The Repaired Pen
On a snowy, half-empty pen show day, a retired minister takes his three pens to Richard Binder's table, and a lift home with a physicist turns into a long talk about God, science and writer's block.
The room was made too large by the absence of attendees. Many of the tables had been abandoned, vendors forsaking their investment of reserved tables. Russell wondered if prices would be higher, sellers raising them to compensate for the fewer customers, or would they be lower in desperation. It didn't matter, because Russell was not interested in another pen.
He knew where Richard Binder would be, always in the same general area of the room, at the far side, against the back wall of the ballroom. Richard was a nibmeister, the title fountain pen aficionados fondly assigned those technicians whose expertise was fixing or refining the performance of nibs to suit the user. Russell proceeded there first, not even bothering to take off his wool overcoat or wool watch cap. The lenses of his glasses were still damp.
To navigate the room, he had to select an aisle between the long rows of tables decked out in the wares of pen collectors, vintage and new, whole pens and parts, inks and old advertising paraphernalia. As he neared the back, he could see Richard Binder bent over his small work area, his wife Barbara standing beside him. Did she ever sit? She watched over the display rack of new pens the Binders offered for sale. She handled the money and she made sure her husband didn't slack, as the chatty Richard was very easily distracted by conversation.
Barbara saw Russell approaching. She smile broadly and when he was close enough to hear, greeted him, "Hello Russell," at which Richard paused his nib grinding and conversation with a client to tilt his head back and see out from beneath his headband magnifiers that it was Russell.
"Well, hello Russell. Don't you look snug as a bug. Are you still cold?" Russell smiled back at that narrow face, a trimmed mustache and carefully shaped beard. Richard had the appearance of a plantation owner in his silk vest and long sleeves that he never rolled up. Russell returned the salutation.
"The first thing I want to do is get on your list, then I'll take off my coat," said Russell.
"There isn't much of a list, today," said Barbara. "The snow is keeping a lot of people away." She sighed." You won't have a long wait at all." On the table was a pad of blue-line paper. Russell added his name to the short list. There were only two names before his. Usually the list was longer, sometimes hours long, but the Blizzard of 2005 was burying Philadelphia beneath a record amount of snow.
Russell took the book from under his arm and placed it on a shelf above the metal coatrack. He wrapped his scarf around a hanger, tucked his gloves into the pockets of his overcoat, slipped it off and placed it on the same hanger. He took his watch cap off last and thrust it into a sleeve. He kept on his wool sweater vest and ragged jacket and retrieved the book to replace it beneath his arm. He occupied himself visiting all the tables, periodically checking back with Barbara so his turn would not be missed.
When it was nearly his time, he was hovering over the Binder's table. There were only two chairs available to pen show attendees. One was occupied by Richard's client. The fellow wore his hair long and it appeared unwashed, his face rough with pockmarks. Richard was talking with him about the Drake equation while the fellow was testing his pen, a black, twelve-sided Omas.
"... and still they haven't detected intelligent life," said Richard.
"But is it because there isn't any or we just don't know how to detect them?" said the fellow testing his pen. "It's beautiful," he said, looking at the swirls and letters he had just written on the smooth white pad. "You got the flow just right, but can you make it a smidgeon smoother."
"Of course," and Richard took the pen back. As he smoothed the nib with a fine sandpaper, he said, "But isn't it odd we haven't detected them yet?"
"No, no considering the distances and the time available."
Russell inserted himself into the conversation. "You mean we might just be in some remote backwater of the galaxy?"
Richard's client looked up at Russell and Richard made the introductions. "Russell, this is Simon Pascoli; Simon this is Russell Harburton." They greeted each other and shook hands.
"What do you do?" asked Russell.
"I study tiny particles that don't exist," replied Simon.
"A physicist!" exclaimed Russell.
"Very good. What do you do?" asked Simon.
"I'm retired, but I taught symbols that can only point towards the ineffable," replied Russell.
"A priest!"
"Close. A minister. A Presbyterian Pastor — retired Presbyterian Pastor."
"So, what do you think," Richard asked Russell, "about the likelihood of intelligent life in the universe?"
"I think the Drake equation, despite all its variation, might not take into account a sufficient number of unknown parameters," said Russell.
