Pens & Revenge

As has been known to happen from time to time, recently I was in an awkward situation where I needed a pen.

This embarrassing social faux pas regrettably transpired in public view. Against all odds, I just happened to find myself out-and-about running errands on a weekday with a personal check in my pocket, rendered to me by my Uncle Bartleby the Luddite. He was paying me back for a grocery store purchase I completed on his behalf after he was caught unprepared with an inadequate amount of cash to cover his procurement of eight 12-pack boxes of frozen Steak-Ums, his primary source of nourishment, subsidized by boiled water and ramen flavor packets. I could have merely scanned the check with my smartphone app and had its value immediately deposited to my account, but I knew that Uncle Bartleby the Luddite would never have believed that the transfer had taken place. To Bartleby, it would've been as if I had snapped a Polaroid photograph of his check and considered the debt paid in full with no further action needed. Rather than endure his worried questions about what this would mean for his checkbook balancing act that he was about to undertake as soon as I left, I pocketed the check and assured him I would deposit it as soon as was convenient. 

On my way back from helping Old Uncle Bartleby, I found myself driving past a brick-and-mortar bank house. How charming! I thought to myself, reminded of the 50s-themed burger and shake diners that were commonplace when I was growing up. How nostalgic it would be, I thought with a smile on my face, to relive the olden days and deposit my new check in person, just as the ancient Babylonians had done. Let's live a little, I said, as I pulled my electric vehicle into the bank parking lot. There, I paused briefly-- debating within myself whether or not to take the half-measure and simply do drive-up banking instead. There was even an ATM-- surely that was enough to relive the past? No, I insisted, stubbornly adamant about reenacting history in earnest; I really must go inside and do it the proper old-fashioned way. I parked and prepared to enter the bank, just like my father and grandfather before him had done many years ago.

Once inside, I found a short line of diminishing elders-- standing in a quiet queue-- their checkbooks already in hand, identification held firmly-- wallets and purses clutched in solemnity. I took my position at the back of the line, standing confidently-- carrying naught but my uncle's hand-written personal check-- and my ever-present, trusty phone. Surely this was all I needed. And if by chance the stars should align and fate should call upon me to use my photo I.D., I could produce it easily from a subtle crevice in my phone case specifically designed for that purpose. Truly, I had it all.

I watched, bemused, as one-by-one, patrons stepped up to the single teller at the front to deposit their checks, verify their funds with printed receipts, request money orders-- and other sundry financial matters attended to. I chuckled at the novel scene playing out before me. Did they not know? Had they not heard? The internet! It seemed that I was the only one here visiting for both business and pleasure.

Then, finally, even as a few new arrivals entered the queue behind me, it was soon my turn. "Next," the banker said-- hardly above a whisper, for the lobby was so quiet that he had no need to raise his voice to be heard.

I sauntered up to the counter and slapped my check down on the imitation marble separating us. Yes, the chap did ask to see my identification-- as if he didn't believe I could deliver. With a knowing smirk, I easily produced it, sliding it effortlessly toward him. I turned back to see the others who had come in after me, watching, waiting their turn, their faces expressionless voids of well-rehearsed patience. 

"You forgot to endorse the check, sir," my banker said, laying the check back onto the counter before me-- face down. There, on the underside, was the vaguely familiar sight of the light grey line at the far end of the check, running along its narrow edge. 

"Ah!" I said, genuinely surprised. "That's right," I admitted-- it all flooding back to me now in a wave of remembrance. "Endorse the check," I repeated. Then, my countenance fell-- my mind entered a fog. An urgent panic suddenly struck me as I struggled to recount what happened next. I knew I needed to endorse the check, to authorize it for my own account's deposit-- but for the life of me, I could not seem to bring to mind how precisely I was to make this happen.

The banker, seeing my sudden spring of confusion overflowing across my face, offered a helpful reminder: "Do you need a pen, sir?" 

