ROOM FOR A PONY

Are you sick of the pen topic? I know I am. I still want them, though. New pens, vintage pens, other people’s pens…… but I’m not giving in these days. I just drool inwardly and keep moving.

I’m looking for a good pen therapist. because as I’m getting rid of all these pens — which has been really hard — I’m realizing that i have a serious phobia about being caught without a pen. Suppose someone commits a heinous crime and jumps into a car and I’m standing right there and I don’t have anything to jot down the license plate number with and they get away scot-free? My one shot at heroism, vanished. The only use I can ever hope to be in such a crisis, indeed one of the few things I’ve been good for in the world — moving a pen across paper — all for naught.

Recently there was an “incident” at work — there was yelling and thumping and I knew it was coming from Mr. Problem, who’d just walked by. I feared it was a crisis-in-progress. I tried to dial 911 but couldn’t remember the number. Or how to operate a telephone. Had there been a license plate number to write down, I know I could’ve executed that task. For that, I’m prepared.

You’ve seen the pens I accumulated in my home. I also carry many pens with me wherever I go. I am way beyond pocket protector. At work, where one’s space and accoutrements are often perceived as communal, I’ve resorted to a tool belt.

See? There’s no way I would’ve failed to grab a pen, had there been something to write down. And in the back panel of that tool belt are stashed multiple blank cards — the backs off of small tablets that we plow through at work, that I tuck in there for just such an occasion.

In case you’re wondering how the above scenario played out, it turned out that calling 911 was not the thing to do anyway.

“We never call 911 for him,” said my boss.

Apparently he’s just business as usual. We save 911 for the seriously scary. Who knew? He sounded scary to me.