Chapter 7

The next pen the old man had to return may have been as unique but certainly not as beautiful as the trumpet shell pen. It was cold and heavy and could best be described as a lead pipe that writes. He had lifted it from The World Bank. FIY–on his record there were no other bank heists.

He got in the rather long line behind a fidgety young fellow who wore dark sunglasses, ragged clothing, and held a brown lunch sack.  It was a miserably long wait sandwiched between the strange guy and a little girl crying in her mother's arms with snot running down her chin. The noise was so annoying that the old man asked rhetorically,"What in the world is wrong with that child?" under his breathe. 

But the woman heard him and said,"Look, I didn't ask to be a mom of a down's syndrome child!" Then she proceeded to complain to the old man about how she had plans of a glorious career as an actress until Brad came along and got her pregnant with Sarah,"So welcome to my world, old man!"

The old man regretted his comment, preferring the crying baby to the guilt he felt for what he had said and thought he might crawl away with his tail between his legs, when finally, the man in front of him had his turn at the teller, and it became apparent why he was so fidgety, for he pulled a gun from his jacket and demanded the woman at the teller fill his bag with money.


"Actually, you can put your gunny sack away,"said the teller calmly,"We keep a bag filled and ready to go for just such an occasion." And as she said it, she pulled out a bag, presumably filled with cash and pushed it over to the thief and said,"Next please."


"Not so fast,"said the thug,"you might think I was born yesterday, but I know exactly what is in that bag." 

The woman opened it, pulled out a stack of bills, and ran her nail across it,"There's twenty thousand in here–in twenties, much more than you could fit in that nap sack of yours."

The man knocked the bag across the table,"And when I get to the bottom of it, a bomb of red dye will explode on me,"he said waving the gun closer," You think I'm stupid? YOU THINK I'M STUPID!?"

As the intensity of the already intense confrontation rose, the little down syndrome girl began crying louder which angered the robber who turned, and seeing the little girl said," YOU WANT TO SEE STUPID?" Then he pointed the gun at the little girl and shouted,"YOU WANNA SEE STUPID?!" 

At that same moment the old man, slightly behind the thief,  pulled out the pen he was to return and without thinking, jabbed it like a gun barrel into the criminal's side.


"I'll tell you what's stupid,"the old man whispered in the theif's ear with a Clint Eastwood voice,"to turn your back on an impatient fan of Dirty Harry movies packin' cold steel–that's stupid. Now drop it!"

The thief obeyed and was escorted out of the bank where the police were waiting.


And after the man returned the pen the woman with crying baby said,"Thank you for saving the world."


"Oh, I didn't save the world,"said the old man.


The woman held her down's syndrome child close and said, wiping a tear away,"Well, Lord knows you saved mine, today." 

"Then send your thanks to the Savior of the World," said the old man to which the woman smiled. Then Sarah whispered something to her mom.

"Sarah would like to draw you a picture," said the woman,"if we may we have your address to send it to you. Do you have another pen, by chance?"


"Yes. But not by chance." And so the old man gave his address and went on his way.

Chapter 6

And speaking of fish, the old man's next stop was across shark infested waters to the Island of Lost Regret, so named because it was so secluded and so beautiful and peaceful that a visitor could bring any regret-one per guest please-and check it in at the front desk and never see it again. Or so the brochure promised. 


Having missed the main ferry, the old man climbed aboard an old sea worn skiff to take him to across the shark infested waters to the island. The woman in uniform who greeted him was equally old and sea worn, though her face still had a youthful beauty to it, and the old man asked her, "Who is the captain of your ship?"


"You're looking at her," the woman confidently replied,"and crew."


As he was the only passenger, soon after their launch began a casual conversation about the weather which led to a friendly chat about the ocean which led to the captain asking if the old man was visiting the island for the first time to which he answered,"No. The first time I came to leave something behind. But I only managed to take something else that I am coming back a second time to return."


"Without getting too personal, may I ask what you tried leaving behind?"asked the captain.


"Certainly,"answered the old man,"but I will save you the time and go ahead and give you the answer–which I can only get too personal in giving. I tried leaving behind my only regret which was not cherishing every single moment I had with the woman I loved."


"What kind of love was it?" asked the captain.


"As deep and true as the ocean beneath us."


The woman looked to the blue horizon and sighed."I have a similar regret,"she said,"I had the chance for true love, but I did not take it."


"But surely a pretty woman as yourself could find someone-"began the old man.

"Oh, I've had plenty of other someones offer me the kind of love that washes away like words written with a stick on the beach, but I've searched the seven seas for love as painfully true as the one in your eyes and never found it again."


