A Day in the Life of a Disposable Pen

Oh the tales I could tell. But I won’t. Or, maybe I will and see how it goes. After all I’m not new. Being disposable, I’ll probably be gone in less than a week. Why not share one of my days with you?

My day started at the bank. I was left there by my original owner who thought I was out of ink. I was glad – that girl had the worst cold and she kept handling me without using hand gel. She’d wanted to withdraw money for a box of tissues and some cough drops but she had to use the bank pen to sign her slip.

Miss Ella Huddleston found me with great pleasure. She shook me up a bit to let the ink flow and soon I was in business.

I signed the deposit slip for her retirement check. It was for $485. That’s not a particularly large check to live on for a month. I’m glad she gets about $885 in social security each month and a pension check from her deceased husband of $953. That almost makes a decent income. Almost. Mrs. Huddleston is grateful for her pension and retirement checks. She liked her job in the factory where she worked for 22 years okay but her feet hurt after standing too long now. I heard about that while she was talking to the banker with me in her hand. Then she stuffed me into her purse and sounds got muffled for a while.

I came out again at the grocery store where Mrs. Ella was signing for her grocery bill. Three hundred and eighty five dollars for a months worth of groceries. Mrs. Ella was horrified. But she had company coming – her grandchildren would visit for a week and she wanted to be sure to have some of their favorite foods. If it’d just been her the bill would have been less than $300 for sure. She grew some of her own foods, she confided to the clerk as the bag boy bagged and the line behind her grew to 5 people. “Second cashier needed!” the little clerk announced dramatically on the PA system and the bag boy hurried under Mrs Ellas disapproving gaze. She twirled me about for a second between her thumb and first finger, tossed me back into the purse with her debit card and billfold and snapped us in.

At the drug store I helped Mrs. Ella purchase her prescriptions and her eye drops. She told the pharmacist that she wished her heart medicine came in generic form. He was sympathetic but unhelpful. Mrs. Ella put me back in her purse with some disappointment.

Unfortunately, more disappointment awaited her outside the pharmacy. Her purse was snatched by a young punk who was old enough to know better. I swear, he was about 16 years old. He was looking for cigarettes and cash. He tossed the billfold with the medicare card and debit card away. What good were they? He swore because there were no cigarettes. He kept the $8.93 and me and tossed the rest of the bags content beside it by a dumpster. The fool was too lazy to toss it in the dumpster. Not that he was concerned about littering.

I was disappointed that he kept me. I didn’t like him after the way he treated Mrs. Ella. But he shoved me into his pocket as if any minute he would show off his literary skills. As if he’d know how to spell literary or skills.

I almost got busted up in a fight between him and a couple of older boys. They got all his loot off of him, including me for some odd reason.

Things got exciting then. These older boys weren’t punks – they were really bad guys. They took me into the bank again and they robbed the bank! I was the pen that wrote the note, though I didn’t want to. “Give me all the money or you die” was what the jerk that handled me forced onto paper. My ink was truly not flowing as well as it did for Mrs. Ella. I felt frozen and filled with dirt just being handled by these people.

They got away but they deserted me. I lay there until the cops picked me up for evidence. The perps wore gloves, though. I remember they were dirty, stinky work gloves. So the cop tucked me into his own shirt pocket. When he got home he left me on the desk. Whew! After my experience I wouldn’t want to add to my sins by writing tickets!

Now I sit here, idle. I’m on the computer desk so someone will use me again, I’m sure. Unless the cat knocks me off and chases me under the desk. Then I may never be used again. What a life.

This is my tale and I’m sticking to it. I’m a middle aged pen who’s been through a lot and I sure hope that cat doesn’t get me. It’s a good thing he’s not allowed on the desk. That’s all I have to say.

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