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...this article in which I want to express my, and my friends' and colleagues', lack of understanding of the facts of life.
"It"
happened only once, while I was working (I almost wrote
"wording" which, considering the kind of job I do, would be
quite appropriate). I was typing a letter, a very simple, straightforward
letter for my boss, and suddenly, the typewriter started typing by itself.
On the sheet of paper, instead of what I typing, something else started to
appear. It seemed to be a story, a puzzling composure of words that read
like this: "people people ring ring appointment vice president look
very business fine building ok so on I wish to tell you very kindly we
confirm...." In short, it would have appeared to be an accumulation
of meaningless words, but only to a legal secretary or typist it was clear
that they were remainders of contracts, letters, agreements, receipts,
messages for the lawyers, and so on, and so forth. The typewriter was
trying to tell me what she had been accumulating for so many years of
loyal work. In fact, I had been working there for only a couple of months,
but she, the old typewriter, had been there for a lifetime. I know, it
might seem strange to you, young people of today, since nowadays
typewriters don't last any longer than an Italian Government, but that one
had been so efficient and so perfect that no one had ever wanted, or even
dreamt, of getting rid of it. Of course, I had grown fond of it fast.
Anyway, as I was
saying, she was releasing all the remainders of previous work, in a
dreamlike fashion. She was producing a tale, an innocent story of words
finally freed from the slavery of legal acts. They were flowing as lightly
as little pieces of paper float when you trash them in your litter-basket.
I just couldn't type anything; she simply wouldn't let me. Many times I
tried to remedy this mess, but again:
MANE MANE CHATON OBLATON MANE
Now she was even
sending messages in Greek! Obvious joke better left untold. My impotence
was much too clear.
My boss was furious,
since he was in a great hurry to leave and this letter had to be ready in
an hour or less. I was frantic; the other secretaries were all suffering
from the same cause. Three of the partners, including my boss, were
leaving for London and, according their usual habit in such occasions,
they had loaded us with piles of urgent work, regardless of the late hour
of the day: my boss had asked me to get some help from the others who did
not have such emergencies to take care of. I didn't hesitate to ask one of
them to let me use her ET 201 (mine was an ET 225, much superior), but
she, shattered, shaken, shivering, could not refrain from crying
hysterically, but among that mess of broken sounds, I understood that her
typewriter was behaving exactly like mine. I managed to comfort her a
little bit, assuring that it was not her, because my typewriter was doing
the same thing. Maybe it was just a matter of different power surge that
fucked up our Olivettis. One by one all the ET's were acting strange and
all of the secretaries in the firm were incapacitated. It was a general
epidemic. I tried to convince my boss that things just could not be done,
period. He started shouting and screaming and beating his fists on the
desk, yelling that I was an inefficient, improper secretary and fired me
right then and there.
OK, I thought,
serves you right. You'll see, you might have ridden yourself of an
inefficient secretary, but you can't have the job done just the same. I
picked up my things from my desk and walk out of the office. Just as I was
passing through the door, yet another shout startled me. Boss had found
the papers the ET had left behind and almost fainted. He couldn't believe
what lay in front of his blurry eyes. Hired me back on the spot, on the
condition that I repaired the typewriter at once. As if I hadn't tried! I
told him to stop yelling and acting like a baby, to get out of my sight
and leave me alone with the ET. He mildly obeyed and left.
I turned on the electricity; as soon as the typewriter started writing those
incomprehensible words on the sheet of paper, I started banging on the
keys at random. It wouldn't stop. So I took out the sheet of paper and
this time it stopped typing. I thought: "She's got some brain".
Then I started typing on the keyboard these words: please, be kind, we are
in bad waters, I'm pressed to do my job, and if I don't do it, they will
fire me, as for you, you'll be gone too, in the burner! No answer. I wrote
again: I promise, I'll read your story some other time, but please we need
you!!! I think I put many more exclamation marks. The majuscule light
turned on, she started writing: "OK WE WORK WE TALK WE TELL YOU STORY
LATER START!"
Triumphant, I went back to my boss's office and shoved the letter under his nose. He couldn't
believe it, I've never been so quick. I said: "We have a lot to learn
from machines; they could be a great help to us, they have a lot to offer,
if only we were willing to listen and grant them the respect they
deserve." I left him motionless, that idiotic smile frozen on his
face, his hands stupidly holding his damned sheets, like a baby holding a
candy bar.
On the following day, I tried to get in touch with the memory of my ET, I wanted to keep my
promise and show her my good faith; besides, I was very curious as to what
she could have told me. But she remained silent, forever after, she never
mentioned a thing, she remained my good, old, faithful typewriter, always
doing her job, the best way she could. I tried and tried, in all possible
ways, but it became more and more evident that it was me who had to tell
the story, the story of how I had lost my brain so stupidly. What about my
colleagues, you might ask. Them, too, couldn't explain the recovered
functionality of their typewriters. Or rather, they gave all different
explanations and renditions of the facts, contradicting each other,
contradicting me. Unlike me, however, they tried to make things more
understandable, in a language that we would all be able to understand. I
am not even sure myself that I have told you the whole story, or that my
memory has already played sad tricks on my mind. In fact, this one might
just be one of the many versions.
However, the Olivetti never spoke again. Newspapers published an article on the
typewriters that "talked" as a miracle, like freaks, but they
told another story, they made it seem as if the pure and innocent machines
were trying to warn us about some catastrophic prediction and advise us
with words of wisdom. Nothing was/is further from the truth. What I have
told you so far has been a product of my memory alone. I have no proof,
indeed. The newspapers, in the meantime, have disappeared. Copies of the
April 14, 19... issue of "Il Messaggero" are nowhere available
for consultation; all of my colleagues are dead or hospitalized in mental
institutions, and as for my boss, he is rotting in jail, but the
typewriters are still alive and well in the old legal office near the
Tiber.
I wouldn't have been
credited for this article hadn't it been for the staff of this wonderful
place, including the nurses and the inmates who have shown a disinterested
interest, and have always had faith, in what I was trying to say. Here,
fortunately, I don't feel lonely any longer. All of them have helped me
immensely in any way they could, they have listened to me and now they are
getting more and more involved in my project, that of building a hospital
for disabled typewriters and typists. I want to create a center of
recreation for old retired office machines, staffed with bright,
well-trained, intelligent people to tell them stories before bedtime, or
anytime they want to hear one, to cure them when they are sick, or bring
them comfort when they are dying. Everyone feels useful and merciful
within this noble plan. We, all of us here, hope that you would help us
bring this effort to port and contribute as much as you can with small or
large sums of money to sponsor the purchase of the adequate equipment.
Thanks to all of you for your attention and cooperation.
Molly Brown-Spenser
Activities Coordinator
Jesus' & Mary's Chains Hospital
[ luglio 1983 ]
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