Waterman

“Always buy a new pen when you start a new job, Martin.”

His mother’s voice was lingering in his thoughts as he walked down the street. He had been very lucky that Hally’s Stationers was still open at that time. Weekends had them closing earlier than usual and he almost forgot this as he stepped inside and heard the bell ring just behind him.

“Back again?”

Mr. McDonald knew him quite well. After ten years as a customer, Martin could note the many moods and feelings of his favourite staff member. And today seemed to be a good day for him to make another sale. McDonald, always with a name-tag that he really did not need and the same set of plaid shirts, was going to make a deal.

“Mr. McDonald, it is good to see you. Yes, I am back for another pen.”

The salesman smiled and looked at his most-familiar customer. “Another job?”

“Another promotion, if you can believe that. I have been pushed into the corner office.”

“Well done, well done…” McDonald was almost laughing about it, his body bouncing slightly with his good mood. “So, what will you get this time?”

That was a fair question. He had not really changed his choice of writing material since he first started at his job, got his first promotion, fell in love with a beautiful woman who worked in an adjacent office, kept receiving more and more responsibilities with each step up. He looked down at the line of pens lit up inside the glassed-in display case.

“I think I would like a Waterman this time.”

Mr. McDonald looked like a deflated balloon, his jolly nature gone and his body now still as he put his hands on the counter (Martin noticed how small the wristwatch was on Mr. M.'s wrist, like a piece of fabric with a plastic face).

“Are you sure about that, sir?”

He was happy to note Mr. McDonald’s disappointment. The overhead fan hummed pleasantly at its own tempo. “Of course. Why not?”

“It just that…” Mr. McDonald was a set of tics that anyone who knew him could read and understand very easily (shame he never played poker with the man). “If you do get that pen, sir… Martin… You may have a hard time with some specific cartridges…”

“Yes, I know. I’ve used them before.”

“And it can be a mess if you are not used to them.”

Martin had to laugh. Mr. McDonald was playing a game that was old, but still a lot of fun. He had used Watermans for most of his life, so this was not a big deal.

“Mr. McDonald, I know what a pen can do.”

The salesman looked at him carefully, trying to smile as his best customer made his choice and gave his explanation.

“Of course, sir…”

“I mean,” he looked at the weather outside as it got darker (clouds were gathering behind the buildings that formed a small cul-de-sac in this neighbourhood, “I did not always like them.”

“Right, sir.” Mr. McDonald now took out the display case. He did not seem to be listening anymore.

“I mean, the first time I had one, I took it to school. That was a real mistake.” Martin took a longer look at the clouds. It really was dark out there (had there been a promise of rain? Had he heard anything about that?). “My mother was the one who had one and I asked her if I could use it. She let me use it because I knew how to write well, but even she said, ‘Don’t bring that to school’. But I never listened and I took it out in high school and they wanted to take it away from me.”

Mr. McDonald smiled and turned the light off inside the case.

“When I came home, my mother did not forgive me. She kept saying, ‘I told you so. I told you so!’ Like I needed to hear that…and I just had to take it. Locked me up in a closet all night and I said that I would not do it again. But I had to get her another pen and I was still just a kid…”

The pens were neatly lined up on the counter.

“So, I came here. I promised to pay you when I could and you made a deal with me and I kept coming back to work and you were the only one who listened to me and I did not do a great job and you let me go…but I did something before I left and you never knew…you never knew…”

Martin was standing in front of the remains of the store. The fire had destroyed it over a decade ago and the report was inconclusive. The note they found in Mr. Hally McDonald’s mail was all they had. He was a single man with a business that was dying and they did not dig too deep; didn’t even wonder if he had people working for him, or any enemies.

“So sorry… So sorry, Mr. McDonald…”

Every year, he had to stop here. He had to remember...

He had to...

Martin pushed his shopping cart down the street and waited for the rain to hit.

*

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