A pen?

I looked behind me to the other patrons, waiting their turn. Their once featureless expressions now turned wry with pitiless mirth. Scanning their possessions I noticed, as if for the first time, pens half-sunk into breast pockets; dangling out between arthritic knuckles; one even held his pen tucked behind the top crest of his ear. My hands instinctively searched my body, up and down. 

A pen! A pen! My kingdom for a pen!

Then, one entered my vision-- at the end of a delicate outstretched hand. I looked up at the bank teller before me, who was holding in his hand a pen. A plastic pen. Black, and narrow-- it seemed foreign in my hand as I took it, transfixed as though compelled to under the foreign power of some remote and vague dream he or I was having. Then, as though my mind and body were possessed by some external force, I signed the back of the check, authorizing it over to the bank-- and the rest of the transaction proceeded so efficiently that I next regained consciousness as I exited the building-- wandering back like an animated corpse toward my parked vehicle. 

What had happened? I'll tell you what had happened. I had been defeated. Defeated by the bank. 

Had I grown so accustomed to modern living that I could forget something so trivial-- so inconsequential-- as a pen? How could it have come as such a momentous surprise? Oh, and those patrons behind me-- sneering and chuckling behind cupped hands at me, getting in a laugh at the younger generation. They had been using pens all their lives, after inheriting them from their mothers and fathers, who in turn had scribbled on stone to authorize their checks in ages past. Now they could have a laugh at my expense. Well, we'll see who is laughing next. I, too, could use a pen. They will see. I would use a pen-like they had never seen!

But first, I needed to find a pen. Not a pen taken from the bank teller; I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. No, I'd need to get a pen all my own.

A general store was nearby. I knew then, all at once, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky, what I must do: I would go and find a pen; I would buy that pen; then I would return. Little chance that the same patrons would still be here by then, but the teller would likely still be toiling behind his fake marble counter. I'd wait in line-- staring at him all the while-- and when it was again my turn once more, he'd call me forward. I'd step up and then I'd say, something like, 

"I was just here a few minutes ago. You may remember. I just came back to endorse my check." 

That would show him. His jaw would go slack as he would stammer something like,

"But, but, but-- you already endorsed your check, sir." 

And then I'd say something like,

"Yes. But this time, I brought my pen."

And then I would insist on signing it myself, again, with my own pen. That would show him. And anyone else in line behind me that I, too, can carry a pen, among many, many other things besides. 

That would show them. I'd sign my check and leave without another word. Who cares if there are two of my signatures on the back? Maybe I'll just sign over my first signature. Whatever the case, I will be sure to take my time to make it clear that this signature, with my pen, would be the best signature I could ever give-- and that my previous signature with the banker's inferior pen had been mere child's play compared to my full, embellished John Handcock. 

So, off I went to the general store. Surely, they would have a suitable pen with which I would author my revenge. 

I was not prepared for the outpouring of pens I was to find when I arrived.

Looking about the store, I realized too late that it had been recently renovated. What was once familiar was now a labyrinth of impossible pursuit. I thought, upon my arrival, all I would need to do was find some section near the front checkout lanes that would hold a rotating dais stocked full of a mixed and humble variety of pens. Instead, after some lost time and modest self-reflection, I succumbed to asking a store clerk where I might find, in my words, "a pen." 

He directed me to the rear of the store where I was shocked to discover that an entire industry-sized aisle was devoted to stationary supplies; an entire 12-foot portion of this wall was dedicated solely to writing implements. 

