All Things Considered - God and the Multi-Pen

God and the Multi-Pen

I'm a sucker for multifunction gadgets. And in the rare moments when I accept that a God might be possible, I assume it is some kind of infinite roadie with a kind of eternal Leatherman that doesn't distort the first time one tries to cut wire with it, a Swiss Army Knife that will hold an edge long enough to stir tea and a Maglite that is long enough to repel a stage-left invader from stage right.

It's the only way creation could have been pulled off in time for the show. “Damn, that camel's limping,” and out comes the doodad and the Koh-i-noor diamond between its toes is whipped out and tossed aside. “Uh-oh, the Atlantic's leaking again”; out with the Leatherman. “Oops, never mind. We'll call it Niagara. Tell ...(unintelligible) it's a new feature.” “You forgot to screw Adam's head on”; small screwdriver blade. “The Amazon's dried again”; out with the infinite corkscrew. “This ant's got a splinter”; magnifying glass and tweezers, and so on.

So while sorting out a few of my drawing pens to try to get my guitar tablature neat enough so the typesetter wouldn't send it off to the British Museum's hieroglyphics expert, when I came across a professional-looking multifunction pen, I couldn't believe my luck. It was like one of those wonders one got for single-digit birthdays from the only known intelligent aunt; way over the top with every color known to humankind, but more grown up.

It described its pencil lead requirements to two decimal places, and promised supplies in soft and hard grades and colors. It had a black biro for signing credit card slips or a red one for differentiating between the gig venues and hotel addresses and--How exciting!--a highlighter one that did a kind of transparent orange. This was the road pen par excellence, and respectable enough to pull out when checking into a better class of business hotel with working rubber plants in the foyer and genetically modified bagels and guar gum until 9 AM.

I bought it, and stacks of refills, and for several years, it worked impressively. I noted directions, highlighted routes and circled tiny place names, marked the radar trap locations for the trip back and also, comprehensively and enthusiastically, that I needed a new map book every nine months instead of 18.

Then one day, I pulled out the road pen in a better class of business hotel lobby. And some of the bits remained in my pocket while others fell on the floor. I was left hovering over the registration form with a dangling of springs and refills. The desk staff seemed used to this kind of problem, and deftly retrieved a tiny spring from the rubber plant. Clearly, the pen was dead, probably crushed during luggage penance on the Newark Airport monorail. And I sadly went back to occasionally highlighting essential freeway exit numbers with a black autograph Sharpie.

Some years and a computer or two later, approaching a yuletide, I donned warm hat and bicycle clips and wobbled down to the London Graphic Centre again to seek drawing tools and other goodies for the young creatives in my tribe. As I gawked at the pen desk, the assistant started chatting. I asked if the road pen's cousins were still made and, oh, yes, indeed they were. Their latest little refill is one that works one's Palm computer screen. Wow! I was engaged again, not that I have a Palm computer. Sentimentally, I rambled about my old pen and its tragic demise. “We can repair that.” “Eh?” “Of course, free. Bring it in.”