All Hail, the Glorious Pen

I was watching her ring up my salad, soup, and drink. Trying to do the math before the cash register did wasn't working out so I quickly turned to just hoping the the total would be more than ten dollars. All this emotional energy was channeled into the simple question of whether or not I could or could not use my debit card for this purchase. Technically, I couldn't pay with cash. There was any to pay with.

Alas, the total was 10.58 and I was pleased to pass the card into the hands of the cashier. I waited, more patiently, for the receipt and the pen to scribble the transaction's approval. Hearing the receipt paper tear from the machine, I looked up and saw a puff of black feather fluff attached to the top of the pen. There was, in middle school, a pen just like that one in my collection except that it was purple and had streams of glitter dispersed between the feathers. This pen was black, from feather to ball point. How chic.

I situated the pen in my hand. Awkwardly starting to scribble when I noticed the Playboy logo on the side, almost forgetting to sign the G in Gregory. How did a Playboy pen find its way into a New York City cafe. At the check-out counter? (This is when I believe that some sort of tracking advice might be useful for objects like pens. Just like money, temporary owners of such items as pens, maybe rental cars, some vintage clothing, etc. could access some Internet database to check on where it had been or who might have had it. Begin daunting and frantically mysterious music, please.)

When thinking about this phenomenon a bit more, it appears to me that pens are actually quite popular; and although generic, the commodity is quick striking. There are, in fact, plenty of other tools for writing: pencils, of course, chalk, charcoal, paint, keyboards, crayons, markers, glitter pens, glue and glitter dust, even rocks, and perhaps sand and mud to be both creative and a bit backwards.

Pens (and for some reasons or another my stapler) are the first things to disappear from my desk at SpaFinder. The matching pen to my pink and green notepad was taken within days or returning from the Christmas holiday. Not too spirited if I may say so. Many months ago I was lucky enough to be given a uni-ball with green ink. I used the pen quite often when working with my own notes, of course, not all might appreciate the color, but nevertheless it was my favorite pen. This of course, was gone one morning. Intent on having it return, I went asking around about my lovely uni-ball green ink pen, only to discover my co-worker writing with it! She did give it back, without much to say (She had recently commented on the sharpness of my pencils, which does worry me somewhat). I know keep my most favorite pens it a secret section on desk drawer, which I have decided to not disclose at this time.

In all seriousness pens are, to me at least, worth a line or two; that something of such insignificance can be so fleetingly important to everyone and every company. Much so that they feel the need to put there name on one, or millions, in case someday it may end up in an estranged place like the Green Cafe in Union Square, hoping others like me might give more thought to its presence than the time it takes to make one's mark.

Long-winded

this past friday, over the course of the work day, two different people within the time span of a half an hour asked if my neck was stiff.

the first, was the technology manager, who has asked, or more appropriately, commented on the condition of my décolletage several times before. this, for obvious reasons, always did annoy me slightly but i kindly said no, "i was fine thank you", before our conversation passed awkwardly onto more decidedly objective subjects. ah, the work at hand.

shortly after this short episode occurred, another woman asked me the same unmistakeably query, and i began to envision what i actually may look like when people approach my cubicle: typing furiously away at my computer, hunched over while simultaneously slouching further down the back of my chair, slowly, into the vastness underneath my workspace... stopped mid-thought. a question is asked and i change position to address it, rotating my whole body with the uniformity of an passenger jet-liner, never allowing the shoulder, neck, leg alignment to shift a degree out of symmetry as i stare-up at them, cross-eyed. through reading glasses.

whether or not this might look strange to anyone had never occurred to me. perhaps the alternative would appear slightly even more inappropriate: craning my neck around like a deranged pigeon, while keeping the bulk of my body parallel to the computer as if it were a magnet. quite pathetic it seems, almost workaholic in nature.

it was only after these scenarios, that a few others accrued, making me feel as if i were in some sort of office day fun house which included, but are not limited to, the following: answering "HI!" when my boss called to ask for lunch (of course thinking it might have been a friend), having been caught starting at my feet as i walked out of the bathroom, self-proclaiming myself paranoid when one of my colleagues approached my desk (who, of course, i thought was my friend trying to play a practical joke on me), listening to my name pronounced in a variety of ways, some in other languages, only to find out it was because one man from the magazine department thought i was someone else for these first 11 months i have worked in the office.

harmless oddities, likewise, i wonder if my neck will be ruled stiff monday morning.