Jim SullivanI am a Fugitive from a BallPoint Pen Factory
How did a nice, urbane fellow, like myself, ever get mixed up with the seedy, sordid, sleazy world of ballpoint pens? All too easily, I'm afraid. It began a couple of months ago. I was minding my own business, an office supply store, when, one day, a salesman came in to sell me some pencils. I bought the usual gross. As I walked the salesman to the door, he stopped, leaned close to me, cupped his hand to my ear, and whispered, "How`d you like to buy some ballpoint pens cheap?" Right then and there, I should have backed off. But I didn't. The whispering should have alerted me. But it didn't. And greed, like hope, springs eternal, so I whispered back to the salesman, "How much?" "A dollar a dozen. But they're so nice looking, you can sell them for $1.98 each and make a fortune." He then showed me a sample. "Sure, it looks nice, but will it write? And what about leaking?" "Are you kidding? Of course it'll write. And it's perfectly safe from leakage. Look here, in my white shirt pocket. I've been carrying this ballpoint pen for two days now without a hint of a leak. So don't worry. These babies are safe, and they'll make you rich." Always an easy sell, I ordered ten gross. It looked like a product I could move easily, and my profit on it wouldn't be bad, either. A week later, I had my pens. What's more, at $1.98, they sold fast. I was completely sold out of them by the following weekend. Luckily, I was able to locate the ballpoint pen salesman to reorder. This time, I upped it to 20 gross. They sold out rapidly, too. This selling out and restocking ever larger quantities continued until I was ordering 50 gross at a time. I was literally getting well, financially, selling these ballpoint pens. Then my ballpoint pen business came to a screeching halt. My success came crashing down around my ears. Disaster struck. As if the pens had all been programmed to become defective on or about the same date, I began getting calls from irate customers complaining about my leaking ballpoint pens. Within three days, I received over a hundred complaint phone calls. The mail was even worse, 245 complaint letters in just one week. Moreover, they all complained about messed up clothing. Some had ruined two and three pieces of apparel because the pen ink had leaked through shirts, vests, suits, and sport coats, even, in some cases, overcoats. The customers threatened legal action if I didn't replace the ruined clothing. Like any retailer, I carried customers' complaints to the wholesaler. Of course, the salesman now could not be found, and I didn't actually know who the pen manufacturer was. Eventually, I reached the salesman's home by phone. His wife answered. She didn't know where he was, how long he'd be gone, or when he'd return. Fear was evident in her voice, too. Helpless, so far, and desperate for aid , I began studying the ballpoint pen under a magnifying glass. Finally, on an obscure part, I discovered the manufacturer's name. I looked up the phone number and called. I was transferred to seven or eight different departments, with each person answering sounding exactly like the person who had just transferred me, before someone would speak to me. It was the public relations department, he said. I told the man, whose voice sounded like all the rest, the problem and asked what type of insurance his firm had to reimburse my customers. Laughter, rollicking, roaring laughter, burst over the telephone line. I had to wait fully two minutes before the hysterical ballpoint pen factory PR person calmed down long enough to resume the conversation. The upshot of our talk was that they had no insurance and a noreturn policy. If I had further comment, I was invited to the factory to discuss it. And I decided to do just that. I wished I hadn't. Going to that factory was the second, and most serious, mistake I'd made concerning those ballpoint pens. The factory was in Los Angeles, California. My ticket to fly there cost me over $400.00. But I didn't think twice about it because I figured I'd get reimbursed in the settlement from the ballpoint pen people. Located in the industrial part of LA, which is in another city, the factory was a huge, cinder block building, shaped like an airport hangar, with no windows. A moat, filled with dark blue water, giving it an appearance of depth, circled the factory. Just inside the moat was a 15 foot high, electrified, barbedwire fence. Roaming inside were several attack dogs and roving patrols of armed guards. At the gate, which was locked, a security guard, carrying a weapon on his hip, stood watch. One of his arms was in a sling. I walked up to the gate and asked to be let in. Several dogs gathered inside and began snarling at me as I waited for the guard to confirm my visit, by intercom, with an official. I overheard the guard's conversation. He, too, was being transferred to several different departments. Finally, someone approved my visit. Before unlocking the gate, the guard managed, one handedly, to get four attack dogs inside a penned area, so I could safely cross the grounds to the building. It was the fifth dog that actually bit the guard on his good arm. Bleeding profusely, he gave me a dirty look, unlocked the gate, and pointed, with his slung arm, to a door in the factory that I should enter. As I passed him, I said, "Hey, you don't know when those dogs had their last shots. You'd better get yourself to a doctor real fast." The terror in his eyes told me he was planning to do so. Now, I had to knock loudly on the factory door to get someone to come and unlock it and let me in. Once I was inside, the door slammed shut behind me, and a dead bolt lock snapped shut with a clang. All had happened automatically. I now had a trapped feeling. Adding to it was another onearmed guard, his other arm in a sling, who had let me in. He, too, wore a pistol. "What happened to your arm?" "Oh, I usually have outside guard duty. But last week, a milkman made a delivery of half and half to the factory for the employees' lounge. And as I was trying to pen up the dogs, so the milkman could safely enter, one dog bit me on my arm. It's not so bad, only 45 stitches. "It's not my shooting arm. The