“Mightier than the Sword”

Martin A. McArthur was having a five paper-cut day. He had avoided near death twice on the subway and twisted his ankle. Mr. Davenport’s supply order was lost in his briefcase among the post-its and graph paper. The computer geeks from the fifteenth floor had been on him all week for more of those Elle Macpherson notepads. Martin thought if he could avoid everyone until six o-clock he’d have the whole weekend to recuperate. Mr. Davenport could deal with a three-week-old Papermate for one more day. Martin had his Kleenex, that’s all that mattered. By three o’clock he was snoozing in his office chair.

Mr. Davenport stomped off the elevator on the tenth floor. His brow was wrinkled like a set of mini-blinds. He gasped for air as he strode past the human answering machines to the glass door of Martin A. McArthur.

The glass flew open and Marty awoke in a daze. Carbon paper had adhered itself to his forehead.

He leapt to attention. “Uh, Mr. Daven... um, I was just about to come up...”

“Yes, Marty, I’m sure you were just about to do a lot of things while you lay there drooling on your desk. Well, I’m taking it back, Marty. The desk, I mean. I’m taking the whole office back. I can’t find a single pen in this whole damn building and do you know why, Marty?”

“Um sir, I was...”

“Because it’s September, Marty. The kids are back in school and they need school supplies. Their parents have to get their pens from somewhere, and do you know where they get them, Marty?”

“No sir...” He adjusted the polka-dot noose around his scrawny neck.

“Well they get them from here, Marty. They take the pens from here. I’ve been telling you all week, ‘we’ve got to order some more pens, Marty’. My secretary has been calling you for twenty minutes and you haven’t answered. You were asleep! Well, looks like you just slept yourself out of a job. Have yourself packed and ready to go by six, you hear me, Marty? You’re Fired!”

“But Sir...” It was too late. The door had already crashed behind him. Martin stood gaping like a fish out of water. Tears welled up from behind his eyes. He grabbed a Kleenex and forced himself to sit. His fingers grasped at his temples.

In the next room, Vince’s legs shook like jackhammers under his cubical desk. The FedEx man was late. When he heard the guy in the office sobbing, he understood what was happening. Vince shot him a glance of pity and then went back to waiting. His inheritance would be there at any moment. Uncle Sal had been pretty well off and it was about time Vince got his trip to the Bahamas. His gaze appeared to be focused on the elevator. His mind was on the cruise. The girls danced for him along the deck of the boat. Vince had champagne in his cabin every night with a different dancer. The warm tropical sun beat down on his newly tan skin as the breeze licked his hair. When he woke up the tenth floor was empty.

The sobbing guy in the office blew his nose. The sound snapped Vince back from the Bahamas. The elevator door opened and the Federal Express guy stepped into the room.

Martin couldn’t stop bawling. “This is not happening. This is not happening.” He looked out his window to the street below. The pane glided open like a skater on ice. “This is it,” he thought, “I’m ending it all now.” The city street swirled beneath him. “I’ll jump.” Martin said to the empty room. “I’ll do it.” But first he’d need to write a note. Martin looked around for a pen.

“Sorry buddy, I didn’t know where to find you. It took me an hour to get here from 23^rd street. You know the rush hour traffic. Here’s your package. You got a pen?”

Vince went pale. The box was bigger than he expected. He scrambled around for a pen. “Don’t you guys carry one with you?”

The delivery guy smirked, “Yeah, but some jerk on the second floor pocketed it. You know the September pen phenomenon.”

Vince fumbled the drawer open without taking his eyes from the beautiful red, white, and blue box. He lifted half a pencil from the crevice of the drawer. He huffed and tossed it over his shoulder. “Just find a pen and you’ll have it,” Vince tried to focus on the drawer.

“What did you say?”

“Oh nothing. Are you sure you don’t have a pen. I can’t seem to find one.”

“Listen buddy, I don’t have a pen and I’m running a little behind schedule so if you can just dig one up I’ll give you the package and be on my way.”

Vince’s eyes zeroed in on a desk in the center of the room. The pen stood alone in a gold plated holder, gleaming. It looked like his salvation. From the other side of the room, Martin saw it as his last chance.

Their gazes met. The Federal Express guy rattled on about his schedule. Martin raced through the glass door and tripped on the recycling bin. His face slid a foot across the cold tile floor before his head crashed against the bottom of a desk.

Vince leapt from his chair and bolted to the pen. When he reached it he raised it triumphantly and turned to the FedEx man, who was just getting on the elevator.

“Wait!” Vince screamed. He yanked the pen to follow him, but it was chained to the desk. “NO! Come back!” Vince dropped the pen and ran to the elevator.

Martin pushed himself up from the ground. He couldn’t make out what the other guy was screaming about. He chuckled to himself. The pen was his.

He limped across the room. Martin could taste his own blood. He was alive, but he’d show them. That Mr. Davenport would be sorry. No one breaks Martin A. McArthur, except Martin. He discovered the chain on the pen and released a whimper.

Vince pranced back into the room with the deliveryman in hand.

“Right over here Mr. FedEx. It’s right over here.”

Vince eyeballed the mess that was once Martin A. McArthur holding his pen. He laughed. Martin gasped “NO!” just as Vincent Palentine punched him square in the face.

Minutes later Martin came to in a lake of blood. Vince sat over him in tears.

“You see, man,” Vince lowered a picture frame to Martin, “It’s my inheritance. It’s my Great Aunt Bertha.”

Martin’s eyes focused on the photo. Yellowed with age, he could just make out the large woman in the black feather boa.

Vince sobbed, “I was going to the Bahamas!”

Martin muttered, “I’m still alive.”

“And this whole office could use some pens!” Vince threw the picture in a wastebasket and started for the elevator.

Martin winced and picked himself up. He stretched his fingers out to the pen and broke it off the chain. The act sent chills up his spine. He grinned. Wheels spun in his head. “I can’t take their crap anymore. I just can’t take their crap.” The laughter of the high school bullies rang in Martin’s ears as he bull’s eyed the back of Vince’s head.

Vince pivoted to find the pen clutched in Martin’s fist. The room was a blur of screams.

“You want more pens. Here have the pen. I’m not taking your crap anymore. Take the pen!” Martin flew towards him like a wild bull. He plunged the pen deep into Vince’s throat.

Vince’s body crumpled in front of the tall silver ashtray. Vince fumbled the pen free. He glared at it and then at Martin. The warm river flowed from his throat down his white oxford shirt, creating a crimson tie. Vince’s vision faded to black.

Martin nodded, “No more crap.” He smoothed back his hair and straightened his tied. With a short kick to Vince’s ribs, Martin turned to survey the room. Crisp leafs of pure white paper had been scattered over the bloody tile floor. A wastebasket had toppled over. He strode over to it and set it up right. Vince’s old photo had shattered and the back had come loose. Martin noticed a little white corner protruding from the frame. Glancing back at Vince, he pulled the note free and read it aloud.

“To my favorite nephew, you’re a tough little kid, stay strong.”

The money fell to the desktop like snow. Martin’s eyes coasted over the thousand dollar bills. He didn’t know what president was on it. Without satisfying his curiosity, he shoveled them up and jammed them in his pocket. He leapt over Vince’s body and onto the elevator.

“You know, I’ve never seen the Bahamas.” Martin grinned as the elevator doors closed on the tenth floor.