Chapter 3

The old man's third stop was to return a red ball-point ink pen at The Great Wall of Privilege. This was a massive 20 mile long wall crossing through the town of Privilege. Built by the wealthy and honorable Mayor Hugo himself, it served not only as a lucrative tourist attraction to walk or jog along, but also to symbolize the separation of classes in the town. The rich, or upper class lived on the north side of the wall, right in the heart of Privilege. And the poor, or lower class, lived in the south of town, which the rich saw as quite fitting, for they were under privileged.

As the old man approached the entrance to The Great Wall where the pen was to be returned, he noticed groups of protesters gathered behind a police barricade with signs reading, Down with Walls! Equal Privilege for all! and Mayor Must Go!

"We're tired of being treated as lesser humans!" yelled a man.

"Mayor Hugo must go!" yelled a woman breaking the line. 

"Get back!" ordered a police officer,"BACK!!"

A struggle between the protesters and police broke out and the old man, caught in the middle, felt like a swimmer caught in rapids. He pulled out his red ink ball point pen to make sure it wouldn't be bumped out of his possession, and to his dismay, he discovered it had been leaking profusely for some time. The red ink had stained his coat pocket and drenched the left side of his white shirt. It left a rather bloody mess on his hands, as well. 

The squabble turned violent as an old lady began swatting a rookie police officer with her purse at which he pulled out his gun and shot it in the air. 

The dispersing panicked crowd caused the old man to trip and fall and he inadvertently stabbed himself with the red pen still in hand. The wound, coincidentally, was right in the middle of the ink stain on his shirt. He pulled it out, but the sight of it all caused him to fall again unconscious and a protester, noticing the red on his shabby clothing yelled,"He's been shot!"

"They've gone too far!" yelled another.

"He's dying from loss of blood!"cried the first, noticing a circle of stunned onlookers, "Won't anyone help this poor man? Are we not all ambulance-worthy??"

As the crowd's anger intensified along with the riotousness, while the old man slept from what was actually a minor puncture wound, an ambulance arrived and raced the supposed victim to the nearby hospital under the pretense that he was dying of a gunshot wound.


"To the hospital!!"yelled a protester.

"We shall demand fair treatment!" added another as a march to Privilege Hospital coalesced behind him.  

"You are a popular man," said the physician, when the old man awoke on the operating table in room 324 on the lower class care third floor,"the whole town is turned out over you."

"What do you mean?" asked the old man. 

The surgeon opened the curtains of the nearby window revealing a boisterous crowd of protesters below with signs that read SAVE THE POOR MAN! and HE DIES, YOU DIE! 

"Well, I have some good news for you, and all of us, apparently," said the doctor, "First of all, you are not going to die: turns out you have not been shot at all. May I say that you are the victim of a red ink pen gone mad?"

"Certainly–you need no permission. And may I say that is good news, but it is old news?" said the old man.

"You need no permission, either."

"Thank you. Were you going to say something, secondly?"

  
The nurse nudged the physician.

"Well, yes," said the doctor, hesitantly, "secondly, we feared the puncture wound had damaged your kidney so we checked them, but upon close and lengthy inspection we discovered that both of your kidneys are...well, in perfect shape."

Then a nurse said under her breathe, "And a perfect match!" to which the physician ordered her to leave the room.

"What did she mean–a perfect match?" asked the old man.

"Well, you didn't hear this from me," said the doctor softly,"but the mayor of Privilege is here in the hospital on the upper class care first floor, of course. His kidneys have both failed. He will die soon without a kidney transplant and yours, sir, is a blood and six antigen match, coincidentally."

"I'm starting to lose my faith in coincidence," confessed the old man, and then, without thinking, he added,"I would be happy to make him an offer of my spare kidney on letterhead if you have such a thing?"

"Certainly, do you need a pen, as well?" asked the doctor.

"No–but apparently there are many who do."

And so, the old man was brought a piece of stationary and he wrote just as he spoke, not knowing what words would come out... 

Dear Mayor Hugo,
It has come to my attention that you are in desperate immediate need of a kidney transplant. It has also come to my attention that my kidneys are a perfect match to yours and in my lonely old age, I see little sense in hoarding any of my organs and so I will gladly offer one to you. 

But first I must ask you this: Assuming that you, on the first floor, are prominent upper class citizen of Privilege and that I, on the third floor, am of the lower class, are you sure you want to run the risk of tarnishing your image if, by inserting my lower class organ, others were to discover that you are now partially lower class? 

Now before you answer this, perhaps there is a solution that can save your life, your reputation, and this fine town from civil war:  

Take my kidney and then tear down the Great Wall dividing Privilege and announce that there will no more be class distinctions; that all citizens of Privilege are of the same class; the human class, and the that you are living and breathing proof that the kidney of a poor man, or even a heart is as good as that of a rich man.