doctor said I'd be back to outside work within a month. They're giving me this light, inside, duty until my arm works again. Of course, now, instead of having to worry about the dogs, I have to worry about the ink and not getting it on my uniform. But that's my job." `You may be working outside at the main gate with the dogs again sooner than you had expected," I said. Apparently he hadn't heard me as he led the way to a glassedin office in a far corner of the factory. To get there, we had to walk through the main production area. All the employees I passed were covered, from head to foot, in ink, blue, black, red, and, on one guy, green. They didn't look happy (the people, not the colors). Nervous acting and thin, they all looked fearful. Everyone was dressed in bib overalls and work shirts. As the onearmed guard departed, another, who not only had an arm in a sling, but a leg in a cast, too, stood, awkwardly, outside the glassedin office. The official inside, the only one I'd noticed in the whole place, must have been the person I'd originally spoken to on the phone. Opening his door, he told me he'd be right with me. He then proceeded to a wash basin near his office. I craned my neck to see what he was doing. It looked like he was scrubbing ink, an occupational hazzard no doubt, from his hands and face. As he returned toward me, I could see his washup hadn't been successful. What can I do for you, sir?" "It's about the ballpoint pens I bought from your firm. They leak." For several more minutes, I verbally laid out all my complaints. When I had finished, he let out a sigh, asking me if I would like a cup of coffee. I did. He asked if I wanted cream, half and half actually. "No," I said, though I knew it had come into the factory at a price beyond retail. "Sir," said the ballpoint pen PR man, "we, more exactly I, am here in business to make a profit from manufacturing and selling writing instruments. Originally, I thought ballpoint pens were just a passing fad, so, though I manufactured them, I continued making the regular ink pens, too. But, today, ballpoint pens are big business and my only business. "When I first began producing ballpoint pens on a massive scale, my major problem was to get the confound things to write. You may remember, earlyday ballpoint pens wouldn't write on shiney or real smooth paper. They wouldn't write on wet paper, either. And if you got the least bit of lint on the ballpoint, it wouldn't write on any kind of paper, wet or dry. So, I hired an engineer to work on it, concentrating on getting the pens to write. And he succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. Unfortunately, the solution of the writing problem led to the creation of another, ink leakage. Once more, my engineer went to work to stop the leaks, but in so doing, the pens stopped writing again. I now had to make a major decision. I chose to have pens that wrote, but leaked, rather than the other way around. And that's the way it is now. "Of course, sir," he continued, "leaking pens caused a sales' problem. So, my engineer continued to work around the clock to solve The best he ever was able to do was to get the pen to avoid leaking until several days after it was first used. Then look out. It was going to leak more and more as time passed. This new development solved our sales problem, for a while anyway. "Sure, when asked if our pen's leak, we said no, which was an out and out lie. But our pens began to sell, and fast, too. Sales, in fact, were astronomical. But that was happening at the same time our ink was going through the white shirts, too. All kinds of threats, pleas, accusations, and legal suits began coming at me from all over the world. "Of course, I didn't have and couldn't get the necessary insurance to cover such massive claims. I had to again make a major decision. The question: Should I continue or stop making the writing, but leaking, ballpoint pens, ignoring damage claims? I decided to continue. I also decided to make some company changes, too. First, I'd become a corporation, so it, not I, would be liable. My wife, mother, and motherinlaw are the corporate officers. But I make them stay home. I still run the place myself, though I try to make outsiders, and the guards, think we have a full corporate staff. In this way, I am able to ward off complainants. Second, I decided to make the factory a haven for people who sell my product. This was expensive, but I'm making a fortune from the pens anyway. That's why the armed guards, moat, fence, and dogs. After all, I figure it's my moral duty to protect those who help me sell ballpoint pens. And that's my policy today." To say I was surprised would be incorrect. I was, however, dumbfounded, fearful, and up in the air about what I should do. How could I avoid being ruined financially by the damage claims against me if the manufacturer wouldn't back me? And those claims, amounting to tens of thousands of dollars already, were rising daily. I made a decision, then and there, to take advantage of the firm's offer of haven for sellers of the leaky pens. It was another decision, among many, that I'd come to regret as time passed. After telling the ballpoint pen factory man that I'd accept his offer to hide me at the factory from my irate customers, he demanded in return that I sign a contract to that effect. In exchange for his protection, I guaranteed to work at the factory for the next five years. Those were brutal terms, but I was scared out of my wits and desperate. And I had no other choice. Reluctantly, I signed the document. The ballpoint pen man welcomed me and assigned me to the factory's spring department. Again the onearmed, oneleginacast guard escorted me. This time he showed me to the department where springs are inserted into the ballpoint pens so they'd click in and out. And who did I find there as foreman? None other than the ballpoint pen salesman whom I'd placed my pen orders with. I barely recognized him. He was covered in black and blue ink. He recognized me, too. Seeing me approach, he shuddered and backed up a little. After calming down, he told me his story, which was similar to mine, except that he was trying to hide from retailers, like me. Next he issued me a pair