"You see, that's what I like about this man," said Richard, "he's a man of religion, but he's also a man of science." Richard handed Simon his pen and said, "Try it again."
The second chair was occupied by a young woman, who seeing how Russell was quite old, volunteered to surrender her seat, particularly since it was Russell's name next on Richard's list and not her own. It hurt Russell's pride, to be mistaken as feeble. Although 84-years-old, he was still tough, had made his way into the city by bus, train, and finally on foot despite the winter storm. Still, the young girl relinquished the chair and ventured off to find something to buy. Simon, satisfied with his pen, offered his seat to Russell and took the vacated girl's seat for himself.
Before the conversation about the Drake equation could continue, there was the matter of pens to be dealt with. Russell pulled from his pocket three fountain pens. His father's Waterman number 7 "Red Ripple", so named because of the wood-like grain of the hard rubber barrel; a second pen, the Montblanc 149; and the third, his favorite, a 1949 Midnight Blue Parker 51.
"Usually, I wouldn't work three pens," Richard told Russell, "but since there aren't many here, it's your lucky day. So which one first?"
Russell handed Richard the Waterman, apologizing that he had dropped it. It wasn't even a pen he used much. He treasured it only because it was his father's, but the flex nib was beyond his control; he never developed the knack to form the flourishes of Spencerian script that he had admired in his father's penmanship. His father, also a pastor, wrote beautiful sermons that, regrettably, were appealing to the eye, yet a bore to listen to. Taking the pen out to show his grandsons why some nibs are described as a "wet noodle", Russell had dropped it on the hard kitchen floor.
While Richard went to work restoring the nib, the three men continued the conversation about Drake's equation.
"So, what are some of the parameters the Drake equation doesn't consider?" asked Simon.
"Perhaps a moon of a certain size is needed," suggested Russell, "Something to cause tides and keep the planet's interior molten, providing a magnetic field. By the way, do you know what's magic-like, but is not magic?"
"I suppose you're going to say religion," said Simon.
"Quantum mechanics," Russell answered.
The conversation turned to pens, as one would expect. Russell admired Simon's pen, which he learned was the Alma Mater Studiorum Saeculara Nona, made by Omas to honor the 900th anniversary of the University of Bologna. "I bought it as a gift for my father; he taught there," said Simon. "He died before I could give it to him, so I've been using it."
"What did he teach?" asked Russell.
"He taught literature and language, a focus on translating."
"And do you teach?"
"Well, right now I've been spending more time abroad working on the Large Hadron Collider."
When Richard had finished with the Waterman, Russell handed him the Montblanc. "It doesn't write at all," said Russell.
"This pen has never been used," said Richard.
"It was one of the gifts I received from my congregation when I retired. It's too big," said Russell. "I only just inked it about six months ago. I thought a different pen might snap me out of my writer's block. I also thought the bigger pen might be easier on my arthritis."
"There is no ink in this pen," said Richard.
"I cleaned it."
"You write?" asked Simon.
"I do."
"And what do you write?"
"I write about religion, mostly science and religion."
Russell detected a smirk on Simon's face and recognized that Simon was restraining from speaking a thought aloud. Russell smiled back.
"Tell him about Tertius," said Richard.
"Tertius?" asked Simon.
"This is Tertius," and Russell held out his Parker 51. "He's my scribe."
"And every year," explained Richard, "Russell gets here rain or shine — or snow, this year especially snow — to restore Tertius to an extra fine point.
"This pen has served me since I graduated seminary," said Russell. He saw in Simon's face that the name held no significance to him. Before either he or even Richard could demonstrate their Biblical scholarship, Simon noticed the book on Russell's lap, Up from Dragons: The Evolution of Human Intelligence by John R. Skolyes and Dorion Sagan. "Do you know the book?" asked Russell.
"Not the book, but I know Dorion. I've even met his parents," said Simon.
At this point, Richard was finished with the Montblanc, the tines having been too tight at the tip. "Here, let me have Tertius, now," he said to Russell. And the conversation continued on the books of Dorion's father, Carl.