"Well,"  the old man said, "Perhaps, it will find you instead, God-willing."


The woman smiled,"I would settle for the Island of Lost Regret to simply come thru on it's promise for me."


"Perhaps it would be more regretful if it did," said the old man,"For the mark of regret is a stubborn stain, else we return to play in the mud again." 


"Who said that?"


"I did, for once."


"So what is it you are returning?" she asked as a wave crashed against the bow and sprayed their faces.

"This irreplaceable pen made from a rare trumpet shell,"explained the old man. And as he showed her the strange pen, a terrible thing happened...or so it seemed. The boat hit a very large wave and the pen dropped in the water.

The man was about to jump in after it but the captain left the helm and grabbed him. 


"Are you crazy?!"she said,"Those are shark infested waters. You need the proper gear."

And so the captain suited herself and the old man in scuba gear, and, with harpoon in hand, she and he dove into the shark infested waters.


Down they went, deeper and deeper, into the dark abyss, passing unassuming jellyfish by and a large shark going about other business until finally they reached the ocean floor and unexpectedly happened upon the pen lodged between a piece of coral.


But what was even more unexpected was that the shark had a sudden change of plans and possibly a curious interest in pens, for it  headed straight for the old man who was unaware, struggling to free the pen. 


Once freed, the old man held up the pen triumphantly, but the shark ripped it from his hands and swallowed it whole. 


Then, not satisfied with the inky meal, it soon circled back for another course. But just as the shadow of it's jaws engulfed the old man, the ship's captain harpooned the shark and killed it dead.


Still, the old man insisted the shark be dragged up into the boat. Once accomplished, it was slit in two with a knife, and it's innards burst forth onto the boat floor.


"Ah, here it is!" said the old man, pulling the pen out of the gooey mess.

"Look at what else I found," said the captain, holding up what looked to be a passport,"it appears our man-eater has lived up to his name." 


Then she opened it. The picture was of an older, but handsome man,"Pedro Garcia,"she read,"Shame. He made a handsome lunch, for sure."


"Perhaps he is still alive," said the old man.


"Not with my luck,"The woman smiled and had barely set the passport down on the deck rail when another wave hit the boat knocking the passport overboard.


"Then you can borrow some of God's," said the old man, leaning over the side of the boat and catching the passport just before it reached the water,"I seem to have it lately." 


Surprised, the captain put the passport in her pocket and they continued their journey.


Then, as they both looked out at the massive sea that now surrounded them with no land in sight, she asked,"Why would God care about an insignificant little boat on the water like me?" 


"Because we are all vessels,"said the old man,"And He will steer our ship if we let him."

"You're on a roll, I think," said the captain.


"Oh that wasn't from me."


"Who then?"


The old man pointed upward and said,"The Captain."

When they arrived at the island of Lost Regret, the trumpet pen was returned and on the way back, the old man said,"If it's not too personal, I should like to hear from you when you fall in love again." 


"Personally, I would regret it if I did not,"said the captain.


And with that, the captain and old man exchanged addresses, a handshake, and then parted ways.

Chapter 5

Fugu is the priciest and rarest delicacy at Kai Kai Pai, a very pricey and rare restaurant in it's own right in Japan.  In fact, fugu is as exquisitely flavorful as it is potentially deadly, the meat being derived from the poisonous puffer fish which, if it's toxins are not removed properly, can paralyze a man making him appear dead, or asphyxiate him to actual death. And although the old man had just braved one of the highest peaks in all the world he still did not have the nerve to try it when he arrived there and was offered it on the menu. The pen he had brought to return was a cylindrical shaped glass pen. 

But when offered to the hostess she said wielding her ipad,"We no use pens anymore, We hi-tech-no pen restaurant."

So the glass pen was tucked back in his suit pocket as the waiter came to him, ipad in hand.


"You try fugu, today?" asked the waiter.


"No, I have big juicy steak, please."


"You sure? Fugu clean, we so clean we no straw restaurant."


"No thank-"


"Give me a double order," interrupted a large Texan in a white suit and cowboy hat who sat in the booth beside the old man,"no make that triple, in case this old cod changes his mind."


"Been a long time, compadre," said the old man recognizing the old friend as his much thinner pastor- preferring compadre to padre-when he and his wife lived in Houston. "You've...well, grown a bit."

"Yes, I've conquered all the cardinal sins but one," he chuckled, jiggling his belly,"In fact, my wife left me over it. Accused me of having an affair with the fridge. I'm was sorry to hear about your wife's passing."

"Yes, me too. So, are you starting a new church here?"