of bib overalls, denim shirt, heavyduty shoes, and other work clothing. Once dressed, I was instructed in spring insertion. Within a couple of hours, having inserted 600 springs by then, I knew the job like an expert. I also knew I hated it with a passion. My main dislike was getting splattered, from top to bottom, with ink. Showers were made available to help employees with that problem. However, only dirt, not ink, could be washed off. On my first day, as the foreman walked me to the showers, I told him of my talk with his frightened wife. He regretted her situation. But he felt it best not to let her know where he was. Otherwise, she might weaken and tell people his location. I couldn't disagree with him. After showering, he showed me to the men's bunkhouse, there being one for men and another for women. Both were out behind the factory but within the barbedwire enclosure. There, inked male and female employees, in their respective bunkhouses, lived boring, smelly, but safe existences. Contributing to the boredom was the grotesqueness of the surroundings. They were dismal at best. The bad smells came from the ink, which was everywhere and on everything. Adding to the smell problem were all the ink covered workers. Worst among them were those who worked directly with ink, injecting it into the thin tube within the ballpoint pens. Consequently, they had to sleep in the bunkhouse basement, like lepers, to spare others. Outside the factory, which we couldn't see,but guards told us about, everyday, all day long, claimants, lawyers, process servers, and irate citizens who had ballpoints pens leak on them, clamored to enter the factory to get at us. Only the guards' guns, attack dogs, moat, and electrified barbedwire fence prevent it. But each day the number of claimants grew. They even showed up on Sunday mornings. That's when most of us employees attended religious services. They were conducted in the bunkhouse by a priest who was hiding out from his parishoners after he had given each a ballpoint pen Christmas present. So we remained secure, physically and spiritually, but extremely bored. And this was how our lives were spent, within the enclosure. from day to day,week to week, and month to month. Then, the fateful day arrived. Someone in the ink department inadvertently swallowed a pint of ink, blue I think, judging by the color of the deceased's tongue at the funeral, and died. He was buried standing up, to conserve space, within the barbedwire enclosure between the bunkhouses. At the interrment service, the priest gave a nice eulogy on the history of writing instruments. Afterwards, my foreman came up to me and said, "You're being transferred to the ink department to take over the dead man's job." I bolted at this news. Though I didn't like spring insertion work, it was a much better job than injecting ink, which was the worst one of all. Furthermore, I'd be smelling to high heaven, much worse than I already did. And, on top of everything, I'd have to move to the bunkhouse basement. That very day, I made an appointment to speak to the ballpoint pen man. He saw me after my shift ended. I told him of my distaste for the new job assignment. He replied, "If you want to eat, and live here, you'll have to do what I tell you, and work where you're assigned. Anyway, and you may not believe this, but those people in the ink department are really quite happy in their work." And so truth was rerouted once again. In any case, I transferred to the ink department. I found, quickly, that the ballpoint pen man had been wrong. The ink department, to a man, hated their jobs. It was a very bad place to work. In fact, it couldn't have been worse. The smell, from morning to night, nearly knocked you out. And you never got used to it, either. What's more, getting splashed with the nasty writing fluid was ghastly feeling, too. I also learned a startling fact my first day there. The deceased man hadn't died accidently. He had purposely drank the ink to get out of his present situation. He did. From the moment I arrived in the ink department, I planned my escape. It was two weeks, however, before conditions were ripe. I was waiting for the milkman's next delivery. when he came into the factory and passed through our area, he, dressed in his usual white uniform, was whistling. Apparently he was quite happy. The tune he whistled, though, was terrible. It irritated me for some reason. But that was good because I needed additional motivation to do what I had to do, which was a little on the nasty side, though necessary. As the milkman rounded the corner by my workbench, on his way to the employees' lounge' I tackled him and tied him up. Fortunatelv. no one saw me. I put a gag over his mouth to keep him quiet. Next I stripped him of his uniform and put it on. Then I put my ink splattered bib overalls on him, so he wouldn't suffer any embarrassment for being unclothed. I picked up his milk carrier and began whistling that awful tune. After dropping off the bottle of half and half, I retreated from the factory. The guards didn't even look at my face, only at the white uniform and let me pass. Luckily, all dogs were penned. I drove the milk truck to the next town where I abandoned it at another dairy. I then walked across town to a motel and rented a room. I've been holed up here, now, for some time. Two weeks ago, I ran out of money. So I took a parttime job as night clerk at the motel to cover my expenses. No one seems curious about my white uniform. Even more surprisingly, no one's mentioned the ink stains on my hands and face. Probably people are too courteous to mention it for fear it's some horrible disfiguring disease I've got. But I don't care what people think. No matter what, I'm never going back to that miserable ballpoint pen factory. That five-year contract I signed couldn't be legal anyway. Wait a minute, here comes a guest to register. Oh, oh, he's pulling out one of them ballpoint pens. He hasn't noticed yet, but it's leaking all over his shirt pocket. I hope he's not another one of them hot heads or one of my former customers. If he is, I've got no place to hide anymore. Won't somebody help me? © 1999 French Bread Publications/Jim Sullivan back to fiction |