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September 17, 2003 Results of Google search: "Bic pens" "The Orange Fine Point is one of Bic's most popular models. Introduced in its original form in 1961, it was the first pen to take advantage of the introduction of Bic's new tungsten carbide ball point design. It was originally marketed as a medium fine point in the U.S. and sold for 25 cents. It remains popular in Europe, Africa and Asia but is no longer available in the Western hemisphere." September 16, 2003 "God, I've been doing the same crap for years. Another small town paper." He rubbed his forehead and chugged some very strong coffee. "Jesus forgive me, I know these people are the salt of the earth, but I am so BORED!" He grabbed a handful of news releases. "Crap, where's my red pen?" He pulled open the shallow center drawer of the desk. "Holy shit, where'd this come from!" He pulled out a pen with an orange barrel and a black conical cap. "I haven't seen one of these in years!" He pulled his glasses down his nose and squinted. Six inches long, hole halfway down the barrel to equalize the pressure. Black stub at the end. No hole at the tip of the cap, like Bics today. Exactly like the pen he loved to use when he was a kid. He took off the cap and scribbled quickly on a note pad made of newsprint. Clean, easy strokes. "The damn thing works. I wonder how long it's been here?" He stood up and walked around a few desks. No one recalled having seen the pen before. Shrugs and strange looks. Why would anyone care about a pen? He sat down again. "I really used to like this pen. It had just the right feel when you write with it. Not too thick, not too thin." He thought back to when he was a kid. Books were an adventure and opened the world to him. Some day he was going to write a book. But he went into journalism, instead. Instant gratification, seeing your by-line in print quickly and constantly. High school paper. Home town paper. Small town paper. Just like this one. He tucked the pen into his shirt pocket. "I'm taking this home and maybe work up a story outline. After 30 years of newspapering, I think I know how to write. Maybe I should try writing some science fiction." He pulled the red pen out of the drawer and started editing the news releases. He had a small smile. September 16, 2003 "I knew if I popped into the warehouse there would be plenty of room for the portal." He was in a large steel building surrounded by giant rolls of newsprint. The early East Texas morning sun was filtering through a clear plexiglass skylight. He walked past the large rolls and into the main building. He walked into the press room. "Wow, I forget how big these things were. Amazing to think 20 years from now they'll all be junked, except for the ones in the museums." He walked into the news room and punched a light switch, right where he knew it was. He squinted and then remembered it took a minute for old-fashioned fluorescent lights to come on. He walked slowly around the desks, recalling the people he worked with. He stopped in front of his own desk and looked at the calendar on the wall. This was where it began. He opened the center desk drawer. The pen wasn't there. He felt a pain in his chest. He reached up and as he clasped it, he felt his shirt pocket. The pen. The pen he picked up from the grass. "Oh, my God! It was me!" He heard a rattling at the front door. "Kathy! Kathy always came in at 7:30!" He pulled the pen from his pocket and dropped it in the drawer's tray. He slammed it shut. He took a quick look at the front door. It was opening. He ran as fast as he could with his gimpy legs out the back of the office, through the press room and into the warehouse. He tried to catch his breath as he took the control from his pants pocket. He punched a button, hand-labeled "return," and vanished. |
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