OLIVETTI

OLIVETTI

I never thought you’d forget me like this. I was just what you wanted—you said so, often! Sitting here in this dark closet year after year, fine dust gathering around my keys, I frequently find myself embittered. How could things have ended this way? We shared some really happy times, remember? I remember. Beautiful words, streaming from your fingers, were my sustenance; they made being an ‘inanimate object’ worthwhile. I was proud to be a participant in the journey from awareness through vision, contemplation, organized thought, finally to written word. And honestly, I feel this was stolen from me—yes, stolen! Sorry if this hurts you.

I know it wasn’t because of my Italian ancestry. That was my original appeal; you loved my looks, face it. You thought I was too adorable to be true. Sleek, lightweight, with a contemporary textured surface pleasing to the touch of gentle fingertips. Not that anyone ever touched me that way. Even you didn’t, though I spotted you right away as a ‘toucher.’ 

You loved me, though—or, wait, no; I think you had wanted to love me, had expressed desire for me. When you actually got me, you were conflicted. Your father brought me to you, on an airplane. Brought me all the way from New York City (where my kind was appreciated) to the small western town where you had buried yourself. “This is for you,” he said as he handed me over, and you knew from the sag in his face that he feared it was too late to give you anything. Which was true.

Now, I want to say with no argument that I was, and still am, a delicate mechanism. An ingenious Italian technician developed me. Only an Italian could have conceived me, unless maybe a Frenchman. I’m from the same intricately brilliant mind that came up with the Ferrari, the Mona Lisa, and the Duomo di Milano. That did of course mean I wasn’t entirely reliable; I’d break down quite often. I’m sorry about that. I required frequent cleaning, and my ribbons were pricey—if you were fortunate enough to find a place that carried them. But is that the point? We both know that wasn’t the reason you discarded me. 

So, what was the reason? I’ve had fifteen years to worry this bone to death. What did I do wrong? Why couldn’t I ultimately win your love, when you had wanted me so much? I won Hemingway, for God’s sake. Joan Didion, Sylvia Plath! Cormac McCarthy…Fidel Castro…come on, Raymond f*ing Chandler! But I couldn’t win you.

It’s extremely hard for me to think about this (or to think at all) without your brain to help me. I’m basically inert. That doesn’t mean I don’t care. No one and nothing wants to be that expendable. The humblest paper towel will feel a twinge of regret if it gets thrown in the trash without even getting to wipe some spilled milk.  A match that never gets to light…a shoe that never feels the warm comfort of a foot…a book whose pages are never turned…even a guitar that’s smashed onstage is better off than one given to an ungrateful child and stuffed into a closet, like me.

I believe it had to do with your father, as I’ve intimated. It’s hard to be given something you want by someone you no longer trust. Ah, he wanted you to be a writer. And what did you think about that? Hell if I will. Admit it, that’s what you thought. You can’t make me. Haha, you can’t make me do the thing I most want to do or be what I most want to be. You looked into those hopeful old alcoholic eyes and your heart dropped. You took me from his shaky hand and said, briefly, “Thanks.” Not, “Oh my gosh, thank you so, so much, Daddy!” Of course not; you never in your life called him Daddy.

But—and this I know, from things you wrote—there was a time, many years ago, when you’d stand beside him in his workshop admiring the curly shavings that flew off his planer, and what was he making? Something for you! Something you wanted more than anything. And if the word ‘daddy’ wasn’t your family’s style, still you called him something in your heart.

Let’s talk about when you discarded me. It was right after your mother died. You were quite devastated at the time, I remember, but you mistrusted her as much as you did your father. Alas, what a pair! So, there in her apartment were the last of her belongings laid out, and visitors were invited to take anything they wanted. I wasn’t even your mother’s belonging! I just happened to be in the line of fire when a lady’s gaze lighted on me.

“This?” she asked in surprise. She wasn’t greedy, she just liked my looks. As you once did. “I could take this if you want.”

“Oh…sure…” you murmured. Believe me, I caught the hesitation, the germ of incipient protest. But you were busy mourning your mother, even in your anger, and you may well have been mourning your father, too. You may have been in a condition like denial, where you had decided the sorrows of your life were nothing, nothing at all, just water off a duck’s back. And, wait, didn’t your mother also want you to be a writer? Hm, I’m starting to see a pattern here. Let’s follow it: where were you when you first decided you wanted me?

Oh. Your ex-husband had one just like me. He was a writer. (I believe you married him because your mother urged him on you after growing tired of him herself, yes?) I may have come to represent all the disappointments of relationship you’ve suffered over the years. Hardly fair to me, but I can see it. You wrote your first short stories on your ex’s—on my cousin, you could say—and even your husband said you should be a writer. Good heavens. Were you scared, then? Did everyone’s high expectations (for being a writer is a very high expectation) sap at your confidence until you no longer dared show your ‘work’ to anyone? Did even the word ‘work’ make you squirm, as if what you wrote didn’t deserve such a grand description?  Did you feel you were the last desperate hope of a shattered family?

Then you got annoyed with me, as if any of this mess was my fault. You’d pound my keys until two or three of them jammed together, which is really uncomfortable. Then you’d jerk them apart so hard you almost broke their slender stems. Not that I’m blaming you. I know you had it rough. But, mamma mia, when you tried to change my ribbon—which you wouldn’t do until the old one was worn to gauze—you’d get into such a froth I couldn’t bear it. Do you know how it feels to have clumsy fingers probing around wildly in your inner workings without even slowing down to sense how the spool should be placed? 

I shouldn’t get worked up; it just make the dust rise around me and settle again. I was never made to spend my life in a closet. I had high hopes of a novel, or poetry, or even love letters. Especially love letters; I’m good for that. I hoped we’d travel together, since I’m so portable. The lady who took me off your hands had hopes, too, but I wasn’t that excited about hers. They were mundane. Anyway, she eventually stuck me in this closet and got a word processor. A f*ing word processor! I bet you did, too, or some kind of more modern “tech-no-lo-gee.” Sure, they’re good, but really. Look at me. Wouldn’t I be cool on your desk? I’m smaller than a breadbox, or shorter. The keys take a little muscle to press down, but nothing like the old Underwoods. I’m a technological advance.

But I mustn’t spend any more time on the pity pot. Tears rust me. I hope you’re happy writing on your Apple, or your Banana, or whatever. I hope you’re writing, period. I wish you’d even write about me. I wish sometime you’d remember that a typewriter you almost loved sits forever in a stranger’s closet collecting dust and will never know what a typewriter needs to know— the deep satisfaction of telling a story from the heart.