When Richard returned the Parker to Russell's hand and he tried it, he wrote, 'in principio erat Verbum et Verbum erat apud Deum et Deus erat Verbum.' The pen produced a perfectly fine line of Waterman's Blue-Black ink, the ink Richard preferred when working on pens. "Maybe now Tertius will allow me to get back to my writing," said Russell. He used Tertius to write a check, then rose from his seat to hand the check to Barbara. The young woman, who earlier had been displaced from her seat, was already there, standing behind Russell and eager to put Richard's talents to her own use.
"It was nice making your acquaintance, Simon."
"It was a pleasure to meet you," Simon replied to Russell. They shook hands.
Then Russell bid thanks and good-byes to Richard and Barbara Binder, and went off to continue his examination of the tables he had not yet investigated, but not to buy. A retired Presbyterian minister has a very tight income. When he had seen all there was to be seen, he collected his scarf, overcoat, and night watch cap, and rode the escalator down to the lobby.
Out the glass doors were small plows in a losing battle of clearing away the snow of the hotel's driveway. Chuck something, a last name he couldn't remember of a fellow he met that day at the pen show, and with whom he only briefly talked, came up beside him and said, "I hope you're spending the night."
"No, I want to get home now."
"You're not getting home tonight," said Chuck. He wore a photographer's vest, its pockets filled with pens and booklets, and nearly everywhere there was a space he wore buttons and pins with mostly fountain pen themes. "The buses aren't running; the trains aren't running."
"None of them?"
"I don't think so," said Chuck.
"This is not good."
"What's the problem?" asked a familiar voice coming up behind them. It was Simon.
"Apparently the trains are not running," explained Russell, "and I'm eager to get home."
"Where do you live?" asked Simon.
"Bryn Athyn."
"Well, if it's that important to you, I can drive you home," said Simon.
"You can't drive in this weather," said Chuck.
"Sure I can. I'm driving a Jeep Cherokee."
"That's very kind, but I don't want to take you out of your way."
"I live in Princeton and it's kind of on the way — well, it's in the general direction, north. And I've got no special time I have to be home."
"You're the good Samaritan," said Russell.
"I don't think so. I'm an atheist."
"That makes no difference. The Samaritan wasn't regarded of the true religion and that is why the ethical judgment of Jesus is so astonishing." Then Russell added, "and if it really isn't too much trouble, I would be grateful for a lift home."
It was slow going. Darkness came early and the snow never ceased, but the interior of the Jeep was comfortable and even where the roadway hadn't been plowed, it was not an obstacle for the Jeep.
Russell found Simon a good listener, someone willing to engage him in conversation. They talked about science, Simon trying to explain the purpose of the Large Hadron Collider, but despite all his love of science, Russell could not quite grasp the Higgs boson. "Oh, but I'm boring you," said Simon.
"Hardly," said Russell. "Now that I'm retired, I find myself reading more subjects on science than religion. If I hadn't felt the calling, I might have been a naturalist. God knows, plenty of my colleagues would have preferred it if I had."
"So you write."
"I try."
"Are you published?"
"Not so you'd know. I'm not making any money from it. Far less often since they stopped publishing Monday Morning about four years ago. I think they tried to do something on the internet, but I'm not computer savvy, don't have one, don't use them."
"So, you live with your daughter; do you have other children?"
"Deborah's my only child."
"Well, it must be nice."
"She tries. When I retired, I had to move away from friends in order to live affordably under my daughter's roof — literally under her roof. Larry, her husband, built a very nice apartment for me in their attic." Then Russell changed the subject. "So, Simon, why don't you believe in God?"
"I don't see a need for God. I'm willing to suspend judgment in the absence of evidence. So, Russell, why do you believe in God."
"Perhaps it is because I feel a need that I believe. It does give me comfort. But more importantly, there is a mystery and science doesn't explain it. No matter how far the science advances, you can always feel something missing."
"Why haven't you tried to convert me?"
Russell smiled at Simon, but the car's interior was dark and Simon never took his eyes off the road. Russell said, "God is not that petty as to need you to believe in Him. Why haven't you tried to convert me to atheism?"
Simon answered, "To quote the inimitable Jonathan Swift, It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into."
They were into the second hour of the drive. It usually took Russell less than two hours to get into Philadephia, not much more than forty minutes when his daughter drove him. Russell filled the time talking about the book he'd been reading, about the human brain's ability to create and use symbols.
Russell asked, "So, which version of the Bible do Presbyterians use?"