I went through a shifting and complex wave of emotions as I stood there, facing down the Great Wall of Pens-- emotions that had gone untouched in my spirit for many years until this moment. In a way, I felt alive in a way I hadn't since I was a child; not out of joy, but out of the sheer immensity of the world that I was expected to one day step out into. I was faced with such diversity of writing production, daunted by such nuance of choice, that I was struck seemingly deaf and dumb at the onset. It took some untold minutes, perhaps the course of half an hour, before I truly felt I could regain some sense of thought enough to consider this pen or that. So bludgeoned had I been by the sight of so many different pens at once that I felt weak, and for a long and harrowing tale of time, I nearly resigned my heated passion for revenge against the bank teller who had bested me-- as in my quest to regain my honor I had been dealt a death blow by the seemingly innumerable producers of pens that I might never again regain footing in the ancient world. I envisioned myself as some creeping thing-- retreating into the safety of modernity, never again seeing the inside of a bank-- once again maintaining all my finances, my withdrawals and deposits, solely in the digital world. 

Then, after a time, I slowly regained my footing. I dared to start, as most people must, at the beginning. I found the spot in the wall where the first pen could be found, hanging upon a peg. I took it in my hand and held it in front of my face. A not insignificant paper box that contained within it not one, but allegedly a dozen pens. And not just any pen. According to the label on the front, I held in my hand the Black Ink Sharpie Pen - S. Gel series, promising "NO SMEAR NO BLEED TECHNOLOGY." Then, below that, a notice that the pens were considered: "MEDIUM 0.7 mm." 

Hand trembling, I returned the box upon its peg-- to hang with its brethren. 

Beside it was still another pen style to consider. Something called the Pilot, G2 Premium Gel Roller, with a gold award emblazoned right on the front of the box claiming it as the "#1 Selling Gel Pen"! High praise, indeed. Reading on, I found that the pen was promised to have qualities described as: "Super Smooth Super Suave", "Refillable Recargable", "Comfort Grip Grip Comfortable", and that this box, too, came with 12 Pens/Piezas. At the bottom, The Pilot G2 was further described as Black, Fine and 0.7 mm. 

Taking a step back-- and giving a cursory glance up and down the aisle-- I could see that what at first I thought was a curse of overabundance might instead be a gift. For now, I could find the pen that was near tailor-fit to the revenge I was hoping to extract with it. The question hung in my mind as a vision perceived from bits of floating clouds hung ponderously in the sky above me at a red dawn: what would my choice in pen say not just about me and the humiliation I had suffered, but what would my choice of pen say about the toll I wish to redeem for my offense? Was my revenge a signature best served by the Sharpie S. Gel pen? Or was my satisfaction to come by way of the Pilot, G2 Premium Gel Roller?

And this was merely the tip of the pen, as it were-- for there were untold hundreds of others still that might be better apt to my dark designs and purposes. Dark design. Yes-- it was clear to me now, if nothing else, that my revenge must be writ in black ink. For a moment, red-- the color of blood and rage-- seemed at first the proper ink of choice; but revenge blackens the heart and lurks in the shadow. Not only that, but I couldn't see any red pens from where I stood-- they must be in a different aisle.

A 45-pack of Smart GEL black pens, retractable medium point ink pens for smooth writing. No, no-- nothing about my designs was "smooth." Smart GEL? The injustice I had suffered that day had no bearing on the philosophy of intellect; it was base, it was instinctive, it was cruel and animalistic. No, Smart GEL might be the pen of choice for scholars and academics, but had little weight in the world of redressing insult.

Then I caught sight of the BiC Round Stic Xtra Life Black Ballpoint Pen-- an amber box with what I found to be a dour and mysterious figure depicted upon the box: seemingly, a man with a great black round and featureless head-- shining from a glimmer of unseen light cast upon its dome-- standing with impeccable posture in an orange schoolboy uniform, holding behind its back a sheathed pen. The figure mystified me; in particular, its lack of eyes - of a mouth - a nose or ears. Was this the face of cold revenge? The box claimed to be the No. 1 Selling Ball Pen. Looking back at the box of Pilot, G2 Premium Gel Rollers for comparison, for I thought I remembered seeing that it too had claimed to be the top-selling pen, I was relieved to find that their award was for the "#1 Selling Gel Pen", and so this claim by BiC Round Stic as the No. 1 Selling Ball Pen was not refuted. In my thinking, the "ball pen" sounded much more to be an implement of warfare than "gel pen" seemed. A ball can have many uses-- both as a projectile, such as a cannonball-- or as a weapon if spikes were applied to it and the ball set upon a stick. Yes, in that regard a ball pen might very well be mightier than the sword. Not only this, but the cost was $5.99 for a box of 60, so I took the BiC Round Stic down off of the peg and held it covetously in my hands while searching for perhaps an even more ideal device.

