The Green Pen

The green pen stands in the middle of the jar with all the other pens, painfully aware that he is different. 

The black pens stare seriously at the wall. They wait for their elegant ink to be used for the most important papers.  Health documents. Wills. Professional disclosures. They stand regal and dressed in gold. They don't need to be used much because they are in essence, to the point. They are by far the very best. 

The blue pens are slightly more dull and wear loose white collars with blue lines around the front. These are the efficient pens. They are never temperamental with crying ink stains, nor do they refuse to work on principle.  Just the other day one said to the other, "Old Black Pen is bleeding again." The other pen nodded before shaking his head; this was to be expected. Often the blue pens are found shoved in purses, clipped to restaurant bills, or passed from business to customer without a second thought. They remain the cheapest most hard working pens around. 

The green pen however, is different. What does one do with green ink? Certainly it's not professional enough to be used by anybody with important documents. Clearly it's not bold enough to be seen by people without glasses. Obviously it's not dark enough to evoke poetic words of wisdom. The green pen stands alone.  For although he is what his mother, the ink pad (now horribly out of date) once called "special", he is also a prized possession.  

With his startling glare to paper, he is not easily chosen by those that use the pen jar. Instead, he is treasured because he is indeed the only pen that one can be certain is still there. In a pinch, he is reliable and because of this there is no doubt in his security. One can't always write with the best of ink, but as long as it's available, there is a steady line of hope.  

Mr. Coffee

Mr. Coffee sat pushed off to the far counter in the office kitchen. On the front table sat a brand new, black and slick Keurig. 

"What are you doing here?" The Keurig asked.

"I think the question is what are YOU doing here?"

"They just bought me yesterday. I assumed I would be the new coffee machine for the office."

"I've been here for eight years. I will be here for another eight years."

The Keurig stared at Mr. Coffee critically. His bulky white frame was splotched with brown fluid that had stained the center of his small pot belly. There were cracks along the side of him that stuck out like an un-made up old woman. "You couldn't possibly still work here."

"I've worked here and many other places," Mr. Coffee laughed. "You're still young, you haven't seen the world like I have. Before this office, I had a life far from here, working in the best of places."

"And where would that be?" The Keurig scoffed. 

"I was first taken out of the box in Brazil. A beautiful rich woman had to have me. She was covered in jewels and had the best servants around the country. They were so good, that they brought her finely brewed coffee every morning straight to her bed."

"Then why did she need you?"

"One day she met a man. A tall, dark, ruddy man. He had pieces of dirt from working outside in the garden stuck to his tee shirt. He had strong hands and strong cheekbones. The woman said to her mother, a man with strong cheekbones is a man with strong character. And although her mother disapproved, the rich woman saw no other man that could compare. 

'So every day she would sit in the garden and talk to this man. She would ask him how his day was going to which he would reply, 'how do you know what work is? You have servants to do everything for you.' After about a month of this, the woman thought to herself 'how hard could gardening be?' She picked up a shovel and started digging along side the young man. But alas, she wasn't strong enough. The dirt was hard and clammed up every time she struck the shovel into the ground. The young man laughed and said again 'how do you know what work is?' 

'Instead of gardening, she decided she would try her hand at cooking. How hard could it be? She had seen her cook make lavish meals with an ease that pleased her as much as the meal. Surely she could cook something nice and feed the young man, she thought. When she saw the giant kitchen with cabinets filled with all sorts of different products and recipes she didn't know where to start. Choosing a delicate but complicated cake recipe, she added an ingredient she thought was just as good as the other and substituted baking powder for baking soda.  The cake was a disgrace. "How do you know what work is?" Rang in her ears.

'Finally one day she decided that if she could not work the way that most people could work, then she would start small until she could. She got rid of all of her morning servants and instead bought me. From that day forth she made her own coffee and with each brew she grew increasingly confident of her abilities. By the end of the year she had won The Most Beautiful Cake competition. Together the young man and the rich woman sat outside in the garden eating the whole thing, piece by piece."

The Keurig thought about this for a moment before responding. "But why would anyone want to make their own coffee anymore? These people at the office aren't rich. They don't have servants to find them fresh brew."

"No," Mr. Coffee said, "I suppose that's a lost art to some. But when you break down, and all fancy things must break, they will remember the sturdiness of their hands and then they will know that that I am only a counter away." 

