6:47 a.m., with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, I flop down on the couch and turn on the TV. I reach for my To-Do list notebook and my pen. The notebook is there on the cushion where I left it yesterday. The pen isn’t.
I glance at the floor. Not there.
I feel between the cushions. Not there.
Darn it. Probably fell beneath. I lift the corners of the cushions, and don’t see it. I inhale slowly. I place the three cushions on the floor and look closely at the exposed seat deck.
Not there.
My pulse quickens. Where is it? And why am I feeling anxious? It’s just a pen after all.
Well, no, it’s not “just a pen.” It’s my favorite pen of all time, a Hex-O-Matic Retro 51, a stainless steel work of art, with a writing tip as smooth as silk.
It has to be here somewhere.
It’s not on the seat deck, so it must have fallen through. Oh boy. I run my fingers along the edges all around—the sides and back—and probe every crevice where the pen might have slipped. The back of my hand scrapes against the fabric and wooden frame as I reach as deep as I can go. Oww… that’s tight!
Not there.
I remove my hand, noticing the little indents in my skin. Hope it doesn’t bruise.
I lift the front of the couch and tilt it back. I should hear a clunk as the heavy stainless steel pen moves inside. I hear nothing, but see a few popcorn kernels and peanuts find their freedom. There was something in the couch, just not my pen.
I scan the exposed area under the lifted couch. Not there.
Oh, come on. I must have missed something. I repeat the entire process and shake the couch vigorously this time, with the same fruitless result. Although a few more popcorn kernels escaped. I put the couch back down and sigh.
No. I didn’t lose it. I don’t lose things. Well, not very often.
I remember that credit card I lost at Disneyland a few years ago. And my keys when I was on a work assignment in San Juan Capistrano. Had to have a new set made in the middle of the night by a mobile locksmith who charged $300. But I was hundreds of miles from home then, traveling, moving around, easy to misplace or lose something.
I haven’t gone anywhere with my pen. It was sitting right there on the cushion by the notebook yesterday, and I remember using it.
The pen has been purloined!
I chuckle at the crazy thought. Been reading too much Poe lately. There’s been nobody here but me. And who would break in to steal a pen? Nothing else seems to be missing or out of order.
That’s interesting, though. The purloined letter in Poe’s story was in plain sight the whole time. But I don’t see my pen.
I turn on all the lights in the apartment. I check the entire carpet for the elusive little tube of silvery metal, then every exposed surface. The entertainment center, coffee table, end table, ottoman, windowsills. I even look inside the potted plant.
Not there.
I go to the kitchen. Maybe I put it on the counter or clipped it to the grocery list on the fridge. I can be absent-minded at times.
Not there.
I’m feeling very anxious now. I hate it when I lose things.
For the next half hour, I turn everything upside down in my apartment. Both bedrooms. Both bathrooms. My office. The closets. The laundry room. It must be here somewhere!
Wait, maybe…
I open the stainless trash can and look at the half-filled white bag. I shake my head. Yeah, no. Not doing that.
I transfer everything in the trash bag to another bag, piece by piece. Luckily it doesn’t smell much because I grind food scraps in my disposal, and there’s only wrappers, containers, and lots of junk mail.
When I’m near the bottom of the bag, I already know.
Not there.
I tie the drawstrings of the new bag I just transferred everything to and take it out to the dumpster bin. Maybe…
As I walk towards the dumpster with the trash, I look around at the sidewalk, the lawn, the parking spaces. Maybe I dropped it somewhere earlier, although I can’t imagine any reason why I would have my pen outside. By the time I come back to my apartment, I know the answer to that too.
Darn it. I had to have missed something. Things don’t just disappear into thin air.
I repeat everything I did before, looking, tilting, shaking, sweeping my hand, crawling on the floor, checking every corner and edge, occasionally yelling in frustration. Then the kitchen, and every room. With the same result.
I guess what they say about the definition of insanity is true.
I’m really bummed. Yeah, I know, getting bummed over a pen is trivial, it’s silly, and there are certainly a lot more serious things in the world to be bummed about these days. But still, it was my favorite pen. It was cool. It was a precision work of art. It gave me comfort, and strangely, assurance that some things in the world are actually okay.
And right now, nothing seems okay.
I go to work—still got to pay those bills, pen or no—and when I return home hours later, I take another look around the place, but my optimism and energy are low.
I eat dinner and watch a little TV, but my mind is elsewhere. Some days, the best thing to do is go to bed. Sleep can do wonders sometimes. So I do.
The next morning I wake up to the light shining through the half-opened blinds, and birds singing cheerfully outside my window. I stretch my arms over my head. Ohhh, I love mornings! The start of a new day. New possibilities. Adventures. Discoveries.
A purloined pen.
And just like that, the morning loses its shine.
After I eat breakfast, I take my steaming mug of coffee to the living room, flop down on the couch, and turn on the TV. Just like yesterday. When I discovered the pen was missing.
I catch up on the latest news, which is not very good today. Not off to a good start.
I get the basket of clothes that’s been sitting in the laundry room since last week, and bring it to the living room to fold. Ugh, I hate folding laundry.
I switch from the dismal news to one of my favorite YouTube channels about space exploration, and fold my clothes, placing them in neat stacks beside me on the couch.
As I reach for the last pair of blue jeans, I gasp. No way.
But there it is. In the bottom of the basket, the steel glint of the purloined pen winking at me like a mischievous child.
