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When he was feeling blue or stressed out at work he would chew on the cap, gnawing away, like a dog on one of those bones made out of rawhide. The pen was a white stick pen, originally from some hotel, but the lettering had long worn off. The cap, a bright grass green was permamently squished onto the back end of the pen, and over the months split and deformed into a kind of jester's cap. A bit of saliva kept it moist and glistening. Having a chewy pen had advantages. No one would take the pen and "accidentally" walk off with it, like what always happened to Don, Rob's co-worker. Also, people soon learned to bring their own pens into Rob's area. The thought of touching the thing was too repulsive. When people first met the chewy pen their first reaction was always one of shock. "What is that?" they would say, their lips curling up in disgust. "It's my chewy pen," Rob would say cheerfully, and give a brief demonstration.
One day the chewy pen was not there. Rob didn't pay too much attention, it was a busy day and he was sure it would show up. It always did. After all, who would take it? Don recalled later seeing the pen without the cap by the printer. He didn't say anything at the time, and later felt guilty, because, hey, he could have been the last person to actually see the pen. It was only a few days later that Rob realized that it was gone.
He tried gnawing on the table, but it wasn't the same. No accusations were made, just a few hurt stares. The chewy pen never showed up.
Months later Adrienne admitted that on that busy day she had seen the cap of chewy pen on the floor. Laughing, she said that "there was no way" she was going to pick it up, and instead kicked it under the table. Rob had no choice but to make a new chewy pen. |