Either way, the kidney is yours...

Sincerely,

The poor old man.

PS. I left my address on back if you would ever like to write back. 
  
The letter was then delivered and read, and the old man's kidney was next removed and inserted successfully into the mayor's side.

"The mayor's life has been saved, and he thanks you from the bottom of his heart...and your kidney," said the surgeon when it was all over,"Of course, time will tell if it is a complete success. You know, I have a funny feeling that things are also going to be different in this town because of you."

"First, may I say that your feelings are no laughing matter," said the old man.

"You need no permission," said the surgeon,"were you going to say something, secondly?"

"Secondly, I will say that if things change, it will not be because of me. For all good change comes from God, He is the Changer."

And with that the old man went on his way...

Chapter 2

The next stop for the old man was the Bellmont Mansion, a luxurious estate built for the aged scowl-faced banking magnate, Harry S. Bellmont, who, being an entrepreneurial man rarely at home, had turned his unbelievably opulent and spacious mansion into a tourist destination.  

But on his way there, the old man became lost and stopped at what appeared to be a cramped boarding school in a state of unbelievable disrepair to ask directions. A tired-looking elderly lady answered the door.

"Good morning,"said the old man," I'm from out of town, and usually know exactly where I am, but for some reason, I presently do not. Could you tell me exactly where am I?"

"Well, yesterday, you would've exactly been at the doorstep of the Freemont Orphanage, in Freemont township." said the old woman,"But presently, you are at a condemned building foreclosed and repossessed by the Bellmont Bank. Where exactly are you headed?"

"Coincidentally, I was on my way to Bellmont Mansion, madam. I have a rather fancy golden pen to return there, presently. Is it far?"

"No. Three miles down and about two more to the right,"said the woman.

"Thank you. Good day," said the old man.

"No, it isn't for me,"said the woman,"But perhaps yours will be."

When the old man arrived at the Bellmont Mansion, it was just as he had left it, rolling green grounds garnished by colorful flower gardens leading up to the massive white stone-pillared estate.

But what was different on that particular day was that in the board room just off the lobby, Mr. Bellmont, his cold scowl now approaching ninety years, had gathered his family to discuss his will.

As the old man stepped up to the ticket counter, he said nothing, but pulled out the golden pen from his suit coat about to lay it down.

The receptionist returned the silence and pointed to the meeting room to which the old man gave a puzzled look.

"They're expecting you,"whispered the receptionist.

Still perplexed, the old man walked to the board room and quietly opened the door. Mr. Bellmont was seated in a wheelchair at the head of a large table, surrounded by his lawyers and the well-dressed lawyers beside the well-dressed family members they represented.

"I am a wealthy man,"began the tycoon, scowling at his posterity,"Presently, I have more fortunes than would fit in King Tut's tomb and we see how much good they did him dead."  

Then, noticing the old man, pen in hand, Mr. Bellmont motioned for him to approach. "At last, bring it here," he said.

The old man complied and brought him the golden pen. 

Then Mr. Bellmont continued with his speech from his scowling mouth, "As I was saying, I have no need for money where gold is used as asphalt–if, by the grace of God, I am worthy of such a place–and so I wish to do the most good for my three children, six grandchildren, and sixteen great-grandchildren with the nearly limitless fortunes that I have acquired. How shall I divide it all?"

"Well, father, you know I–"began one of the children. 

But his lawyer interrupted."Being the oldest son, my client is entitled to–"

But then he was interrupted by another lawyer, this one representing the second daughter,"And my client has a promising business venture that could further expand the–"

And the interruptions continued until it was nothing but noise and fingers directing that noise, filling the room.

During the confusion, the old man, having completed his purpose, was making his way back to the door and was about to step out when Mr. Bellmont shouted,"Wait!–you there. What exactly do you think should be done?"

Stunned, the family and their lawyers suddenly got quiet.

"Well,"said the old man not thinking once again,"I can see that by the retainers paid in this room, your children seem to be presently well off enough. It would seem to me that the most good you could do for them would be to take exactly none of your nearly limitless fortunes and divide that up equally amongst them. And what to do with the rest? Well, on my way here I stopped at a place that yesterday was the Freemont Orphanage, but presently, has been foreclosed by your bank. I would take the exact remainder of your fortune and put it into fixing up and funding that place and do the same to exactly as many other orphanages across the country as your inheritance can reach."

"In God's name!" began one of the Bellmont children.

"Absolutely,"said the old man,"there should be no other way to do it, for He is The Bequeathor."

Then, as the old man walked out, and another man–the expected one with a golden pen in hand– entered the room, the noise resumed...