This was when my eyes fell upon the EYEYE Bullet Tip Rollerball Pen-- a 25-pack of Liquid Ink Rollerball Pens, Fine Point 0.5 mm large capacity. This was promising! "EYEYE" brought to mind the old phrase, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. There was an echo of poetic justice to it. Not only this-- but this particular model of EYEYE pens was known as the "Bullet Tip"-- evoking images of duels set upon the backdrop of some dusty, weathered western town where, at last, the hero makes his day by eradicating evil by pulling it up from its root from the soil. Yes, the EYEYE Bullet Tip may very well be the weapon of choice-- except that, as my hand reached out toward it, I noticed a described feature of the pen as "Quick Drying," which made me pause. Yes, I could see how a quick drying ink was indeed desirable; and certainly, under certain circumstances, I might like to return and buy a pen specifically with that feature in held in heartfelt priority. But, as though looking into the future I saw my signature scrawled upon the back of the check-- running thick with ink as it smeared along the back of the thin paper as a warning to all to think twice before daring to drag me through the wretched cold mud. No, I thought, as my hand retreated away from the EYEYE Bullet Tip Rollerball Pens-- I desired my revenge to run black as oil, streaked across both check and countertop, as though 'twere black blood running fresh from a wound.

The Zebra Pen Z-Grip Retractable Ballpoint Pen. Don't make me laugh. When one conjures up images of the greatest retribution tales ever told-- The Count of Monte Cristo, Hamlet, Medea, Beowulf, Moby Dick-- the spirit of the tepid and cautious Zebra is not much evoked. The serpent, perhaps; or crows. Wolves are known to stalk their prey. Venomous creatures, like the scorpion, can oftentimes get the better of their predators even after their death, if but one drop of their poison seeps into its assailant's blood. No, despite what other qualities the Zebra Pen Z-Grip Retractable Ballpoint Pen might possess-- it was surely outmatched by at least two or three other pen candidates for this purpose. 

I had no sooner darted my forsaking eyes away from the "zebra" than my gaze befell an even more laughable choice: the Paper Mate InkJoy 300RT Retractable Ballpoint Pen. Where to begin?! Paper Mate? Even its name was dotted by two voluminous, red hearts between Paper and Mate-- and that's to say nothing of this particular model of pen, the "InkJoy". If I were to have my say by the time this day was done, there would be no mate, no joy for the perpetrator of my misfortune. Picking up the package of Paper Mate InkJoy 300RT Retractable Ballpoint Pens, I threw them as far as I could. "Get away from me!" I exclaimed, laughing in delight.

Here I came upon some pens that, at a glance appeared to be more specialized and unique. Heretofore, the pens I had found were sold in packs of 12, 30, even 60! These came in pairs, or singly-- with a much more significant price. Any cost would be worth it if the revenge be sweet enough. Upon looking closer I discovered the Pilot Precise V5-- Capped Liquid Ink Rolling Ball Pen. Yes, the purpose I had in mind for my chosen pen would indeed be "precise." And I, verily, would be the pilot of my own vindication. The only justification I struggled to make was with the stated, "Extra Fine" descriptor. Would it be fine? "Fine" is an ineffectual word; vague and, in itself, imprecise in its application and interpretation. The self-contradiction prevalent inherent to the pen allowed my cooler rationale to win out. No, I still had my Bic Round Stic Xtra Life Black Ballpoint Pens. They would give me an extra life, once I was properly and fully avenged.

