Pen and Pat

Pen and Pat

Day One

“0uch”! cries the green and white pen as my thumb presses its silver cap to reveal its nib. “Must you push so hard”, the pen continues in an agitated tone. Realizing that I may have stepped through a looking glass into a world where objects are capable of speech, I say, “I am truly sorry”, I as I pick up the pen from the floor. “I am writing a story.” “You’re writing a story,” responds the writing implement in a high-pitched mocking tone. “Well Dickens, what is it to be, a romance, a historical novel or something dystopian?” “You have piqued my interest, and I only ask that you not chew on me or bang me on your pad like a drumstick; however, I am not averse to fondling.” “Good to know”, I reply as I roll the smooth sleek object between my thumb and index finger and begin to write. “If you must know I am writing a story for a contest.” “Spare me from wannabee writers”, scoffs the pen. I could tell by the light reflecting off its nib that the pen enjoys the gentle rolling motion created by my fingers. “What would you know about writing?”, I ask as I continue to caress the pen to reveal the words, DR. IAN SMITH901-555-7020. “The only writing you have done are names on a patient register,” I say tapping the pen after each word for emphasis. “Guilty of having a dream of finding a writer worthy of holding me”, exclaims the pen. “Don’t you have a laptop you can bang on?” “Yes”, I do; however, it is not nearly as sensual, and it does not write in cursive.” “Oh, flattery may get you somewhere,” the pen chuckles. “At least a thousand words is what I need,” I plea and gently rub the pen with my thumb and index finger and begin writing. “That feels so good!” the pen replies with a sigh. “Please call me Pen”. I reply, “You may call me Pat”. “We could be a great team like the brothers Grimm”, but I confess I am a little drained.” “Me too Pen”, I say as I gently press its cap and put it to bed in my pad wondering if I was hallucinating.

Day Two

I gently press Pen’s silver cap again. “Hello”, Pen answers. “You are still here “, I exclaim with surprise. “Were you expecting a genie?” asked Pen. “A genie could grant my wish of one thousand words”. “And you think I can’t” responds Pen in a hurt tone. “I just don’t know what to expect from a talking pen”, I answer as I begin to write. “How long will you be with me?” I ask, “As long as you need me”, Pen answers. “Where were you all day?”, Pen asks in a jealous tone. “I do have a day job and is it really any of your business?”, I retort. “From what I have read I wouldn’t quit your day job if I were you”, states Pen. “Well, someone got up from the wrong side of the pocket protector today”, I say angrily. “Any ideas?”, I ask. Pen clears his throat and begins:

“Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”

“Can we get serious?”, I ask while squeezing Pen. “Alright!” “Alright”, yells Pen, “but Pat you are closer to one thousand words now.” “Touche”, I say laughing. “Pen I think I have something”:

“It was the best of stories; it was the worst of stories.”

“Hooray!”, exclaims Pen, “finally some respect.” “Good night, Pat” “Goodnight Pen”, I say as I gently push the cap.

Day Three

With nervous anticipation I pick up the green and white pen and press the cap. “Click” “Good evening, Pen.” “Good evening, Pat”, Pen says with a yawn. “What’s on your mind?” “Words”. “Words”. “Words” I reply. “The Bard of Avon”, Pen squeals with glee. “Someone who knew how to handle a pen”. “Unlike present company”. “Excuse me “, I exclaim. “I need more words!” “Why should one only write to become famous?” “I find it very therapeutic”. “It seems to be working beautifully for you”, Pen says sarcastically. “So, there is a method in this madness?”, asks Pen. “Pen, are we going to quote Shakespeare all day or write?’’ Pen replies, “Pick me up and lead on McDuff”. “Pen you are so not funny”, I say as I begin writing. I observe Pen move across the blank page. Turning with each flourish, stopping at each punctuation mark, waiting patiently for me to begin writing again. Very much like two tango dancers. The tango; the dance of passion and revulsion. The dance continues until the page is full of random thoughts; coherent and incoherent, words legible and illegible, added and deleted. Suddenly Pen says in a garbled voice, “Why do you have me in your mouth?” My face turning red, I reply, “Sorry I got carried away”. “It’s fine”, replies Pen. “Whatever it takes to get your juices flowing” “Just don’t chew”! “You don’ feel degraded being in the hands of a wannabee writer? “, I ask. “No” answers Pen in a tender whisper. “Let’s find those last few words”. Our dance begins again. “Writing is so laborious”, I say with a sigh. “Having ink drained from your barrel is no picnic either”, adds Pen. “I hope I have been a help to you”, says Pen. “You have helped more than you will ever know”, I say as I move my fingers up and down Pen’s barrel. “Thank you, Pat” “Now about that contest, is there a prize?”, asks Pen. “$250 dollars”, I answer. “That could buy me one classy pocket protector” Pen states in a hinting tone, “Is there such a thing?”, I ask as I laugh and give Pen a kiss. “Good luck Pat” says Pen

“Click” “Click” This time it is the sound of lights being turned off by my husband. “When are you coming to bed?”, he asks as he taps my shoulder. “You dropped your pen on the floor”. “Honey “, I say sleepily, “When do I see Dr. Smith?’.