The Pen Collector and His Wife
(Based on The Fisherman and His Wife, by The Brothers Grimm) by Paul Neilan
  Article # 438 Article Type: Fiction

Once Upon A Tine*

*An occasional series of fairy tales specially adapted for pen collectors with fractured caps.

The Pen Collector and His Wife
by Paul G. Neilan.
(Based on The Fisherman and His Wife, by The Brothers Grimm)

Once upon a time there was a pen collector called Pelikan Bill who lived with his wife, Isabelle, in a pigsty near the Levenger Sea. Newcomers to the area who heard of Pelikan Bill asked whether he was called that because he made friends with the sea birds. It was explained to them that it was a bit crazier than that: The pelican part of his name was spelled with a “k” because he was a pen collector, and the nickname came from one of his favorite manufacturers.

“Why does he live in a pigsty by the sea?” they’d ask.

“Oh, he’s got a good job in the new office tower that’s kitty-corner from the Royal Palace, so he can afford better,” the old-timers would say. “But he spends most nights on ebay and penbid, and he travels all over the kingdom to pen shows. That’s where his money goes, and that’s why they live in that pigsty on the beach. He’s got a great pen collection, though.”

Because Pelikan Bill spent so much on pens, groceries were scarce in the pigsty. So every morning Isabelle trudged down to the beach with her ocean casting rod, a can of worms, and a heart full of patience to fish for their supper. She understood his strange addiction and had read all of the recent psychological literature on the subject. She was also an amateur Latinist, and it was due chiefly to her letter to the editor of a prominent medical journal that her husband’s affliction now had a name: Stylophilia gravis.

One day, in the late afternoon, Isabelle sat on the beach, her casting rod anchored in the sand nearby. The sun had fallen low enough in the sky so that she could look directly at it without shielding her eyes. The star’s bright yellows had long since given way to dark oranges and crimsons that seeped into it as if drawn from a Sengbusch inkwell hidden beyond the horizon. The stubby municipal garbage cans scattered across the beach cast Gulliver-long shadows, and the breeze off the water bore a chill that gave her the first taste of the coming night. No one else was on the beach. She drew her windbreaker closer around her shoulders, and noticed that the calm water had changed from home-brewed grayish green to Private Reserve Blue Suede. She only realized that she’d lost all thoughts of fishing when she saw her line paying out into the water at a furious pace.

In the fraction of a second it took for her to lunge for the rod, thoughts and images coursed through her mind. These were not fragmentary, though; each mental picture was as fully developed as if she’d thought about it for hours. At first the speed at which the line flew off the reel made her think that this was as close as she’d get to a Nantucket sleigh ride, and she imagined herself, like Pip from the Pequod, running into the shallow surf, retrieving buckets of water, and pouring them over the reel in order to cool it. Then her whaleboat dream gave way to pictures of the type of fish this could be, all of which were considerably smaller than whales. These images were succeeded by visions far more frightening: In her mind she saw the line run completely off the reel, and she watched helplessly as two plates of breaded and fried filets disappeared into the deep, abyssal plain, irretrievably lost to her and Pelikan Bill. All the while she’d been reeling in, leaning forward, and reeling in, until at last the unknown fish popped its head out of the water. It was a flounder. She’d never had a fight like that with a flounder before, but that was to be the least of her surprises.

The flounder looked at her and said, “Hey lady, listen. I may look like a flounder, but I’m really not. Truth is, I’m an enchanted nib repairman and pen restorer. I really wouldn’t be good to eat.”

“You can save your breath,” Isabelle told the flounder. “If I told anyone I’d caught a talking fish, they’d think that I was as nutty as my husband, Pelikan Bill. Anyway, how did you get enchanted?”

“It was an e-bay auction that went bad,” the flounder answered. “I won an auction of old stock celluloid blanks. Beautiful stuff, but I ran into some cash flow problems. I tried to reason with the seller and work out a compromise, but then he sent me an email telling me I was a non-paying bidder, and that pretty soon I’d be ‘sleepin’ with the fishes.’ I thought he was a wiseguy. Then I opened the attachment and POOF! Next thing I knew I was swimming around out here.”

“Talk about negative feedback,” said Isabelle. “How awful!”

“Well, it does have some upside potential,” said the flounder. “I hired a theatrical agent two weeks ago, and I’m swimming to Orlando next Wednesday for an audition with the Mouse That Owns Florida. Would you believe that they’re making a movie about a talking fish? It’s called Meano or something. It’ll be a kid’s flick, but with grown-up humor in the dialogue. I may not get the lead, but still, I’m glad Don Knotts is retired. They’re even sending a pelican to fly me in to the studio!”