"No-Love food so much I left preachin' altogether to pursue a career as a chef. Came here to learn the culinary arts of fine Japanese cuisine to take back to Texas for those who want more than Mexican on the menu, comprende?"

"Comprendo," replied the old man.

And so the two enjoyed catching up while waiting for their food.


When the courses arrived, the old man was two bites into his steak by the time the Texan was halfway thru his meal.


"Sure you won't try some?" he asked after a large gulp of his beer,"Been preparin' and eatin' this stuff for years-it's harmless. They're a no straw restaurant, ya know."


"No pens, either,"smiled the old man,"Ok-why not." 

As the old man said this he began to break into a sweat. But he didn't understand his nervousness. For he did not fear death, really. Not since his wife was gone.

And so as he held up the chunk of fugu to his mouth, the Texan roused the patrons...


"GOO! GOO! GOO!" they all chanted as the old man put the puffer fish meat in his mouth and began to chew.


"If this is the taste of death, it's not half bad,"joked the old man which caused the whole restaurant to laugh, especially the Texan. 

But then came an aftertaste which was quite unplanned and unpleasant and which made the old man's weak stomach begin to rumble like a volcano.


"Excuse me," he said rushing off to the restroom while the crowd laughed on. But as the customers' died down the Texan's laughter seemed to increase and then his laughter was mixed with coughing, and then it was all coughing and no longer a laughing matter at all.


"You OK?"said a lady at the next table.


At first, the bent over Texan held out his arm signaling that he was in no need of help but soon it was around his throat signaling, along with his beat red face, something quite different.


"He poisoned!"yelled the lady's husband throwing down his chopsticks,"fugu bad!"


"No! No!"declared a waiter,"Fugu good. He choking-I do Heimlich." 

And so the waiter, half the size of the Texan, threw off the cowboy hat and began doing the Heimlich maneuver on the man in crisis. 

But after several attempts no food was dislodged and as the waiter let go, the Texan dropped to the floor, clawing for air as if it he had dropped it.


"Is there a doctor!"yelled someone.


"I'm a doctor,"said an American woman from the other side of the restaurant running to the scene.


After a quick assessment, the doctor said,"This man needs a tracheotomy."


"I call emergency!"said the store owner who was nearby.


"No-he needs one now or he'll die!" said the doctor,"Hold his head back." 

As several men worked to steady the large victim, the doctor grabbed the old man's steak knife off the table, dipped it in the Texan's beer, wiped it with a napkin and then stabbed the Texan right in the throat.


"Now I need a straw,"said the doctor,"Someone get me a straw?!"


"We no straw restaurant,"said the waiter.


"A pen then, get me a pen!"

The waiter and owner looked at each other and the owner swallowed and replied, "We no pen restaurant, sir."

"I can order online," suggested the hostess with the ipad in hand,"we hi-tech."


"THIS MAN WILL DIE!" screamed the doctor,"DOESN'T ANYONE HAVE A PEN IN THIS GOD- FORSAKEN RESTAURANT?!"


No one did, it seemed.

"Perhaps it is not God forsaken after all," said the old man who had returned from the restroom,"Here." He handed the glass pen to the doctor who quickly emptied it, cleaned it in the beer, jabbed it into the Texan's throat and began to blow oxygen into his lungs.

When the paramedics arrived they were able to dislodge the fugu that apparently was not poisonous, but simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.


And to the old man, who was simply in the right place at the right time, the muted Texan, borrowing the pen (after it was pulled out, washed, and reassembled, of course ) wrote a thank you note:

Thank you for being here to save me. That's the second time I almost died in the last two months. First, was a heart attack. Your a true compadre, he wrote.

Thank God, not me, wrote the old man back, Perhaps you should try a new diet.

I've tried dieting. God knows that don't work with me, wrote the Texan, I can't stop eatin'. I'm never satisfied, comprende?

Perhaps you should return to His table, then. 

Whose table? 

The table of The Master Chef. Comprende?

Comprende, wrote the Texan.

And with that, the two exchanged addresses and goodbyes and parted ways.

Chapter 4

Author's note: This chapter is inspired by stories of my father's climbs in the Himalayas.

The next return was not one the old man looked forward to. For Pride Mountain was one of the highest peaks in the Limihayas mountains of the West Orient. Now he never had actually scaled, or intended to scale, the 20,000 foot peak. But even the 13,00 foot hike to the lodge at base camp where the wooden pen had been taken was no stroll in the park. It was a ten day affair to acclimatize the inexperienced climber, at least: a day's hike a quarter of the way up, a day's rest, then back down the third day, then up to the halfway point on the fourth, rest on the fifth, then back all the way down on the sixth, rest–seventh, eighth all the way up to base camp. Ninth at base camp and tenth back down.