Uni-Ball 207 Singo Click Pen-- allegedly "fraud-proof". "Singo" was a curious word; signaling the pen could be quickly rejected as it might suggest there was anything joyous or worthy of song on this dark day. TUL Gel Retractable Pens-- Gray Barrel. "Tul" had the sound of some ancient and jealous god of retribution, though its precise origin and meaning weren't clear to me. It, too, was passed over. The more I searched, the more clear and resolute in my choice I was. The BiC Round Stick Xtra Life was indeed the pen of payback; the writing implement of retaliation; the inkwell of reprisals; the quill of comeuppance. And, for $5.99, it was the economic choice as well.

Satisfied, I quit the hunt - departing with my box of pens, rushing to the front of the store. The time was nigh and the need for redress was boiling hot in my veins. At the self-check-out, I scanned the box and tapped to pay. I was present at the general store, but my senses were transporting me already to the bank, only a few short minutes away. I could smell the musty odor of old dirty paper, hear the counting machines humming a soft puttering heartbeat, taste the salty must of nervous sweat percolating in the air. I could even see the target for my requital in my mind's eye: the banker who thought they could surprise me by catching me without a pen and get away with it. 

I scanned the pens again-- though I was attempting the check-out myself, something was detaining me. I felt like a fly must feel when an invisible glass window keeps them from flying free into the open air beyond. What was restraining me?! Why was my vindication being held up? Coming out of my fantasy, I looked down at the digital screen signaling that my payment had failed to authorize. Blinking, dumbfounded and confused, I attempted the sale again-- "unauthorized." But why? Surely I had money in my account...

A store clerk approached. A huge, hulking man-- a lion's mane encircling his head, complimented by a bushy blond beard that clung to his round face all around. He towered over me, close to 7' he must've been-- bespectacled and rotund. In a monotone but obnoxiously jolly voice, he uttered gutturally, 

"Not taking it?" 

What did he mean? 

"Uh," I stammered-- annoyed at being waylaid. "It won't accept the tap." 

"Huh," he said-- and, accusingly, probed with a penetrating question: "Do you have enough to cover the sale in your account?" 

I-- I had thought I did. My mind rushed, quickly tallying the recent purchases I had made. That day-- Uncle Bartleby's eight boxes of frozen Steak Ums. But he had given me a check-- 

The check. 

"How many days does it take for a check to clear?" I asked the clerk. 

"Well, you can just scan a check with an app on your phone and it'll deposit instantly," he offered, smiling. I knew that! 

"No, I mean--" trying to conceal my mounting frustration. "How long does it take to clear a check deposited in person?"

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Like, at the bank?"

"Yes!" I nearly shouted.

"I don't know. A couple days?" 

Ice breaking beneath my feet. Sinking into a pool of sand. Falling from a tremendous height in a dream. 

The towering clerk, seeing my sudden sullen look of shock befall my face, attempted to brighten the dour turn my attitude had taken.

"I can hold these for you," he offered, taking the pens from my hand. 

My eyes scanned about me as the faces of other shoppers stared at me-- hiding grins behind clinched fists before their grinning lips. And one I recognized-- the face of a bank teller, now off of work, who had come to the store to buy a few things before heading home for the evening. 

The revenge I had been planning unspooled from within me, running like spilled blood all across the floor below my feet in all directions. 

"Thank you, sir," the clerk said-- hoping, perhaps, that his friendly goodbye would unfreeze me from my sudden trauma and move the line along. Turning, I walked out the front of the store, past another clerk-- an old man-- who was checking receipts at the door. 

"Receipt please?" he asked. I had none to give him. Quickly realizing his error, he said, jovially, "Oh! Come back next time and buy something!" 

The laughter rang in my ears as I walked out through the parking lot, and back to my car-- like walking between the raindrops.