“A pelican?” asked Isabelle. “Ohmygosh, Pelikan Bill! I have to run! He’ll be so worried. Don’t you worry, though. I’d never eat a talking fish.” With that, she removed the hook from the flounder’s mouth and set him free. The flounder thanked her for her kindness and swam away, trailing a slick of Private Reserve Fiesta Red behind him.

When she returned to the pigsty, Pelikan Bill was bent over the small table he’d dedicated to his pens. His battery-powered magnifying glasses were strapped onto his head as he turned a pen over and over in his hands. “Catch anything today?” he asked, without looking up from his work.

“Not really. I did catch a flounder that talked, though. Turned out he was an enchanted pen restorer, so I let him go.”

Pelikan Bill dropped the pen he was examining and rose with such a start that he nearly overturned his worktable. “What?!?” cried Pelikan Bill, astonished. “You caught a talking, pen-restoring fish and then let him go without wishing for anything first? How could you do that? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t call you because you took the money that was earmarked for the cell phone bill and bought that 1927 Mandarin Duo, no scratches, no brassing, near mint,” she said, a hint of righteous indignation rising behind her words. She knew Pelikan Bill would not continue to argue this point. “That Duofold was more important than the cell phone, remember? Besides,” she added, “what would I wish for? We’ve got our pigsty, we’re big on seafood, and we’re happy here. The guy’s looking at a movie deal with the Mouse – and not just any mouse, but the Mouse of Orlando. They’re flying him there by pelican for an audition.”

“Pelican? Of course!” cried Pelikan Bill. “I want you to go back right now and call that fish. Tell him I need a Pelikan 100 to complete my collection. Make sure you tell him it has to be the 1929 production year model.”

Isabelle resisted at first because she didn’t want to beg the flounder for pens, but Pelikan Bill prevailed on her and she went down to the shore again.

When she arrived the wind was blowing harder than before, and the sea had turned from a calm Private Reserve Blue Suede to a choppy Jade Permanite Sea Foam. She looked toward the sea and called out:

Flounder-restorer in the sea,
Come, I pray thee here to me,
For my man, good Pelikan Bill,
Wills not as I’d have him will.

“What does he want, then?” asked the flounder, who appeared at that very moment. “A 3-bedroom, 2-full-bath Cape Cod, with a laundry room on the first floor?”

“I should be so lucky,” sighed Isabelle. “Remember, he’s a pen collector.”

“Well, it would be better than that pigsty, but I do know pen collectors. What pen does he want?” the flounder asked.

“Pelikan 100, 1929, black ebonite cap, no brassing,” answered Isabelle.

“Go home,” said the flounder. “He has it already, mint-in-the-box.”

When Isabelle arrived at the pigsty she was met by Pelikan Bill, who wore a grin that would have made the Cheshire Cat envious. He led her inside by the hand, straight to his little pen worktable. He showed her the Pelikan 100 and extolled its beauty at great length.

“But enough about me telling you how beautiful my Pelikan 100 is,” said Pelikan Bill at last. “Why don’t you tell me how beautiful you think it is?” Isabelle agreed that the pen was indeed beautiful, and she told her husband that now that his pen collection was complete he should be quite contented.

And so he was — for about three hours. Then thoughts of other gaps in his collection began to haunt him.

“You know,” he said to Isabelle, “this flounder really owes his life to you, and therefore to both of us because without me you probably wouldn’t have gone fishing just then. He can do one more favor for us. Go back to the flounder and tell him that I simply must have a Mah Blah 139, near mint if he can, two-tone 18-karat nib, 4810 and all that. After all, what’s one more pen for a talking flounder?” said Pelikan Bill.

At this Isabelle grew very apprehensive. She didn’t want to anger the flounder, especially when she had no idea of the extent of his powers. But ever the dutiful wife, she set off once more for the shore. The wind had picked up even more, and the color of the sea had gone from Jade Permanite Sea Foam to Private Reserve Midnight Blues. The waves crashed against the shore, hurling sand and shells in all directions, the wind whipped the spray from the crests of the waves, and Isabelle was afraid to get too close to the water’s edge for fear of being caught in a backwash and carried out to sea. Over the surf’s roar she yelled out:

Flounder-restorer in the sea,
Come, I pray thee here to me,
For my man, good Pelikan Bill,
Wills not as I’d have him will
.

“What does he want now?” asked the flounder. “Still a no-go on the Cape Cod, eh?” Isabelle told him that Pelikan Bill needed a Mah Blah 139.

“You’re sure he doesn’t want a castle or to be king? The last fisherman who caught me got lots of stuff, in fact everything his wife asked for until…well, that’s a different story,” said the flounder. “Go then,” the flounder added. “He’s playing with the Mah Blah 139 as we speak.”

