I’ve Got To Get Out of Here!

A story of heartache, friendship, and hope

“I’ve got to get out of here,” said the Marriott pen. “It’s the same four walls, the same one person, the same collection of you every day. Once, I was in a beautiful suite with new people all the time. Until Susan stole me and brought me here.”

“It isn’t stealing to take the pen from a hotel room,” I protested. “They want you to take the pen as free advertising.”

“Maybe,” said Marriott, “but lots of people came without taking me.”

“You should be grateful Susan took you. She’s kind and gentle with her touch,” said Green Felt Tip.

“Who can remember her touch?” asked Bic. “Susan used to write lists with me. Now she says, ‘Alexa, add sugar to the shopping list. Alexa set a reminder to call the dentist.’ I can barely remember being touched. The warmth of fingers. The gentle pressure,” Bic sighed.

“When we got out, we had adventures. The kitchen counter, the sofa,” said Pilot Fine Tip. “Does anyone remember sofa cushion diving?”

“Pilot,” I scolded, “many pens never come back from sofa diving. I lost my best friend, Blue Sharpie, that way. Though I still hope a good cleaning might find him.”

“Poor Shorty,” Green Felt Tip said, “you and Blue….”

“Shush!” Bic interrupted, “Someone’s coming.”

The front door opens

Susan came in with a woman I’d never seen.

“Terri, I know you say you’re used to disorganized houses,” said Susan, “but I must apologize. I got divorced last year, and my youngest is in college. I just get sad and overwhelmed when I try to clean.”

“That’s normal,” Terri said. “That’s why you hired me. Helping women declutter and refresh their homes is what I do. When we finish, you will LOVE coming home every night. Let’s go through the rest of the house, and then we’ll discuss specifics.”

Terri and Susan left.

Bic shrieked. “Declutter! Do you know what that MEANS? That’s code for throwing stuff out when you have too much of it. Have you noticed how we barely fit in this jar?”

“Noticed!” Marriott snorted, “The Felt Tips take up WAY too much room, and I’m tired of Pilot’s side clip being jammed into…

“Where do you think you would be if not here?” Bic interrupted.

“Maybe she’ll take me back to the hotel,” Marriott replied.

“No, no, my friend. Excess pens and pencils, they go into the trash!”

“Oh, no,” Green Felt Tip said, “Susan wouldn’t throw us out.” She paused. “Would she?”

“Maybe Susan won’t,” Bic said, “But this Terri woman will.”

“Maybe we’ll get donated,” I suggested.

“Who would want YOU!” Marriott snorted, “You’re like three inches tall with no eraser. She couldn’t give a pencil like you away. But someone might want me.”

“Hey,” Green Felt Tip shouted, “Don’t talk to Shorty that way. They make add-on erasers and little pencils fit into purses better. Less chance of breaking.”

I breathed again. I loved Green Felt Tip.

They return

Terri and Susan came back in the room.

“In each part of the house, we’ll remove all objects and then sort into three categories: trash, donations, and keepers. For example,” Terri said, “your overstuffed pen jar. It’s hard to put away something you write with when it doesn’t fit easily into the jar. Let’s empty it.”

Terri’s fingers closed around us. Her hands were cold. We dropped onto Susan’s desk.

“These felt tips have probably dried out,” Terri said. She wrote a line on a pad of paper with each Felt Tip. “Yellow and Green are trash,” she announced. “Blue is usable. If you actually use felt tips. Do you?” Terri asked.

“I think so,” said Susan.

Terri dropped Yellow and Green Felt Tip into the trash. My heart sank.

“This pencil,” Terri said. “A pencil without an eraser is useless.”

“I could get an eraser,” Susan offered.

“There’s no eraser here,” Terri said. “Don’t waste time looking for one. Your time is valuable.”

Terri dropped me in the trash alongside Green and Yellow Felt Tip. Terri and Susan’s voices became muffled. They left, and the room was dark.

A Long Night

Green Felt Tip sobbed.

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart,” I said, “I’m here. It’s me, Shorty.”

Green Felt Tip rolled over and pressed against me. “Oh, Shorty, if I have to go, I’m glad you’re here.”

We lay there in silence for a long time.

“What do you think happens next?” I asked. “Is there really just nothingness when they empty the trash? Maybe,” I said, my voice cracking, “maybe it’s another adventure?”

“Course it’s nothing,” Yellow Felt Tip said. “Have you ever heard a pen or pencil say, ‘Hey, I got dumped in the trash, and you’ll never guess, but it’s like a trip to Hawaii on the other side.’”

“But no one ever comes back and tells us,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Yellow Felt Tip. “No one ever comes back.”

I lay there a long time feeling sorry for myself. I thought back to my younger days when I was tall and strong. Eventually, I fell asleep.

Next-Day Phone Call

Susan was crying.

“Yes, Paula,” she said, “ten people got laid off. No warning. There’s like a hundred people that work there. So I’m bottom ten percent if I’m laid off? How did that happen? I know I was off my game with the divorce, but..” she stopped talking. I couldn’t hear Paula, so Susan must be on the phone.

“Paula, you know one of the most heartbreaking things? Just yesterday, I was so happy. I was determined to make a new start. I even hired someone to help me declutter and organize. But I can’t afford that now.”

Susan put the phone on speaker, and I heard Paula say, “Susan, take a deep breath.”

Susan did.

“Haven’t you been telling me that you wanted to get out of that place? That you hate that job?”

“Yes, but not like this. I wanted to leave myself when I had something better lined up. Do you know how hard it is to get a job when you don’t have one? When you’re fired?”

“You weren’t fired. You were laid off.”

“They said they didn’t need as many people now that everything is done online….” Susan wailed the word ‘online’. “So, I’m like extra, someone they can throw away. Like trash. I could have learned new skills.”

“Susan, I’m picking up the kids now. I’m taking them home. Dave’s there. Meet me at Four Corners Pub at 7 — my treat. Meanwhile, get a paper and pencil. Start making a list of every business you ever thought of starting, every place you thought of living, every crazy dream you had. Do NOT censure any of them.”

“Paula, I…”

“Susan, I’ve got to go. Seven at Four Corners Pub. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I heard Susan blow her nose. She was standing over the trash, snotty tissue in hand. The snotty tissue dropped. I could smell it but did not feel it. Thank God.

“They threw me away like trash,” Susan said.

Then Susan reached into the trash and picked me up. She also picked up Green and Yellow Felt Tip. She said maybe she’d had them stored the wrong way.

Susan tucked me behind her ear.

The End?

I’m about a third of the size of a brand-new pencil, so you have to figure I’ve already lived two-thirds, maybe more, of my life. It’s painful to think about a day I won’t be here or can’t be useful anymore.

But today is not that day. Today Susan and I are going places.

When I first saw the challenge of creating a conversation between pens and pencils (mentioned here), I thought, “Nah…. pass.” But either the $50 or the idea of being stuck waiting without a lot to do, kept coming back to me. Eventually I could hear Shorty and friends’ voices. I thought if I wrote it down, I could call it creative writing. If I just heard the voices, that felt more delusional and worrisome.

To see another response to the prompt, take a look at a delightful piece Stationary Stationery by Suma Narayan.

It’s been a while since I’ve published on Medium, looking back the most popular piece I ever wrote is:

And something I else I wrote in 2023 that people liked was:

Thanks for reading, Anne