Generational Trauma

My grandmother was old the entire time I knew her. Yours probably too. But mine was infected with a strange form of kleptomania that only attacked at certain times. It attacked when she ate out at restaurants. Which meant mainly on the birthdays of her loved ones. 

She did not steal food. Or money. Or souls. Although her descendents might quibble about that last one. 

She did not steal glances. Or hearts. Or favors. Trust me on this. 

She stole sugar. Only in packet form. She stole jelly. Again, packet form only. She stole paper products. But only by the handful. She stole cutlery. You guessed it, plastic only.

My grandmother was a product of the depression, so we all just shrugged and smiled. When we asked why she did this she always replied, “just in case.” She passed that frugality down to her progeny. Along with a sneaking suspicion that the world would eventually crumble around us. 

In addition to this dystopian outlook on capitalism she passed down her tendency to pilfer. To me at least.

I steal pens. Correction: I stole pens. Not pens like the ones inside a bank, attached to the beaded metal ropes. I’m not a monster. No, I took the free pens. Untethered pens. I’m not so sure you can even call it stealing really. I more like re-homed them. 

The best pens to steal are the ones at nice hotels. Sleak, metal bad boys that write like a charm. No clips or tops on them that get stuck on stuff. Gleaming tiny missiles that disseminate ink with ease. Preferably black ink. Blue is weird. Any other color is downright ostentatious. 

I needed pens. I took lots of notes at my job. And pencils are icky. Always needing to be sharpened and replaced. And that feeling of pencil to paper - so coarse. Do you have texture issues? I don’t think I do. But then….pencils. 

Pens make no noise when they slide across paper. Pens are aristocratic. Classy. Luxurious. Yes, if you make a mistake you must cross it out….so be it. Because erasers….again, filthy. 

But what about all of these pens that keep flaunting themselves at me? The one at the fancy steak restaurant, just sitting there, inside the fake book thing they’ve left me with that has our bill in it. Or the nice one in the hermetically sealed bank shoot thing? By the time they notice it’s gone I’ll be halfway home!

It’s all I can manage to say, “no Henny, you don’t need that pen. Just walk away.” I’m in recovery. One day at a time I tell myself. Is there a twelve step program I can join?

Then it happens. Downtown in a nice hotel. Off the twelfth floor elevator and around the corner. Empty hallway. No noticeable cameras. There it is….landline phone…notepad…silver, glowing, glamorously sexy pen. 

Just take it Henny. No one will know. They’ll replace it tomorrow. Remember how much you are paying for this goddamned room? The pen is the price of doing business for them.

My internal dialogue escalates. No. I have too many. I don’t need it. It’s not mine. Just leave it you cheap bastard!

Phew. I made it to my room. I’ve passed the pen. One day at a time. 

I throw my backpack on the bed. Look for the remote. Uh-oh. Another phone. Another notepad. [*cue the heavenly music]  Another pen.

Another pen. 

It’s going to stare at me the entire time I’m here. I have to take it. This is a ritzy place and we are staying here two nights. If I take this one they will replace it tomorrow.

THEN I GET TWO PENS! Oh no, like an alcoholic at a Kennedy family reunion, I must remove myself. Leave the room. Maybe Al-Anon will take me?

I made it through the trip with no new pens. It took determination and self-discipline, but I did it. 

See, I’m better than the generations before me. I don’t have to be an eighty year old man with a garage full of pens. I can be better. Elevate my mind. Transcend the trauma. 

But what about all of the pens I’ve already stolen? Sorry, I mean re-homed? I don’t need them anymore. They are in perfect working condition…surely someone can use them? Where do you even give hundreds of pens? Goodwill? Salvation Army?

Nah. I’ll keep them. 

Just in case.