The old man hired the same sherpa from his previous visit, a strong young native of the Limihaya region named, Cho who had guided many to the top of Pride mountain. These facts were all he knew about Cho, for the old man was a quiet hiker and had not paid for companionship, only a sturdy back, and besides saying "No" every time the sherpa asked if he wanted to go to the top, about the only other conversation was when he asked Cho,"Why does mountain look like used car lot?" (leaving out parts of speech made himself more easily understood by foreigners). This question was asked on account of the colorful small flags stringed from rock to rock at different stops along the trail to which Cho answered,"They prayers to God. Prettiest at top-God nearest. You go top, boss?"

"No. I no go top," said the old man. And that was it.

But this time, after the sherpa loaded up all the supplies on his back for the long journey, and handed the old man his coat, he noticed all the pens in the suit coat pockets and another conversation ensued..

"Many pens. Me carry, boss?"offered Cho.


"No. My burden,"said the old man,"You packing enough."

"This nothing, boss," said Cho.


About a mile into their climb, the old man again felt impressed to open his mouth. "What Cho-heaviest load?"he asked.

The sherpa smiled,"I carry lots. Once I work South African climber. Him want me carry lots guns to top-you go top, boss?"

"No, I no go top."


"He want shoot how you say abomable snowman? He say: I shoot–you carry back. No snowman. But guns heavy. But no heaviest."

About halfway through their journey, the old man asked his question again to which the sherpa responded, "Once, we take pack mule for man and wife bring too much. Big mistake. Donkey get sick. I pack ass out. But no heaviest, boss."

On the hike back up to base camp the old man asked a third time to which the sherpa replied, "Once I take two Swedes. I say need two sherpas. No. Cheap, cheap!  I carry all to top. You go top, boss?"

"No, I no go top."


"Swedes eat lot. But no heaviest."


Finally, while at base camp getting a drink at the lodge, the old man said,"You tell great stories. But still no tell heaviest load."

Then the sherpa stopped sipping his tea and said,"Now I tell, boss...I have no son. I ask God. He give me one son. Beautiful. Strong. Like Cho. Wife. Me. Him. Happy. He grow. Then they come. Rebels. Take young boy from pasture. Join them. Fight."

Then Cho made sounds as if he was choking on his tea and said, trembling,"I go. I go to find. No. They say. He dead. He dead, boss!"

And the sherpa wept and wept from anguish.

The old man put his arm on Cho's shoulder but it was refused.


"I no forgive God,"said the sherpa,"I no forgive! That heaviest load, boss. God no understand."

At this point the man could not think of anything to say to comfort him.  

But then words came...


"God understand. He knows pain of Cho. God is father like Cho. Has son. Beautiful son. Like God. People come. Take away son." 

"Kill son, too?"

"Yes, Cho. Kill son, too."

"Why he not stop people if He God?"

"Love. Because God love Cho. God loves me. He give son for all world." 


You no want heavy load, Cho?"

"Yes. No want heavy load. Heavy, boss."

"Then pray. Pray everything inside. Best prayer. Prettiest."


"But how I pray if no forgive, boss?"

"You ask God forgive Cho first."

Cho's eyes lit up. "Then I go top mountain,"he said,"Nearest God."

"Yes."


"And pray?"


"Yes."


By now, the old man was sure, that short of perhaps on more yes, his work was done.


But then Cho asked,"You go top, boss?"

"No, I no go, Cho."


"Then Cho no pray."


"Cho pride higher than mountain?" preached the irritated old man.


"No. Cho no can write. Boss go top. Write prayer on flag for Cho?"

The old man heaved a heavy sigh and then relented, "Yes. I go, Cho."


And so, the old man accompanied his sherpa 7,000 feet to the top of Pride Mountain and there he was scribe with the wooden pen writing for Cho, the most beautiful prayer he had ever heard. 

Dear God,
I Cho. You God. You give me son. Beautiful son. And take away. Die. I angry. Hate God. I no forgive. But now I see. God no sin. Cho sin. God has reason for everything. I sorry for sin. I sorry for God's son. Sorry. God forgive Cho. Forgive! Amen.

After the prayer was hung, Cho wept and wept. But this time it was from joy.

"Heavy load gone. How God take?" asked Cho.

"He is Sherpa,"said the old man,"Sherpa carry all loads."

"Maybe Sherpa carry you pens, too,"said Cho.

"Yes, maybe," replied the old man.

And then they climbed down the mountain, returned the pen, and the old man descended and went on his way...