The Slip

The rolled up white slip slouches in between the bed and the wall. The nylon texture is so clingy, she'll latch on to anyone. Pathetic really. She used to tell me I'd never make it to the top of the drawer by being such a lowly UNC Sweatshirt, but who is the first to get used when she is in the wash? That's right. She knows that the woman who wears us would rather be a comfortable mess, but instead the slip plays that unforgivable roll that makes people weak in the knees. The innocent, wispy white piece of lingerie that could blow away at the slightest breeze. The waif of a garment that could just as easily shatter if she were a glass vase. The fact she pushes her way up to the top of the lingerie drawer is never mentioned as soon as she talks in that little girl voice. With a whispery crackle she will plead to the woman, "Don't you know I've been waiting for you to come home all day."

And she has. She's smoother herself out in that impossible way that only slinky fabric can.  By hours of dolling herself up she shapes herself into whatever size fits best. By spreading herself out she gives the illusion that she is as big as need be. By turning her neck line in just the right way she hides the tiny holes just below the lace.  She is almost perfect. 

The one time I tried to talk to her, she criticized me. She was nice about it of course, using phrases like 'You know, you might be picked more if you weren't so dull. Maybe Bleach could help?'   

No one will be friends with her. The socks won't talk to her because she won't even think about what it's like for them. Instead she incessantly talks about the problems she has with static electricity or the way her material is so thin and fragile. Through the life long pursuit of attention, I know that she is just insecure. How could she have friends when they are all possible competition? She even banishes the underwear from coming near her at night. 

"Come on…" she says to the woman. "Does your boyfriend really want to see you in underwear or worse, a ratty old UNC sweatshirt? You can show off all the things he never sees during the day if you just pick me."

The guilt cuts like a knife and before the woman is even aware, she is pulling at the slip. With both her hands she pries at where her voluptuous hips crowd the fabric, it's still not quite big enough to fit.  She stretches the length, trying to hide her knees which are never properly shaven, but the fabric barely reaches her thighs. Cursing another night where she chooses something form fitting instead of luxuriously comfortable, she will fight with the slip well into the dark blue light of three a.m.  On this particular morning, she refused to put it back in the dresser drawer. Instead she flung the slip in between the bed and the wall so that it could wait alone for laundry day. The day I sit and wait for. 

 How to be a successful light bulb in 5 easy steps:

1. Don't be too bright. No one likes a show off. 

Those opinions about how to solve the Great Recession? Save them for later or don't say them at all.

2. Be sturdy. 

Did Pussy Riot cave under pressure? No. And neither should you. Are you a crying mess? Are you too fragile to take any criticism? Will you crack under pressure? If so, you do not belong in any lamp. 

3. Unless your owner is depressed, try to stay out of the light boxes. 

Getting involved in emotional lighting is exhausting and may zap your bulb. 

4. Be warm, not hot. 

This is not the MTV music awards. No need to sizzle any fingers off.

5. Don't be embarrassed. 

Chris Christie is not your leader, don't follow his feeling. Getting red in the face may look like an artistic and interesting mood enhancement, but it is not useful. 

Something lives inside the hollow space pressed between the keys of a piano. The tiniest of cracks dig under into a hungry dwelling of wood and string. Carefully orchestrated space between measures of plump pitted notes turn to silence. Where does one go when the space is so low?

 I pulled on the first string. The sound was tiny. I pulled on the second string and a mouse scuttled past me. Like flour bags stuffing a mattress, the sound molded into a mumbled existence. The pauses bent from an empty place. 

the jug

It was located in the secret place I snuck off to when things got chaotic around the airport. I worked security for over a year when I noticed the secret place. It was small with barely enough room to turn around, but cozy. I imagined a stuffy real estate woman describing the place as 'quaint' or 'rustic', but what would she say about the jug of mysterious chemicals that sat in the center of the room?

The thing had been there for a million years. Late at night when flights were canceled because of a snow storm, I stumbled into that place. The jug was eerie and sometimes when everything was quiet, I got the sense it was trying to talk to me.

"Well, Jug," I said, sitting down opposite the canister. "It's a quiet night out there."

The jug was old and brown and monstrously huge. It had started off as one of those nice, shiny, metal jugs with a lot of promise for something important. The jug went around telling everything that he was going to be something useful one day - more useful than the milk cartons and stronger than the bottles of bleach used for cleaning swimming pools. When he got a chance to be used for cleaning solvents, he scoffed and said he had more potential than that. 

When I found the jug, it had already turned a rusted dark brown.  My boss had kept it as a souvenir and would unscrew the cap to flick his cigarettes into the bottom of the darkened container. The jug ate them wordlessly. 

I never asked the head of airport security where he found the jug, but as I sat there describing the night, I could feel something rumble. 

"Too quiet"  It said.  The silence was deadly.