I was born in a factory. One made of steel and large ramps. Trees would go in one side of the conveyer belt and pencils would come out the other. Perfect number two pencils, the type that kids use on standardized tests, sealed in plastic packages. I was a member of package number 301,245.
I was placed on a shelf next to school supplies, ready to be picked up by a jumpy fourth grader at the end of August. The other pencils in my package weren’t very talkative and so we sat there in silence for nearly four months. One day, an old man with large coke bottle glasses reached a shaky hand towards me and purchased me. I cost approximately $3.00. I think I was worth more than that.
He took me into a large room with a huge desk and stacks of paper piled up to the ceiling. I had already been sharpened and he placed me down next to a ballpoint pen.
I looked over, “Hey, how’s the ink running?”
The pen gave me a withering look. Nearly scared the shavings out of me. “Why do you think he bought you?” it replied, turning its back to me.
I nodded sympathetically. Fair enough. Pens had a habit of getting territorial. They weren’t flexible like me. I felt the old man’s calloused hand wrap around my polished frame and pick me up. His gnarled knuckles held me in an awkward way and I looked up to see that every time he touched my graphite tip to the paper he winced.
As he began to write the words, I felt a strange sensation come over me. This is what the senior pencils had been talking about. Feeling. The emotions of the man holding me surged onto the paper and my tip snapped from the amount of grief he felt. The man wiped his eyes. His life transferred into my eyes, making me become one with his memories.
He wore a soldier’s uniform kissing a girl with blonde hair on the cheek. He was much younger, more handsome, his blue eyes sparkling.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
The image changed to one of him in a cubicle. He was older now with specks of gray in his hair. He looked up at a man in a black suit and said with a defiant gleam in his eye, “I quit.”
The next was more recent. He was chasing his grand-child, a young boy with black hair around the yard. “You can’t catch me, grandpa,” the youngster screamed with delight, teetering across the grass. The man smiled and ran stiffly after the boy.
The last was different than the others. He was in a white walled room with a man in a white lab coat standing before him.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said in an unsympathetic voice. “But there’s just too much growth. There’s nothing we can do.”
I looked down at the writing he had scribbled across the paper. It read, My Last Will and Testament: I don’t need any damn lawyers to make this official. All I need is a pencil and my heart. I was about to read the rest, but the man placed me down and took the ballpoint pen from its place. The inky villain shot me a triumphant look and I just rolled my eyes. The man signed the document and folded up the white sheet. He placed it inside an envelope and then scribbled a name on the front. He took a deep breath and sighed, his shoulders falling.
My little graphite heart ached inside as I saw the stories, pain, and joy of years past written across his weary face. He wasn’t ready to leave the world just yet. Slowly, he stood up and hobbled out of the room, leaving me in darkness. I never saw the man again.
I spent months in the room, trying to make friends with the other office supplies. Me and the tape dispenser became pretty close, but then we had a fight with the scissor and things got a little nasty. One day, the little boy that I had seen from the old man’s memories ran into the room. He was out of breath and carried a Spiderman backpack on his back.
“Todd, you’re going to be late,” a shrill voice sounded from outside the room.
“Coming,” he cried and grabbed me right off the desk. He shoved me into his bag and ran out the door.
The ride to the place we were going was bumpy. I knocked into a couple of other books who were quite mean, especially the history one. He challenged me to nuclear warfare. I politely declined then hid behind the spelling book.
Once the bumping had stopped, I saw the kid’s small hand reach into the bag. He pulled me out, looking from side to side. “Don’t worry Todd, coasts clear,” I heard a gravelly voice say to the right of me.
I shifted my gaze to find myself inches away from a short kid with a shock of red hair. They were sitting at two small desks a piece of paper in between them. A woman, probably the teacher, stood at the front of the classroom talking about science.
“Don’t let her see us,” Todd said, smiling wickedly to the other. He placed me down on the paper and drew four squares. They commenced a game of tick-tack-toe. I felt the joy vibrate through my wooden body as he won the game. Children were different from adults. The feeling was different. Todd would go from sad to happy in moments based on the games he won.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over us and the three troublemakers (myself included) looked up guiltily. The teacher was standing above us. This time I felt something strange flash through Todd’s memory and mine and I was pulled into a different place.
“What are you doing, Todd?” I heard a woman scream. A younger Todd sat on the wood floor of a bedroom, a crayon in hand.
“I’m making the wall pretty,” he replied, returning to his masterpiece.
The woman ran over and wrenched him from the floor. “This is very bad,” she yelled. “Your mom’s going to kill me.” She must be a nanny or something, I thought to myself. She grabbed him by the wrist and he started to cry. She shoved him into a closet and slammed the door, darkness pushing out the light.
“Stay in there until you feel sorry about what you did,” she said and stomped off. Tears trickled down Todd’s face and he sat, trembling in the dark.
Todd looked up at the teacher and I felt the same fear that he had felt in the closet now. She continued to yell, taking away both boys recesses and I felt myself shrink in Todd’s palm. He wiped his eyes and nodded. He was used to punishment. He always did the wrong thing. He put me in his bag and I didn’t see daylight until we got home.
“Honey,” I heard his mom say, “do you have a pencil I can use for a second?”
Todd nodded and fished me out of the depths of his bag. He transferred me into her delicate hands and she began scribbling ferociously across a thin slip of white paper.
To do list: groceries, get Todd to soccer practice, call Eileen, send the email back to the firm, finish the rest of the taxes. She paused wiping her forehead. She was tired. I could tell. And the way she was holding me tightly wasn't the only indication.
I felt another tug and sighed, resigning myself to her deepest memories. The source of her stress. I was transported to a different room, one with thin white walls and a flickering light. A man stood before her his eyes wide and crazed.
She was crying and saying, “Please Tim, don’t do this.” She was holding a young baby in her arms which I immediately knew was Todd.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore,” he reached down and picked up two suitcases that sat beside him. The woman cried and tried to pull him back to her, but he shook her off. She placed Todd on the bed and then put herself in front of him, blocking the door.
“How do you think we’ll survive? I can’t do it by myself,” she yelled. He looked angry now. He raised a hand and slapped her across the face. The woman crumpled to the floor still sobbing as he stormed past her.
I looked up at her now as she finished the list. She had come a long way, but it still hurt. I would be the only one to know. Suddenly, I felt it snap. Correction, my wood snapped. I splintered in her hand, broken. The woman looked down and sighed heavily. Without a word she chucked me into the garbage. I tried to scream as she closed the lid but it did no good.
I spent days in the trash. However, luckily when the garbage truck came to pick me up I managed to roll out of the bin and onto the street. That’s when he found me. A future writer. I found a way to reverse the flow of memories, share my own with him by him merely picking me up off the street. Now he barely puts me down.
In truth, I am the writer. The pencil. The real mastermind behind artistic genius. I am the guarder of memories. And I have shared with you the truth of this world.
