Ink
His smile was feral, like a weasel or sneering Doberman, but it never faltered and I suppose that's why I signed. Some people are just good at closing, I guess.
The deal was too good to be true. Literally. I didn't believe it. The rate, the commitment, the financing — this would change my life.
I had been trying to land a business loan for weeks and was, to be perfectly honest, about to throw in the towel. Then I walked into the lobby of Reynard National Bank. The clock ticked and before I knew it I was in the little cubicle office of a slender man in a well-fitted suit, face split open in a pointed smile which never slipped over his gleaming teeth.
He made me uncomfortable, what my dad would call a "Hard Sell", but when he laid out the details of the agreement, there wasn't much I could say. It was more than what I needed and whatever reservations I had about the man offering it were superseded by the shockingly low percentage figures I saw on the paper in front of me. So, when it came time to put my name to paper, I knew I didn't really have a choice.
He told me to sign, smile beaming like a gaslamp, and motioned to a cup full of pens on his desk. "Whichever you want," he told me.
Odd, the offer struck me as significant. I don't know that I've ever thought about what pen to grab before — it's such a banal exercise, really, you just grab whatever's closest and use it — but I did then. There were only three, splayed out along the rim of the cup, waiting. Two were standard black, plastic Bic instruments, the kind you buy in bulk at the corner store when you finally realize you've run out of pens at home. The third, however . . .
It was so out of place as to be comical, like a woman wearing a derby hat to a children's soccer game. Ornately polished and gleaming, it was a pen that should have been behind glass at a museum or in the hand of some head of state or decorated general as they drafted a global peace accord.
I reached for it, because, like the loan agreement, when I thought about it, there really was no choice at all. The pen was cool and smooth, nestling itself in my palm. I wondered if it had been made of bone or ivory or some other equally outrageous material one would craft a pen from. The banker smiled at me as I removed the cap and brought the pen's head to the paper. The deal’s impossible numbers danced before me. Everything about this was off, but, really, who cared? I wasn't accepting unmarked bills from some derelict in an alleyway. I was in the lobby of a national bank with branches across the country, sitting twenty feet away from a shitty instant coffee machine and an old woman with a jar full of greening, oxidized coins. So what if this banker had a creepy smile and a pen that looked like it was recovered from the Titanic? I was making out like I was robbing the place.
My hand made a mark on the page. The pen glided like as if it were made only to form the curves and lines of my name. And then it was done. I had my loan and I would be able to open my restaurant.
When I made to drop the pen back into its cup, the banker stopped me.
"Keep it," he said. Even his words wore that strange smile.
I blinked. This was a beautiful writing device, not some cheapy ballpoint fished out of a waiter's apron. I had just assumed this banker — a salesman, really, who clearly focused intensely on appearances —left it there as a showy display, one last turn of the screw to get folks to sign papers. I demured. I couldn't take this pen, especially after inking what was easily the most generous business loan agreement in this bank’s history. But the smiling man insisted — and it was so beautiful, after all — so I eventually agreed and left Reynard National Bank with a new lease on life and a flashy new pen.
Things rolled along quickly after that. My business was up and running. I hired a staff, welcomed my first patrons and was shocked by how quickly we were able to fill up. I'm a good chef, I'm not ashamed to admit, but the response was shocking. Nearly all new restaurants fail, but we were off to a hot start and, coupled with the bafflingly low rate on my loan, were well on our way to turning from the red into the black already.
Since that day at the bank, I had taken to carrying the pen around with me — a good luck charm of sorts. It was a beautiful instrument and, as such, always got a reaction when I produced it to sign off on whatever delivery had come through the kitchen that day.
I was happy. Who wouldn't be? Things were good and I, for the first time in too long, felt blessed. The only concern, if I had to voice one, was sleep.
All entrepreneurs, at least successful ones, work hard. Hard work leads to poor sleep schedules. I knew that getting into it, but this . . . it was different.
I was sleeping. But when I slept, I had begun to have these bizarre dreams, if you could even call them that. Waking dreams, I believe is the term, in which you still feel awake, like part of your brain is still firing, not unconscious. I don't know, I'm not a sleep expert.
Regardless, they were becoming more frequent.
They are always the same. I'm in my bed, it's dark. I feel the door open — feel it, not hear it, not see it — and then someone is in the room with me. I don't hear them moving. I don't see a shape or shadow. Not at first. But I know they're there and when I turn my head, faintly, I can see an outline of what could be a man. It could also just be the chair upon which I heap my dirty clothes after long shifts — far more likely — but in any case, the shape is familiar.
It reminds me of the man with the pointed smile. The man from the bank. The man who gave me the pen. The shape sits there, watching.
At first, that was all. I would feel a presence in my room, shake myself back to a state of fully awake, see it was a chair and then drift back off.
Then the words started. It spoke to me.
"Payment," it said. That's all. Just that word, spoken as plainly and flatly as a curt barista after handing you an overpriced cup of coffee.
I try to ignore it as best I can. Stress, most likely, weighing on me while I drift off. The funny thing is, though, every time I hear that word, my find fills with images of the pen, smooth and glimmering and beautiful.
The dreams — or waking dreams, whatever you call them — have been coming more frequently. They're starting to affect my work now. I never wake feeling like I’ve slept. Every night, that man who isn't a man comes and reminds me of my payment. And every night he looks more and more like the smiling banker and less like a pile of clothes on a chair.
I sleep with the pen in my hand now. I like the smooth feel of its casing against my palm.
Yesterday, I had a vendor come in late, looking as harried as I must have. He had lost half of my shipment. I wasn't mad, which I think surprised him. My smile actually seemed to upset him. That was fine.
I don't know why, but I made him an offer. It was generous, too generous. He had screwed up, but I knew this would make it okay again. Everything was fine. I smiled at him.
I told him I would pay in full and agreed to keep using his company as a supplier, despite the issues. He was skeptical, but eventually, we drafted an agreement.
I just needed him to sign.
I knew he had seen my pen — my precious pen — peeking from out my shirt pocket.
“Take it,” I told him. I don't know why. My smile beamed. He reached for the pen, eyes going wide as he saw just how beautiful it was. No one could deny that.
He signed. The pen was still in his hand.
"Keep it," I told him. The words didn't feel like my own.
And so, he did.
I felt much better that day, like I had finally woken up after a long sleep. When I got back to my bed that night, I didn't dream of the smiling man.
Instead, I had a different dream.
I entered a room I didn't recognize. It was a bedroom. There was a man there, pretending to sleep. I sat. I watched him. He knew I was there.
I didn't speak. Not yet.
When I woke up today, I felt worse than I have in weeks. Hollow. Like there was less of me.
Like I needed more to fill it up.