I forgot my pen at home today, a fact that I realized after I was already resting quietly on the train during my morning commute.
Those of you that know me well know that I ALWAYS have my pen on me, ready to jot down different ideas that I come up with throughout the day.
Therefore, forgetting my pen is the equivalent to Usain Bolt going somewhere without his legs—it’s a contradiction of his very nature.
Knowing that I might need my pen yet not currently being in possession of a writing instrument of any kind (let alone my Pilot Metropolitan fountain pen filled with Take Sumi Jet-Black ink), was absolutely terrifying.
If someone had offered me a 50-cent ballpoint Papermate or Bic for $15, I probably would’ve taken them up on the deal.
I felt naked, sitting there, penless. Inkless. Nibless.
I felt like a bald eagle whose wings were clipped and thrown in a garbage can fire.
I’m not proud of this next part, but I began searching the floor of the train platform for cheap pens. Even a Bic would’ve sufficed—I was desperate.
I couldn’t find even the lowest-quality pens on the market. Totally dry.
I even went into a printing shop.
(out of breath) “Do you guys sell pens?”
“Sorry, man. We only do paper here.”
“Fu**. Start selling pens, bozo.”
I started foraging around the streets of Brooklyn, looking high and low for a writing utensil.
Then, out of nowhere, I hit the motherload.
A black-ink Pilot G2, fine point, nestled comfortably on a public picnic table in the middle of a blocked-off street, protected from the sun by a beach-umbrella, undoubtedly paid for by the city parks department.
No hesitation whatsoever—I grabbed it and shoved it in my shirt pocket (the pocket by the left nipple—that’s my go-to pen pocket).
All day, I’ve been using this pen, gifted to me by the scribe gods.
Thank you, scribe gods.
Until next time,
Michael J. Erickson, CEO & Co-Founder