"Well, I grew up with and was schooled with the RSV, the Revised Standard Version, but we now use the NRSV, the New Revised Standard Version. But I prefer the King James Version."
"Why is that?"
"The language is beautiful. And I even think it might be a better translation." There was a thought, but it was vague. Russell sensed it could be important. He unbuttoned his overcoat and rummaged inside his jacket to pull out the first pen his hand touched, the Montblanc, and a small pad. "Excuse me one moment," he said to Simon and flipped open the pad. He knew it was something about symbols, something about language. In the beginning was the Word, in the beginning was the word, that which was from the beginning, which we have heard — no! The original Greek text has skotia for darkness, which is straightforward enough, the darkness has been unable to suppress the light; this is true in the Greek, carried forward into the Latin — comprehenderunt, overcome, and there is also a very subtle whiz-bang in the third verse, sine ipso factum est nihil, not made but rather come into existence (et homo factus est, et homo factus est, and was made a human, not man but human being!) — "Oh, I'm sorry. I got distracted."
"No need to apologize," said Simon.
Russell looked down at his pad. He had written nothing, yet he felt something was coming. He stuffed the Montblanc and pad deep inside his clothing and then noticed where they were, nearly home. He directed Simon down side streets, tree-lined and cave-like in the snowstorm. The houses were middle class dwellings three-stories tall. They arrived.
"Would you like to come in for some tea or coffee?" asked Russell.
"No, I would like to get home, too."
They bid each other farewell, again. Russell unbuckled his seatbelt. The cold and snow began filling the car as soon as he had the door cracked opened. He made his way through the headlight beams, thinking he should have gone behind the car, it would have been easier, because the car would have plowed a path.
Simon did not drive away.
"You don't have to wait," Russell shouted, "I have the key."
Simon opened his window. "That's okay. I want to see you don't slip and fall," said Simon.
The path leading to the steps and the front door had been cleared earlier. His son-in-law was on business in Florida and his two grandsons were away in college. That meant Deborah must have shoveled the walk, or else she hired neighborhood kids. But the snow shovel was still there, parked under the awning beside the front door, so it must have been Deborah.
He could see the form of three steps that he knew as brick and cement, but already they were under three new inches of snow. He made his way cautiously. He had his hand on the handle of the storm door and behind it the front door was opened for him by his daughter. "Where have you been? I have been worried sick about you."
He was spared from giving an immediate answer because Simon honked his horn good-bye. Russell turned and waved as the Jeep slowly moved away from the house. As he turned back to face his inquisitor, Deborah, still in a harsh tone, asked, "Who was that?"
"May I come in first? I'm cold."
As he stood on the absorbent mat inside the front door, he peeled off his scarf, his watch cap, his overcoat, his sweater. Then he was able to bend down to unlace his boots, with one arm against the wall to keep his balance. During all of this, his daughter ranted, her questions coming so close together, there was no gap between them into which he could insert an answer. And when finally her rant came to a dramatic halt, her jaw clenched as she waited for a reply. Russell said, "I told you I was going to the pen show."
"In this weather? What if you had died?"
"You know, Deborah, I'm an old man and I am going to die."
"That's not an answer — and we are getting you a cell phone whether you like it or not."
After he had taken off his outer garments, was in his slippers and comfortably ensconced at his desk in front of the gabled window of his attic room, he heard his daughter entering the room behind him. She came around his shoulder and placed a steaming mug on his desk, kissing the top of his head. "What's this?" he asked.
"Hot cocoa"
She departed in peace.
Russell stared into the desk lamp and thought, John had it right, in the beginning was the word. It began with man labeling the parts of existence. It was there in Genesis, God formed all the beasts and fowl, and presented them to Adam to see what he would call them and that would become their names.
Russell looked down at the white sheet of paper on his desk, but he could not see it clearly because he had allowed the desk lamp to blind him. Slowly, the paper became less of a blur. He looked to his three pens. They were all inked now, with Waterman's Blue-Black. They all wrote perfectly. He looked back at the paper, inviting, thirsty, incomplete because it lacked words. Without turning his head, his right hand reached out and with unconscious memory took up the Parker 51 from among the three. He gave no thought to his writer's block and started to fulfill the paper's purpose, writing, "In the beginning was the Word and the Word made us human...."