Month: December 2008

Penman for Monday, December 1, 2008


I WAS down the other day with what my doctor said was a nasty case of a new strain of flu that tended to hang around for weeks. It was just as well, because I had things to do that could only be done at home—things to write and things to fix. I don’t mean “fix” as in “fix that leaky faucet” or “rake the leaves off the roof” (yes, we live beneath a canopy of giant mango trees). I mean “fix” as in “let’s clean some pens” or “let’s switch straps on those watches.” Because I had things to write—no, not a new novel, but the kind of forgettable if important fluff that goes into annual reports and such—I needed and wanted some distraction, terrible procrastinator that I am. And as you all should know by now, nothing distracts me more than my fountain pens—for me, the ultimate toy, which I collect (nay, amass) the way we used to stack up our “Tex” playing cards and corded rubber bands as kids.

It’s hard to explain to the non-pen person, but it’s the feel of the pen in the hand that both stimulates and pacifies me (hmmm, it’s the second time in two weeks that I’ve used that word, so I must be infected by some infantile disorder). They were never meant to be taken apart, but the truth is, pens are fun to take apart—if you can put them back together. I guess it’s a boy thing. I never saw my sisters tear their dolls to pieces to get at whatever it was that cried “waaah-waah” inside those bug-eyed noisemakers. On the other hand, I was smart enough to know that my trucks and tanks had magnets in them—though maybe not smart enough to realize that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts (or certainly, its parts, however magnetic). Thus was my childhood littered with the debris of the disassembled.

And so these days, when I’m feeling low or flu-ey, or when I’m running away from the crippling unpleasantness of real, godawful work, I take a few pens out of their cases or boxes, pretend like it’s Sunday, and clean and shine them up like I was going to need them all to sign some form acknowledging receipt of a million pesos.

Now, some pens are easier to take apart than others. Vintage Sheaffers, for example, look great but are a pain to unravel, so I generally steer clear of them. Parker Duofolds and Esterbrooks, on the other hand, are a joy to mess with (never mind what those pens are—just think of them as your grandfather’s friends, with which he may have signed the family farm away). A little pressure here, a rocking motion there, a tug, a twist, and—voila!—that part we call the section comes off the barrel (the section’s where your fingertips rest), and all the crud of the ages dribbles out of the opening. (Duofolds and Esterbrooks use rubber sacs or bladders; when the pens are put away the sacs dry up and stiffen, and after 50 or 70 years—yes, these babies are that ancient—they’ll come out in one piece like a mummy, in a spray of shards, or as an asphalt sludge.)

But of course, ever the failed scientist, I’ll use any geeky assistance or advantage I can get. At about the same time I lugged home last week’s subject—my new La-Z-Boy—I also picked up my latest helper: an ultrasonic cleaner. Used by jewelers and lab assistants, these little tubs send out vibrations through water at a frequency that causes bubbles to form and later to implode, loosening gunk and grime from its molecular moorings. (How can any self-respecting guy resist a gizmo like that?) Ultrasonic cleaners are good for earrings, necklaces, steel instruments, watches (make sure they’re waterproof!), eyeglasses, and, yes, pens—and dentures.


So for a week now, I’ve been having fun ultrasonically cleaning anything and everything; you can see it in my smile. But the other night, bored witless by the job I was doing, I decided that it was time to give my Esterbrooks an ultrasonic bath.

Those of you above 60 might remember these Esterbrooks; they were the poor man’s Parker in the ‘40s and ‘50s. They came in many shimmery colors, which is why they continue to hold collectors in thrall despite their lowly pedigree. Esterbrooks are cheap, pretty, sturdy, and—in a smart and strategic decision emulated by only a few high-end pen makers such as Pelikan—were designed so that their screw-out nibs (the pointy end of the pen that spits out the ink) could be interchangeable with one another. Thus, in seconds, you could switch from an accountant’s extra-fine or needlepoint nib to a broad stub nib for signatures. It was a brilliantly successful idea, and today “Estie” collectors might spend as much if not more on a rare nib like a 2314B (clerkish minds love numbers) as they would on the pen itself, which you can still get on eBay for around $20.

I took out all seven of my working Esties, removed their nibs and sections so I could put in new sacs, and tossed the nibs into a basket in the ultrasonic bath, along with six other nibs I had in storage. Ultrasonic cleaning leaves your things shiny and sparkly, and 13 shiny nibs were, I was convinced, going to make me forget the noble drudgery of writing about corporate social responsibility and climate change (I believe, I believe!). I let the machine hum for several five-minute cycles, turned my attention momentarily to Obama’s transition picks, then rose to collect my babies, their butts now squeaky clean. I lifted the plastic basket out of the bath and ran the whole family under the faucet for a final rinse.

I then laid out each nib on a strip of tissue paper on the counter, one after the other, each one of them a shiny little marvel. One of these—a 3550 with an art-deco-ish sunburst—was supposed to be uncommon; I chuckled and gloated. Another was a stub nib, also hard to find… so hard to find that I couldn’t find it. What the—? I counted the nibs: 11. Again: 11. Two were missing in action.

I looked everywhere around the bathroom, got on my knees, etc., and the more I looked the larger the squares in the basket and the drain hole in the washbasin seemed to grow. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness of its maw, but somewhere down there were two nibs that had survived two wars and had probably written lonesome letters home. I was supposed to be sick that day, and now I truly was.

(Red Esterbrook image from www.esterbrook.com)