To Ear

--Scott Santoro


It happened to me again, just recently—I was "earred."

"This is from Extreme Digital on 23rd street--sign here please." The bike messenger handed me his pad of autographs. My delivery address and time were already written into an empty space at the end of the list and everything was going so nicely until the process took an ugly turn. The pen I was going to be signing with was tucked behind the messenger‘s ear.

Everything slowed down. The pen was in an accessible place for sure--a quick pull and it was at the ready. I noticed that it was one of those clear, plastic Bic pens, the kind that come with a pull-off cap that's always missing. It explained why the pen was behind the ear and not in a pocket somewhere. Funny how perfect a fit the pen made, as if the slim instrument was designed to be held in place there. Hair only added to the functionality of the location. It concealed the pen, and also helped stabilize it.

The messenger plucked it from his head and pointed it in my direction. "Should I run back into my office to find my own pen?" I thought. "No, I can't do that! I would create an embarrassing situation." Instead, I just went for it.

At first touch, the pen actually felt warm. Bread sticks are supposed to feel toasty, not pens. But it was unusually hot for an October day and the messenger was overdressed for the weather outside. In fact, he was sweating. The bicycle garb he wore only made it worse. Dancer's leotards with speed lines, a streamlined helmet that, from the back, reminded me of a waterbug, and dark, streamlined goggles that wrapped around his face. He looked inhuman, but the pen's placement brought him back to an everyday Joe, and the act of removing it, a sort of warm and fuzzy gesture.

The only real problem for me was that the articles he wore tended to bundle in the heat, so there was no place for it to escape other than out the exposed sides of his head. The pen absorbed the excess energy.

The ink, inside its casing, would naturally become more liquefied. It's a worrisome condition because pens tend to leak. But the baking helped the pen's ink flow smoothly. My penmanship seemed cursive and streaming, as if I were getting more expression from it than a normal pen.

My grip on the plastic was firm, almost sticky. I realized that the pen had been used many times before me, by many other people, which would account for its oily film. It was a bit like the thin, dried coating you find on a can of cooking oil.

If the residue wasn't from others, then it might have been from bicycle grease. I decided it was bicycle grease, but still, I couldn't help think that the ear and head had something to do with it. The thought of sweat, hair oil, and wax all blended together into a pasty residue, made me to want wash my hands as soon as possible.

I felt guilty. Was I looking down on this person because of what I considered, an hygienic infraction? I would think that 21st Century viruses like the SARS and E coli legitimize my behaviour.

Not that I think the messenger should care what I think. To him, I'm just an end point. He can afford to be oblivious to the fact that I might not want to touch something that's had too much intimacy with his personal areas.

This all makes me think of times in my life when others have erred: The clerk at the automotive center, the gym instructor, and the Greenpeace kid, all holding clip boards, all wanting a signature from me--all with pens stuck behind their ears.

Occasionally, I see a cigarette fitting nicely there too. That last smoke from the pack, rendered unsharable. James Dean made it a rebellious fashion code in "Rebel Without a Cause." Could it be that the messenger's pen was a mockery toward those who receive things? No, I doubt there was any malice attached. The placement was surely for utility and efficiency.

I wonder how many people behind all those signatures felt the way I did? As long as there are pens, the process will continue. But the act is forgivable—to err is human.