Errors apart

It's the story about me and my first typewriter, i've stole it from a bad person's hands. Believe me. Based on true story

I realized I wanted to be a writer on a Thursday afternoon six or seven years ago, grabbed a typewriter and walked out of the children's shop where I worked. 
The feeling I still remember is the relief that I found the tip of what I was, not knowing, however, that I would expect a long period of toil and hard nights in search of something worthwhile to write. That particular day I was on duty for several hours dividing between the warehouse and the customers often using the phrases already prepared for the sale of items to families waiting for brats. I hated that job, that environment of falsehood, I hated my colleagues and my bosses, I hated having to sell stuff that wasn't needed by people who were at the end of the day just oblivious to everything.
I remember very carefully the moment before the discovery and the moment after.

A moment earlier I had come out uninjured from a distrail sale with a customer and I was going to the warehouse to get a breath of oxygen and a break. On the way through the shelves I met my area manager, a sort of molecule billing money pre-capitalist, with an embarrassing and embarrassed air and an expensive colony smell. He locks me in the lane holding what looks like a briefcase, so I'm not going to listen so with my usual menefreghism I put a sly smile on and try to disacheve by pretending to work. But she really needs me, even she snorts and snorts reminding me that I'm in working hours, stretches my briefcase with her grating fingers and quotes the story of an old subsidiary of our company that is going to close, between the lines of that understood speech that is d the eighties stuff of little value, but that for her has a certain fragment of the not indifferent past.

"It was our first branch in Rome, this is the typewriter with which we wrote customer data to book the first strollers or bedrooms, pair care, keep it in a place in the warehouse along with the old paperwork". She told me. 
I rest my hands on that black leather delight in excellent condition. I didn't believe he had the courage to entrust me with such a thing, it was destiny. In the euphoria I found a quiet and secluded place and as a smuggler untied the closures to clips opening the compartment, bringing back to life that piece of heirloom of a typewriter. An Olivetti Letter 22. I closed it in a hurry and furiously, letting the prying eyes of my colleagues engage in something else. In doubt of what to do with trying to make sense of all that happiness that flowed through my veins, I grabbed the briefcase and headed for the exit wearing the jersey with the company logo. He opened the hood of my wolkswagen polo shirt and rested the precious heirloom under a wool blanket, then I got behind the wheel and left the store without a warehouse worker and a salesman. It took me half an hour to realize that I was doing bullshit in favor of a dream that only pushed me further. I walked around for a couple of roundabouts and went back in the back, parked at my usual place and walked back into the store by the front door, like any customer. Colleagues at the suspicious tills quietly drank the bale of a customer who needed advice for a car seat.

From there I continued the next four hours of my shift avoiding most of the work as best I could by taking refuge in the most insidious clients that required more time to make decisions, and from time to time I would go up to the roof to smoke a cigar , ten hours was long and even longer when you were only paid six.

That roof! Seeing the sun disappear between the buildings of a damp September metropolis and the thought that that typewriter was mine lightened my soul. I felt free, as if everything I had down there, the large group that was eager to get help, or the pile of cartoons to be fixed, the conductor with the maximum pretensions that with a single finger erased entire days of overtime, the whole world from the smell nefarious that awaited me was gone. I had the means by which I would gain my independence, freedom from an infinity of negative thoughts that had suffocated me for several years. I always wondered what would save me from drowning and I didn't think the object would come from the same hands that were cinched in my neck. Ok the metaphor is heavy, but I have always had my independence mentally speaking and leading a life as a salesman has somewhat precluded me from the freedom to create characters and stories 24 hours a day. I dare not even explain how much attention customers want and how much they can't understand that if you're fixed with your eyes on the wall and you're trying to end a scene in your fantasy with huge difficulties because people keep interrupting you, you don't have to absolutely be disturbed, because of their obscenities from mediocre life path I never had the pleasure of knowing anything, I just want to finish this f*****g scene in my mind. We add that before that day I had never put something on paper, and I never thought I could transcribe all the stories and characters so far imagined.

I finished my chores around 9 p.m., waved to the other animals, spit on the ground, and boarded my house, which I shared with my father, the real owner. But I wasn't even sick of this anymore, I had the medium that knew about oxygen, I was serene. The journey from the car to the elevator was made of sly glances at other human beings who left their homes on a dark and cold evening, I felt the Pablo Escobar of letters in italics, my long coat and the shady face of those who stole something of value priceless gave me a different step, with a firm tone as if I had confidence in myself instead of feeling the usual wet rag. I was ready to sell written stuff and do it secretly with a stolen typewriter.

The entrance between the walls was not surprisingly happy, my old man did not ask me anything, nor of the briefcase, of why I was constantly late and I was paid a pittance, nor why in those four years I had put on fifteen kilos of food garbage swallowed mechanically driven by a frantic stress. 
I devoted little time to him, ate what was cold waiting for me on the sink and then rushed to the room, unfortunately the absence of a door denied me privacy, so I had to resort to headphones and a Vinyl led Zeppelin that I put on after a terrifying day Monday to Sunday.

I made room on the desk by moving the PC monitor and leaving to my fingers again that feeling of opening the case door, the snap he made recalled a film in which one of them contained crumpled Colombian cocaine loaves and jewelry. I removed the lid and got busy, but the ink tape was dry for use.

I fucked it up and started writing a story on a blank sheet without the ink being able to make anything, if in all these years I had catalogued in my mind stories and characters I could for one evening imprint only small imprints resembling sentences complete. The pleasure of the snap dung keys and the small invisible errors of which only I knew the placement aroused the first real orgasm from literature. I was really happy. I had snatched from someone's clutches a frustrated object for years having to just transcribe names, prices and items sold. We were both free and undemonized, I could hear the metal warm up and the keys smashing the air with the sound of small aches and drums. We found each other and somehow saved ourselves. If I just think about how much confusion I faced before I could put the thoughts of my life in order by giving him defined shapes on a piece of paper. The computer looks at us jealous of those emotions that I share on the cumbersome keyboard of "My" Olivetti Letter 12. I regret Never thinking about writing about him cataloguing my stories in small folders.

Apart from the mistakes and this story that perhaps I should avoid telling with such satisfaction, of me will one day remain scattered sheets and a typewriter, stolen. Thanks to it I understood the importance of writing for yourself. I realized how much I needed to write. F**k the editions, the pressures to stand out, see, read and recognize. F**k the desire to get printed.  That I may die with a library full of novels and thoughts written and read by me.