"Father, you can't be!–"

"This man has no legal right to!–"

"Where does he get the nerve?!"

"I'll sue! Can we sue??"

And a warm grin washed the scowl off Mr. Bellmont's face as sunlight touched the face of the old man on his way to return another pen...

Chapter 1

There once lived an old man who had a very large collection of pens of all different colors, shapes and sizes. 

But he was very unhappy.

His wife, whom he loved dearly, had passed away several years prior, and he had spent his time since traveling the world, seeing the wonders of it in hopes of filling the emptiness he felt inside since she had departed. He had been to the highest mountain, the deepest valley, the grandest waterfall, the most luxurious mansion, and many places in between, but none had provided any lasting pleasure and he remained empty as a pen out of ink.

At every lodging where he stayed, every place he ate, or gift shop he visited, he signed in or paid his bill with the pen he was handed, and after doing so, he had a most terrible habit of putting the pen away in his worn suit jacket and walking off with it.

On the evening after returning from his final trip–for he had seen everything there was–he lay awake in his bed and asked God a simple question: "How can I be happy again?"

Not expecting an answer, the man drifted off and just as his usual snore commenced, a very distinct, but soft voice awoke him whispering,"Return the pens."

The man opened his weary eyes, expecting to see a person at his bedside, but saw no one. Again the voice said,"Return the pens."

The old man thought the request very unusual, for most of the writing utensils in his possession were hardly worth more than a few pennies, and he himself had left plenty of pens in places to balance out the justice of the Universe, but believing it must be God's answer, he made the decision to obey.

And so he gathered up his pens and began retracing his steps...

The first place he returned to was Paradise Falls, one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in all the world. The pen he had stolen from the Paradise Hotel's reception desk was a six inche long blue pen. Fountain, of course.

But when he arrived, he found the hotel was empty except for a bellhop who seemed frantic on the phone.

"Yes, police?? This is the Paradise Hotel," said the bellhop,"A young woman is about to jump off the falls-come quickly, please!"

Being curious, the old man rushed outside, pen still in hand, and climbed to the very highest point of the falls where a crowd of panicking onlookers were trying to persuade the young woman to climb back onto the safe side of the railing.

"No!" cried the young woman as a hotel worker reached for her,"Back away or I'll jump!"

By this time, the old man had made his way to the front of the crowd and was staring down at the violent water descending thousands of feet, splashing into the canyon cut river below.

Suddenly, he felt a compulsion to speak to the young lady, and so, without knowing what would come out, he opened his mouth. "That's certainly an amazing drop!" he shouted over the noise,"In fact, the only thing more certainly amazing would be to see someone plunge off this falls to their certain death and I'd certainly love to watch but before you entertain us all, may I ask why you are jumping??"

The crowd gave the old man a rather displeasing look, and some of the women began to practice their screams and fainting, for this old man's sarcastic comments would certainly push the young woman off the edge. And even the old man was alarmed at what came out of his mouth, for he generally kept to himself and was far too shy to encourage someone to commit suicide. 

But to everyone's surprise the woman responded with equal sarcasm,"Certainly, old man! I've lost everything: my job to another country, my husband to another woman, my home to the bank and now I have nothing left–most certainly nothing to live for!"

"Ahh, I see!" said the old man, once again without thinking,"those are certainly good reasons, good reasons, indeed. Quite right, you have nothing to live for...But what do you have to die for??"

"What do you mean??" yelled the woman.

"Joan of Arc had the oppressed citizens of France, Martin Luther, the faith of the ignorant masses, Romeo had true love, what cause do you have to die for??"

A pensive look came across the young woman's face and after a minute she replied,"Well, I am not quite sure, but-"

"I detect the uncertainty in your reply," interrupted the old man,"Now I suggest you at least delay your last leap until you are absolutely certain you have a cause worthy of martyrdom."

"God only knows what that might be,"said the woman, flippantly.

"Yes, He does,"said the old man,"After all, He is The Martyr." 

Miraculously, the woman seemed to come to her senses and tried making her way back to safety, but slipped on a loose rock and was about to fall into the abyss.

Instinctively, the old man, who was just about six inches further away than arms length from the woman, held out the blue fountain pen, which she grasped, and he pulled her to safety.

The crowd's sighs crescendo'ed into cheers for the old man's heroic deed.

"Anyone have a small piece of paper to write on?" asked the old man.

A hotel worker handed him a small notepad and pen.

"Just paper, thank you,"said the old man,"I certainly have plenty of pens."

Then he wrote his name and address on the paper and handed it to the woman.

"Now I certainly don't want to miss your martyrdom when it occurs," he said,"Do inform me beforehand, would you?"

"Certainly," said the woman, sniffling.

Then, the old man returned the notepad and blue fountain pen to the hotel worker and went on his way...