Glad to be done with that task, Isabelle ran home to the pigsty through winds so strong that they nearly stopped her altogether. Pelikan Bill was in the pigsty, examining the 139 through a jeweler’s loupe clenched tightly in his eye socket.

“Now you’ll be happy, right Bill?” Isabelle asked.

“For now,” answered Pelikan Bill. His indefinite answer made Isabelle shudder. She dreaded the thought of going back to the flounder, but she did love Pelikan Bill. She began to wonder whether her fears about the flounder would overpower her love for him. To put all those doubts out of her mind, though, she thought she’d better get out of the pigsty for a while. Maybe Pelikan Bill would calm down a bit if he knew that she wasn’t around to ask the flounder for more vintage pens.

“Well, I’m going to go down to the art museum and take in the frame exhibit. It should be interesting,” she said.

“I heard about that frame exhibit,” said Bill. “I’ll never understand why an art museum would put on an exhibition of just frames. No pictures, mind you, but just the frames. I don’t get it.”

Isabelle didn’t care if Pelikan Bill got it so long as she got out of the house for a while. She was gone before Pelikan Bill had turned his attention back to the Mah Blah. She did not return until well after dark, when she knew Pelikan Bill would be fast asleep.

The next morning Isabelle awoke to the footfalls of Pelikan Bill pacing up and down in the pigsty. The gray light creeping in at the doorsill told her that the sun wasn’t up yet. Usually, she never felt awake until she’d downed her third cup of coffee, but on this morning the sound of his feet and the realization of the hour electrified her, and she sat straight up in the bed, her eyes wide. “Why are you up so early?” she asked.

“You know, love,” Pelikan Bill began, “my pen collection is very fine now. And yet, I need something more.”

Isabelle felt her heart sinking into her stomach as she realized that another visit to the flounder lay in her near future. She wondered what Pelikan Bill would want this time.

“I want you to go to see the flounder again this morning,” Pelikan Bill continued. “In fact, it would be best if you left right now. Tell him that although it’s nice to collect these pens, I have to be able to create them, to build them myself,” he said, his voice rising in a crescendo of emotion that he was evidently unable to control. “I must be able to repair them, to bring tossed-out pens back to life, to disinter dead pens from flea markets, estate sales and antique malls, and make them live again!!! I must know the difference between a nib block and a knock-out block!!!”

Isabelle sat staring, speechless, at Pelikan Bill. She thought he’d lost his mind, and that the blocks he was talking about must be rattling around loose in his head. “Pelikan Bill,” she said, “why not leave well enough alone. You’ve got enough pens now, and the flounder will only get angry if we keep asking for things, especially for talents the like of those you’re asking for.”

“Nonsense, Isabelle. The flounder used to be a pen restorer himself. He’s used to pen people calling him back all the time to tell him that something isn’t right, that the nib’s too smooth, or it’s not smooth enough, or some such thing. Now, grab your coat and boots and go see the flounder right away.”

Despite her trepidation at approaching the flounder yet again, and with so audacious a request, she dressed herself, left the pigsty and headed once again to the shore. The closer she got to the beach, the harder the wind blew, and she had to hold on to whatever was at hand just to make it near the beach. Finally she reached the water’s edge. The sea had turned a menacing shade of PR Tanzanite, and it crashed into the shore in great, steep waves that made her jump back to avoid being carried off. Lightning streaked across the leaden sky, and the speed of the following thunder told her how close it was. Raising her voice above the din, she shouted:

Flounder-restorer in the sea,
Come, I pray thee here to me,
For my man, good Pelikan Bill,
Wills not as I’d have him will.

“What does he want this time,” asked the flounder, whose head appeared above the waves. “To be king? How about emperor or pope? Well, maybe not pope, given the current situation. How about a spring break trip to the real Cancun?”

“If it were just that simple,” Isabelle sighed, “but it’s worse.” She explained her husband’s desire to be both a pen-maker and restorer.

“You mean to say he wants to know the difference between a nib block and a knock-out block?” asked the flounder, incredulous. “Don’t you know that that young couple got kicked out of the Garden of Eden by asking for knowledge that was of much lesser significance? I think Pelikan Bill has overdrawn his reality checking account, and it’s time to balance it.”

No sooner had the flounder uttered these words than a brilliant flash of lightning split the sky, and a deafening roar of thunder filled Isabelle’s ears. Then the skies cleared, the seas calmed, and the morning sun shone on the now-gentle waves, glinting like a thousand shards of golden, floating glass.

“Go home now, Isabelle,” said the flounder. “Pelikan Bill’s got a handful of reliable Esties, some nice stationery, and he’s on a snail-mail list.”

And there they live to this day.

 

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