THE PEN OF PURPOSE (a true story)

One beautiful summer’s day, just shortly before Christmas in fact, I was making my way to a friend’s to join her for lunch. As always in those days leading up to the festive season, there was a happy buzz in the air; everyone was hustling and bustling, running last minute errands, buying presents, talking joyfully about their plans for the holidays, completely distracted in their own business, so it was no wonder that people walked straight by the man in the crumpled suit. He was standing right in the middle of the entrance to the underpass but no one seemed to notice him. I on the other hand was completely and utterly intrigued by this figure clasping a bunch of pens. I walk this path nearly ever day and it is constantly filled with street folk, busking or begging or trying to scam money out of you in some fashion, mostly for booze and drugs. People usually pass through here with their eyes low and bag close, guiltily ignoring the cacophony of tuneless music, and aggressive, desperate faces querying if “you have a spare dollar?”.

However, this man was different. There was an air about him that spoke of lost grandeur and despite his middle aged face being worn with worry there was a kindness in his eyes, unlike the hardness of those who have roamed the streets for years. A sign was pinned to his front that read:

Dear passers - by. I have recently hit hard times and need money for my family over the festive season. Please help me by buyng one of these pens for $1.
God bless you & Merry Christmas.

Standing there awkwardly in his cheap suit he caught my eye and I was immediately reminded of sad Willy Lowman from Death of a Salesman; this man was a genuine down and out. Without a second thought I reached into my wallet to find a shiny gold coin and approached him in a warm exchange of hellos. I reached to the bundle of biros in his hand, ready to pluck out a non-descript bic number, but in a soft, wise voice he said, “No, wait. I have a special pen for you,” and began rummaging around in his small satchel, producing a fat, red permanent marker far worth the value of the dollar I had just given him. He handed it to me, simply requesting that I “do good with it”, before smiling and turning to disappear around the corner. I was left standing there at the mouth of the tunnel, people rushing past me, completely amused and bewildered by this rather odd occurrence and feeling all the weight in the world of his words resting on my use of this pen.

I carried it around for days not sure what to do with it, terrified to make a mark with it in case it was the wrong kind of mark, wanting to live up to this man’s wishes. I eventually did put pen tip to surface. There were a few false starts of forced goodwill before it occurred to me that the purpose of the pen is to bring happiness to the world through the means I know and do best. So now the pen goes wherever I go and I fill the surfaces around me with illustrations and doodles, affirmations and quotes all in vibrant red and watch as passers by smile, noticing these little pieces I have to offer the world, and feel I have done good, thanks to a down and out man in a crumpled suit one summer’s day.