy nodded to each other, and the film began to roll. I smiled nervously and jumped into the nearest souvenir shop. to find typos, and quickly, or we'd look like fools. And we had to get at least some of them corrected, or we'd look ineffectual, pointless. The correspondent and the camera guy nodded to each other, and the film began to roll. I smiled nervously and jumped into the nearest souvenir shop.

My eyes scanned the displays, while Benjamin and Josh split off to do the same. Despite my nervousness, it took me all of thirty seconds to snare the first prey of the day for the League. Amid the commemorative sweatshirts and toy clapper boards, a small sign advertised Fine Art Monogram Souvenirs, whatever those were. In the text below the t.i.tle lurked a cla.s.sic mistake, one that we had seen before in a California ghost town three days prior: "Stationary," when they'd meant Stationery Stationery. The sign was talking about notepaper, not standing in place. In normal circ.u.mstances I would have had the choice of either correcting the error on the sly or alerting the store manager, but the presence of my entourage made that choice for me. As everyone converged on me, seeing that I had found something, the manager materialized at my elbow.

"Uh ... hi," I said to her. "We've got 'stationary' here, and it should actually be spelled e-r-y e-r-y instead of instead of a-r-y a-r-y. Could I go ahead and fix that?"

Everyone focused on the manager, including the all-seeing lens. She gave our company an uncertain look and decided that being accommodating on camera could only help business. "Sure."

"Should be a pretty simple fix here," I said rea.s.suringly, markering out the offending letter and painting in an e e with elixir. with elixir.

"That's a sign made by some stationery company," company," the ABC correspondent said to me in disbelief (or at least an approximation of disbelief for the camera). the ABC correspondent said to me in disbelief (or at least an approximation of disbelief for the camera).

I nodded. "You'd think they'd be more careful, but ... they're not."

As we continued our rounds, I thought about what physicists and psychologists term the "observer effect": the changes that an observer inevitably makes on whatever she is observing, by the very act of observation. With the camera crew in tow, the reaction of each shopkeeper or clerk was automatically altered before I so much as opened my mouth. Sometimes the producer would hustle into a store to negotiate the right for me to enter the place, and often people would agree to corrections to appease the implied judgment of the video camera. Whenever the producer asked for permission to film us correcting typos, he was effectively asking permission for us to correct the typos as well. It was typo hunting through a skewed, La-La-Land lens, and it created its own reality.

The correspondent, the producer, and the cameraman converged with a request. That first catch was good, but could I think a little bigger? bigger?

Bigger? said I.