The Spoils Of War
You know, I can’t help but question the validity of personal privacy as a concept in a high information society. We exchange information about ourselves on a near constant basis, rigorously documenting the minute details of existence in exchange for the promise of validity or friendship. We graciously present lists of our favorite musicians, films, and books for the scrutiny of anyone. Allowing them to file through our tastes and preferences and decide if we are an acceptable person to be acquainted with. Yet, with all this information readily available to me, I’d prefer not to slither along the proverbial roads of social networks researching my associates. You see, I would much rather allow them the opportunity to hand these things to me personally. I’d much prefer to extract this information in a way that offers me a challenge, to convince the person speaking with me that I am a reliable source to divulge information to.My name is Franklin Richards, and I collect pens.
Over five thousand pens to be exact. None of them are any particular company or style, just pens that I have collected over the course of my life. All contained within a series of plastic bins that sit in a dusty corner of my basement. Each with a small accompanying note that reminds me of its acquisition. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I’m not reclusive, obsessive, or insane. I don’t wear a trench coat and stare at people on the bus as I stalk my way to the local megastore to purchase a new pack of pens. In fact, I have done very well for myself in the field of real estate. I routinely spend two thousand dollars a piece on Armani suits, my wristwatch costs more than the average outfit, and every single pen in my collection has been stolen.
That, my friends, is why these seemingly insignificant little chambers of viscous ink and cheap plastic are so important to me. They are not mere trinkets that I encounter. They represent the tiny bursts of conquest that I embark on every day. In terms of monetary value, they are practically worthless- but as beacons of my potential influence over people, they are invaluable. You see, there is a certain art to walking away with somebody’s pen, especially if they’ve been in their chosen profession for a long time. You have to trick them into believing that an interaction with you is more valuable than the pen they’ve kept out of stranger’s hands all day. Turn on a tiny bit of charm, and something as insignificant as a twenty five cent utensil becomes exactly that - an irrelevant matter in the span of a lifetime. The pen itself is of little consequence, it is merely a symbolic badge. It is a physical representation of my ability to bend people to my will, to make them forget themselves for a moment by breaking their routine with a warm smile and a few friendly words.
Yet, despite all of my treasures there is one that towers above the rest. It’s a fairly inconspicuous pen, a solid blue pen with a missing cap and remnants of letters long since faded written on its side. This particular pen found its way into my hands nearly two years ago, at a bank on the corner of Fifth and Parstons. I was heading into this particular bank to cash a commission check from a house I’d finally sold, and I was walking on air. I even peeked into the glass door of the bank to catch a bit of my reflection. I straightened the cuffs on my dark blue suit and fixed my tie, staring at the tall blonde haired reflection of myself as entered the room.
I was immediately struck by a blast from the air conditioning, a shrill reminder that this wasn’t an establishment where you relaxed and spent time; this was a place you got into and got out of as promptly as possible. The faint sounds of pop music drifted softly through the air, not loud enough to be recognizable, but too loud to be completely ignored. The room itself was filled with the scent of every single bank in the United States. That mixture of fresh linoleum, sharp polish, and new money. It was a smell that clearly said “Yes, this is a nice place. I’m really glad that you noticed we took the time to make it smell pleasant and artificial. Now, kindly approach a teller, finish your transaction, and get the fuck out.”
Who was I to fail to comply? I approached the teller and immediately recognized that she was in a foul mood. She was a svelte brunette with impatient eyes and full lips that were drawn into a tense line. Her hair was wrapped and clipped up on top of her head in a professional and inhibited manner. She tapped on the counter with a pen. My pen. I slid up to the counter and flashed her a smile. What better introduction than 32 gleaming white and perfectly organized teeth could a man give, anyways? Yet, she didn’t return my smile, and instead immediately asked me, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I need to go ahead and cash this check. If you cou-”
“Photo ID please.”
This one was going to be a bit tricky. I slid the ID over to her, making a poor attempt at a joke “Don’t judge the picture on there; the photo was taken before I got so good at selling properties.” I flashed her a half-smile this time. I figured I had better revaluate my strategy here. This was not a battle to be won with empty charm and corny jokes.
