Do any of my fellow writers have a pen or pencil that you just absolutely adore? It doesn’t have to be fancy or expensive. Personally, I never leave home without my Zebra F-701. It’s an all steel-body pen with a notched grip and metal ink cartridges. For a few extra dollars you can swap out the standard cartridge and replace it with a Fisher Space Pen refill. You know the one; it writes upside down, under water, below zero, or even in extreme heat. I like it for its balance, durability, and precision.

I read a report years ago that said one of the dirtiest items you’ll come into contact with, is a restaurant server’s pen or any publicly used writing device for that matter. Just think of where the hands that touched that….blech. I can’t even finish that thought. So gross.

Today, I was visiting my daughter’s school for the annual Dads Day. At some point, I lost my beloved writing tool. I didn’t even notice it was gone right away, but it didn’t take long to realize it, since I’m constantly jotting down ideas and thoughts. I went into a slight panic, which really wasn’t necessary considering there is an Office Max about 300 yards from my current position. For 7 bucks, I can replace it. Except, I didn’t want to just replace it. I wanted my note taker back.

I don’t see this as just another pen. We’ve been through a lot together and it’s the only thing between the paper and my thoughts. If it had a brain and could comprehend what it wrote, it would know more about me than any person on this planet. It has seen my highest highs and lowest lows, never judging or laughing. It just does exactly what it’s suppose to do; give me a voice and an outlet for my happiness, depression, anger, and solitude. This isn’t just a pen, it’s a weapon and an instrument and a magical wand that can take you places you’ve only ever dreamt of, like Cleveland.

So, you can picture my dilemma. I had already left the school and had just sat down at a coffee shop to do some work. It wasn’t clipped to my shirt, nor was it in my back pocket. I even searched the car, but came up with nothing. I went back to my coffee and pulled out one of my other 12 inferior pens. These things don’t know me at all. They are simply here for emergency purposes or if someone needs to borrow one because they are ill-prepared.

I actually hated the thought that someone would find my pen and not know what they had and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate its value. It would likely end up in some little kid’s bookbag or into one of those pencil cases with all the broken crayons and markers that leak everywhere. Oh, the humanity! My poor pen is out there in the world somewhere, wondering why I had abandoned it. For shame. For shame.

I decide I can’t just let this go. I call up to the school and I explain that it is of great urgency that I speak with my daughter immediately. I quickly explain my awful situation. The secretary said she completely understands the importance and transfers me posthaste. Once my little one is on the line, I tell her of my urgent matter. She giggles on the other end of the phone call, ignoring my strife. She says “Dad, calm down. I found your pen and I put it in your tool bag (We were working on a project in which I had to bring in some tools). I was going to bring it home with me, but I didn’t want you spazzing out, like you are clearly doing anyways.” I want to be mad at her for being such a smartass, but she saved my pen from ending up in a (*Gasp*) junk drawer. She will be rewarded later this evening.

I spring from my chair in the café and like a very slow-moving lightning bolt with asthma, I run to the parking lot, keys in one hand, and my inhaler in the other. I click the button to unlock the car and tear open the passenger door. There on the crumb filled car seat, is my small black bag, with an old Cincinnati Reds keychain in place of the zipper’s pull tab. I rip open the bag with reckless abandon and quickly start rummaging through the contents. There it is, shining from the bottom of the canvas bin. It was glowing brightly as if to say “Hello there!”. My dread quickly fades and turns to great jubilation.

Once I’m back inside, I take my seat and reach for my hand sanitizer with aloe and gently bathe my little inscriber of any possible horridness that might emanate in a 3^rd grade classroom, like Coronavirus or Cooties.

Everything is right again. We’re reunited and ready to begin our next adventure!

P.S. Wash your damn hands!