If there’s anything in life that’s worth having, it’s a pen—especially one from the dollar store.
Say what you want, but dollar stores are simply the best. I often pop in with a dollar bill in my pocket, just to revel in the fact that I can finally afford everything. I don’t buy anything. I just breathe in the atmosphere of consumer omnipotence.
But sometimes—very rarely!—an item on the shelves will intrigue me so much that I feel compelled to shell out my last dollar. Recently, for example, I found a pen, which looked like just a regular pen, snuggled in a plastic tray inside a cardboard box. There was only one such product in the store and I would probably have walked right past it if it weren’t for the label: AUTOMATIC PEN FOR WRITING STORIES (in capital letters).
“What’s this?” I asked the store assistant, a beautiful, old woman adorned with jewelry.
“An automatic pen for writing stories.”
“I’ll take it.”
Since it was a nice day—warm, but not sweltering—I went to the park and, sitting on a bench, I took my pen out of the packaging, switched it on, and placed it on a blank sheet of notebook paper. I stared at the tiny, navy-blue ball at the end of the pen, expecting it to start moving—to automatically write a story, as its name suggested. But the pen didn’t move an inch. I tried to prompt it to start working with a gentle twitch of my hand, but no response.
Apparently, I’d ended up with just some old tat. What was I expecting, anyway? That it would relieve me of my creative exertion? It was probably just a regular pen with a clever name, to tempt writers who lack inspiration. These thoughts tormented me until the evening, when, back at home, I looked again at the packaging and noticed an image—a vertical rectangle with a bent corner, and inside: A4.
So that was it! The pen only worked with paper of the right format! Fortunately, I had a whole ream of A4 paper. And as soon as the pen felt that it had a suitable medium underneath it, it immediately began to write: “To the such-and-such department of such-and-such city hall. I should like to request the provision of a location for a writer’s studio . . .” I watched in joyful amazement as more words appeared on the page. The first time you hold a pen that writes by itself is a unique, ecstatic experience. I surrendered to it completely. On the other hand, when the pen was finished, I couldn’t help but notice that the work that had been created was not a story, but an application. It was the craziest thing! Apparently, the manufacturer, in some distant country, had translated the product name wrong. A story, or an application—the words didn’t seem that similar, but perhaps they had started off as “spiel” and “appeal,” and someone got confused.
I didn’t feel disappointed, however, because the application in front of me was truly a thing of beauty. Nicely laid out, round lettering, and formal in style. You’d think it wasn’t an application, but a religious icon in which every detail has its own, unearthly meaning. In the corner of the paper was the address of the city hall, the intended recipient of the letter. Driven by a sudden sense of duty, I took it there right away.
The man at the counter actually jumped up out of his chair when he saw the application.
“Excellent!” he cried. “Perfect! If only all applicants could write like this, how wonderful our work would be. I see you’re requesting a place to use as a writer’s studio with a particular emphasis on short prose. You’ll get it, of course. You just need to specify your requirements in another document. Here’s a piece of paper and a pen!”
“Thank you, I’ve got a pen,” I replied, stunned by my success.
I leaned on a nearby countertop to prepare the next application. I closed my eyes and felt the pen guide my hand in a smooth, decisive movement. When it had finished, I took the letter—without reading it—to the clerk, who leaned over his desk and extended an open hand towards me. His colleagues gathered around him, having clearly already read the previous application. They were tutting with delight, sighing, or rubbing their glasses in amazement—the pen had succeeded in appealing to even the most discerning of clerical tastes.
The new application was met with a similar response.
“You write here,” said the clerk at the counter, when he had simmered down a bit, “that you need a rather dark place, preferably in a ruined castle, or a collapsed wing of a plundered palace surrounded by a dreary park full of felled trees. That won’t be a problem, we have plenty of neglected relics. We’ll secure you a place as a matter of urgency. You can come and collect the keys in four months.”
Despite what I’d been told, the next day I received news that everything was ready. The room, dark and damp, was located in the tower of a neo-Gothic ruin, with young birches rustling serenely on the roof. The man I’d met at the city hall, along with two of his colleagues, showed me around, assuring me as we went that they wouldn’t usually dare to offer someone a place in this condition, but in my application, I had clearly stated that this was the kind of place I was looking for, and their role was to accommodate the applicant’s requests. Therefore, if there was anything else I required for my ever-so-important writing work, I was to notify them immediately and submit another application.
“You’re very kind, thank you,” I replied as politely as possible. “There’s nothing else I need.”
“Really?” They didn’t seem to believe me. “Are you sure? We happen to have some paper here, and a clipboard. You have your own pen, of course, we haven’t forgotten! You could just write a little request or application here. A car, for example. A writer needs to get around somehow, imagination isn’t everything. Please, go ahead. One little application and we’ll be on our way!”
They were so nice. I took a piece of paper and the clipboard, got out my pen and started to write, leaning on a pile of moss-covered bricks. Full of wonder, I read the words as soon as they appeared. In my application, I stated that for my work, I would require a dilapidated carriage decorated with a coat of arms—and not just the first one they came across, but one consisting of two crossed fountain pens, an open book, and some Latin words (I don’t know Latin!). I specified the colors for the carriage, the coat of arms, the curtains, and the torn upholstery. With a trembling heart and considerable embarrassment, I handed the frivolous letter to the clerks. They were enraptured. One of them took out a ruler and measured the margins and line spacing approvingly. The second one sang the content of the application in a sonorous tenor voice. The third one cried as if he was reading not an administrative document, but a message from a family member who had miraculously survived the sinking of a cruise liner.
“Certainly,” he said through his tears. “You will receive the vehicle as described. But may I ask: what about horses? After all, a carriage won’t get far on its own. If you were to quickly prepare an addendum—it would only take a second—I’m sure we could find you some horses!”
I could swear the pen in my pocket started twitching impatiently at the mention of the word “addendum.” But this time I was adamant. I refused, sensing that a single addendum might not suffice. First horses, then a stable . . . whatever next? A stablehand, perhaps? I didn’t want to go down that road.
The carriage, however, was ordered as promised, and I got what I’d requested. Now, whenever I want to go somewhere, I hook it onto the back of a municipal bus. The drivers sometimes get upset, but I have the appropriate permit, which usually calms them down. I work diligently in my dark chamber, and I must admit that writing stories has never come so easily. Admittedly, most of them are quite strange, but that’s hardly surprising—after all, as they say in certain circles, existence determines consciousness.
And returning to our original topic: say what you want, but dollar stores are simply the best.
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