She rolled her eyes and glanced at my ID for a moment before sliding it back to me. “You need to endorse this check, sir.”
Taking the check from her, I feigned surprise at my negligence and grabbed at the pen on the counter that was inconveniently strung to a small chain. Now, this just wouldn’t do. I pretended to scratch at the back of the check for a moment, acting like the pen had run out of ink. I sheepishly shrugged and reached into my pockets in a theatrical display, assuming she’d have no reason to question the fact that I didn’t have a pen. “I actually didn’t grab a pen on the way out, mind if..”
She handed me the pen without protest, and as I was slowly signing my name, I glanced up at her and asked “So, rough day so far today?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe”
“I wouldn’t eh? Try me.”
“Well it’s just that…oh, I don’t know.”
Here it was. The moments the floodgates would crumble and collapse by the unceasing desire to connect with another human being. Here was the fruitless endeavor of humanity brought crashing down upon our heads in that moment. I raised my eyebrows slightly to express interest and empathy, sliding my arms away from my chest to represent an open and accepting body language.
“Well? What’s going on?”
“You see…”
I leaned in close, allowing her to take a moment of pause to carry her eyes away from mine, and then back to them before she finally decided to continue. She gently brushed her hair from her eyes and spoke in a whirlwind of barely contained words. “You see I woke up late this morning because my stupid dog had somehow unplugged my alarm clock. So I overslept until like ten minutes to nine, when I had to be at work at nine. I stubbed my toe in the shower, I burnt my toast, and I got caught in traffic on the way here. I forgot my wallet and I didn’t bring anything for lunch, and the last few customers have been complete assholes.”
She finished her rambling and released a sigh that seemed to require the use of her entire body. Her entire frame rose and then sank with her breath. She blinked, feeling suddenly awkward that she had allowed herself to speak with such a candid lack of restraint. I smiled at her. “Well, you certainly have to feel better now, right?”
She smiled. Brushing her hair back from her eyes and locking them with mine, she allowed herself a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah I guess I do. Maybe that’s all I really needed. I feel a little silly now. None of that stuff seems nearly as important when I said it as it did when I was thinking about it. But yeah, I do feel better. Thank you.”
“Happy to help…” I squinted forward and glanced at her nametag “...Rachel. I think after hearing about your entire traumatic morning it’s appropriate to be on a first name basis.”
Again with the smile. Now that she was returning them it seemed to be working like a charm. I nodded to her and turned away to leave. She coughed quietly and as I turned around she said “Um..my pen, actually,” motioning towards my prize.
I slid up to the counter. “Oh yeah,” I began, “I held on to it for a reason.”
She smiled slyly, as if she knew what was coming next. I grabbed a brochure from the plastic container on the counter and turned it over. I looked back at her and raised my eyebrows ever so slightly. “You said you’d forgotten your lunch this morning. I was wondering if I could help fix that by taking you to dinner this evening.”
She blinked quickly a few times, apparently surprised by the proposal. After a brief moment of silence she responded. “You know, that sounds good.”
“And, your number is?”
I jotted down her number as she spoke and stuffed the brochure, along with the pen, into my pocket. I tapped gently on the counter and flashed her a closing smile, just for good measure. “Well then, I will give you a call around six o clock. Talk to you then.”
I turned on my heels and began to walk out of the bank. Again she made an indiscernible noise and I spun halfway around to meet her eyes. “I..uh. You know what, nevermind. I’ll see you tonight.”
With that, I was free from the struggle. I stepped through the doorway of the bank and into the sunlight, patting the pen through my pocket as I walked to my car absolutely bursting with self assurance. I had dived into the trenches of conversational warfare and come out the victor. I had braved the frontlines of disinterest and annoyance and swung the battle in my favor. And now, I had claimed my trophy. I flipped the pen onto my passenger side seat and hopped in the car to head home.
Even now, I smile as I recall the events of that day. I can’t help but pat myself on the back at my own ability to sway a beautiful woman in my favor and walk away with a little bit of her life in my hands. Although, I do feel a slight sting of remorse in looking back, it is quite a shame I had to completely fuck up her dinner plans for the evening by not calling.
Oh well. Spoils of war, my friends. Spoils of war.
