THE PEN THIEF

The meeting was at 11. I had sufficient time to grab my story notebook (which makes it seem like I might possibly take notes of some kind in the room). Beside it was my favorite dime store ball point pen (blue). We had been to many meetings together and it had never let me down.

With a few minutes to kill before going in, I sat in the car and jotted some quick thoughts to touch upon in the room while Death Cab for Cutie played on the radio -

And I do believe it’s true that there are roads left in both of our shoes, but if the silence takes you then I hope it takes me too.
So brown eyes I hold you near, ’cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere.

Nothing like a little Death Cab to get me in philosophically good spirits.

The pleasantries and standard banter flowed with the Evian water. Soon we delved into story thoughts. Like any meeting, the invariable, “This is a bad idea but let me just throw it out…” comments came out. But some of them weren’t bad.

One of them in particular about a new angle into the story seemed sensible. I looked at my notebook sitting on the coffee table. I was about to pick it up when I noticed the pen I had left on top of it the way I always do was not in its rightful place. At some point, the producer to my left had picked it up and was writing thoughts down in his notebook.

We continued to discuss arcs, themes, turning points, but all I could think of was that this fucker had lifted my fucking pen. Worse still, he had nicer handwriting.

I tried to put it out of my mind. It was just a cheap pen. No doubt, at any moment, the kleptomaniac would acknowledge that he had made a mistake. He’d make a lame, “Never take a writer’s pen” joke, and we’d all laugh while no one thought it was funny. But as the minutes continued and he closed his notebook, I noticed him slide the pen into the holding place inside the cover. He looked at me, smiling. I realized I had been asked a question. I had no idea what the question was.

“You don’t like it?”

I had no idea what the question might be. Perhaps something related to the lead character, or an alternative take on the ending…or how he had lifted my pen and was getting away with it because only a lunatic would ask for a pen back in this sort of situation. Yes, he was stealing my pen. We both knew it. There was no point in pretending anymore.

At some point, the meeting wound down. As we shook hands, I looked at the notebook, my pen nestled safely beneath his hand. I held his other hand for longer than a normal person might, giving him the opportunity to come clean. He did not. This was a criminal with no remorse.

When I got outside, considering the nature of injustice in the world, I thrust my hand dejectedly into pocket. There, to my surprise, I found my pen. The pen I had uncharacteristically stuffed there as I got out of the car.

As I turned it, I noticed something else – it had leaked.

Until later -

Burning Pictures