The Fountain Pen

I came a few hours ago… to secure my seat. I had just sat down on the bleachers, before anyone else arrived, in my row. The second seat from the stairway… and up one level against the back wall. You might see me now… if only you looked on over this way.

The front edge of the chair is marked with a number, 42, and it’s the meaning of life. For, when I came here with my flag to cheer you on, I had crossed the length of the bloody Atlantic…just to watch the match from these same stands. And when I moored my ship upon the shore, like a beached whale, and came upon this city… no sooner had I scaled the topmast of my ship to secure its flag — than I had overheard a rumpus about this soon-to-be once-in-a-lifetime event.

And so it came to pass, that after I had free soloed the halyard of my flagship (I dare say, without a single fishermans' knot to assist in my ascent upwards), I somehow managed to secure the flag that hung there and promptly folded it up neatly, atop the mainmast of the flagship, before concealing it within the breast pocket of my jacket; and, when I got back down to the deck again, I carried it (thus secured in my pocket) from the shipyard over to the stadium.

And, from here, as if by some divine force that cannot be explained, the first persons to approach me — as if they'd been drawn by my unassuming presence — were a pair of scalpers, no less; and, as if by magic, they were forthwith persuaded by my western air, to sell me discounted tickets to the very match I'd planned to attend, for the sum of just three hundred złoty a piece.

Such an invitation...I could not have permitted to pass me by; and thus, I cordially accepted, knowing full well that some power was at work which I could not yet comprehend. But, as if by whispered instruction (which I could only vaguely perceive at that moment in time) from an intangible dimension, beyond my understanding, I retained this image of the encounter forevermore.

From that point on, I followed the river… the Wisła; until such time that I came upon the broad steps leading to the stadium. Whereupon, I recount that a few enthusiastic wags, standing just outside the doors, sought earnestly to use my cheeks as canvases to paint the colours of red and white upon them (for a very reasonable price), so as to mimic the very flag in my breast pocket — before I had had the chance to step foot inside the stadium. However, I agreed to this violation of personal space, and thanked them for their services, no less. And when I finally sat down, in seat 42, up in my row, I extracted a large parchment (from another one of my pockets) so that you could see just what was written there too, plain as day.

I wrote some lines with my fountain pen and waited for the fans to fill the stadium. And given time, they filled it; and so loud were the chants from the spectators during the match that followed, that, had this very stadium by some unforeseen wormhole or other, teleported just then to Italy (with all the hooligans and fans together in the stands), and reappeared next to the Colosseum in Rome, the sounds erupting alone from within, at intervals, would’ve blown the very Colosseum itself — together with all its warrior gladiators — into a black hole somewhere in spacetime and reduced it to mere quarks.

So profound was this moment, that I pulled out a large fountain pen to write down a line or two for you to decipher before the vision escaped me, and together with the gladiators of old these lines vanished into some other galaxy. And so I drew out the flag from my pocket, and hung it over the railing, ignoring my phone altogether (along with the unpredictable ballpoint pen, residing in there too)… for both of these instruments have had way more field time than permitted by the captain of this ship; who is fully aware that the ink does not bleed from the ballpoint quite like it used to. And instead, it more often leaves blotches and stains... or fails altogether; such that it is almost as painful to look at on paper as if a hot poker gouged my eye, which had been (no doubt) the penalty for holding these beliefs, in some distant world.

On the contrary, the fountain pen flowed smoothly across the parchment as though it were cutting through the water aboard my flagship, with no interruptions... no great breaks, nor breaking waves. Consistent progress unfolded over the waves of the parchment, like a centre midfielder who joins all the ranks on the field, as one. Thus, I benched those other instruments of communication of mine, for the present; and I reinstated the fountain pen in a place among the field of stars.

The fountain pen with its nearly endless supply, pours out ceaselessly for your enjoyment. Its rank in the hierarchy…restored. Its penmanship is truly... unmatched. They’d try and ban it if they could. They’d impose a red or a yellow card, upon it, and suspend it. Then they’d ignore it, or fight it before they levy an additional tax upon it — A freedom tax. That's what they'd call it. But the skipper keeps it flowing freely, as though it were bootlegged across the border.

In such a way, I wrote on the parchment in big black letters, so that, even if it didn't show up, I would be sure you’d see it. I’d hold it up with both hands, right up over my head. And I’d dangle my flag over the railing so that when it catches the evening wind and ripples back and forth, you'll know I was there. It will be impossible to miss, for I’m your biggest fan. Today, you'd know, I crossed the ocean.

I’d jump right out there, shouting and hollering after the winning goal, and they’d tackle and pin me down… and take away my fountain pen.

— “Earnest, wake up, for goodness sake. Wake up, Earnest .”

“What. What is it?”

“It’s 3 am. C’mon, you’re shouting in your sleep. What are you on — are you dreaming about Europe, again?”

“Oh sorry. Sorry. It was… just that… well, I was in a bloody football stadium… there was a bloody match”

“It was just a dream. Go back to sleep Earnest.”