kitewithfish (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kitewithfish) wrote2008-06-25 06:11 pm
kitewithfish) wrote2008-06-25 06:11 pm
Entry tags:
Day 2: Devil in the Details
Day 2
Fountain pens were one of those things you just don’t have to deal with these days. Was it any wonder he wouldn’t know there was such a damned fuss about the stupid things? Apparently you have to buy one for five bucks (and five bucks for a stinking pen was enough to make Clive want to smack the stupid grins off the salesgirl’s face), but then you have buy freaking innards for the damned thing to make it work. And the innards have to be same brand, or they don’t work. Ballpoints never pulled this shit on you, thought Clive.
But when the boss asked him for a pen one night at the club and Clive handed him a skinny blue Bic, the boss had got this look on his face: disappointment. But he’d taken the pen anyway and scribbled the note out and handed it back.
“You really gotta get yourself something better’n that, Clive.”
“What, the pen? What’s wrong with it?”
“You look like some kind of kid that can’t keep track of things. You’re making enough money- what are you doing carrying a crappy piece of plastic like that? Get yourself a good fountain pen ‘r something.”
It was hardly the first time that Clive had had to adapt to the boss’ whims. You wanted to work with Hammerhead, you had to work with his theme. Luckily that didn’t mean some crappy schtick like extra arms or those fucked up SS suits like the Red Skull stuck his guys in- with Hammerhead you just had to look like a gangster. All you had to do was wear a suit, and that didn’t seem so hard to Clive. At least at first. Suit, shirt, tie: not too much to deal with, really.
But the boss noticed all these little details. It was never just a matter of putting on a tie and breaking some knees. The suit and vest had to be tailored, the shirt had to be pressed, the socks had to match the suit, the tie had to be silk and not too loud, and the handkerchief in the front pocket had to be linen, white and folded. Monogrammed cufflinks, something Clive would never have bothered with before, had to be hunted down every morning and put to use. Rings were apparently, a matter of taste, but only if they could fit under brass knuckles: anything too big had to come off. The boss wore knuckledusters like he carried a handkerchief- he might need it, he might not, but the outfit was incomplete without them.
Figuring all that out had taken a couple months, and the look still hadn’t come together until Clive finally gave in and put in a standing order with a local florist for a boutonnière. The boss had finally smiled at him when he came into the club that evening, and told Clive that he looked like a man going places. “As long as you keep sticking to the dark colored shirts, I mean,” he’d added. “Blood stains.”
So Clive thought he was looking fine and working his way up the ranks, but every now and then the boss would pull something crazy like this out. Still, he figured, it couldn’t be that hard to please the man on this. It was just a stupid pen.
“You’re just a fucking stupid pen!” Clive could not get the damned ink cartridge into the damned end of the pen- cleaning a gun wasn’t fiddley enough, now he had to do this whenever he wanted to write a check, too?
Something gave under this fingers and the cartridge slid home. Clive tried to screw the barrel back on before something else could go wrong, but then he saw the ink all over his hand and the rapidly spreading black puddle under his right cuff- the cartridge hadn’t fit, it had just exploded.
The boss was the boss and order were orders but Clive was done with the fountain pen. With a growing mix of frustration and annoyance finally reaching its zenith, Clive dumped the pen and the mostly full box of ink cartridges into the trash bin by his now blackened desk. He stripped out of his ruined shirt, swore, and then used the fabric to mop up the puddle of ink before it stained the desk. The soppy mess joined the pen and cartridges with violent squishing sound. Clive damned the whole exercise to hell. Ballpoints worked fast and they didn’t cost you a shirt before you could write a word.
Clive went to bed and dreamed of ruined silk.
A couple of days passed. Clive thought about the boss’ fountain pen. The boss didn’t forget his things often, and Clive had a chance to see that pen every day for a long while. It was a thick old thing of black enamel with a thin band of gold around the middle. The gold was scratched from rubbing against the boss’ knuckledusters, but even allowing for rough use, the pen looked ancient. The boss left it on the table one night to greet some old friends and, curious, Clive picked it up. There was an inscription he hadn’t noticed under all the scars on the surface.
Capone, it read.
Clive clutched at the pen convulsively. Then, slowly and reverently, he put it down back where the boss had left it. He decided to go out and buy himself a new fountain pen.
Fountain pens were one of those things you just don’t have to deal with these days. Was it any wonder he wouldn’t know there was such a damned fuss about the stupid things? Apparently you have to buy one for five bucks (and five bucks for a stinking pen was enough to make Clive want to smack the stupid grins off the salesgirl’s face), but then you have buy freaking innards for the damned thing to make it work. And the innards have to be same brand, or they don’t work. Ballpoints never pulled this shit on you, thought Clive.
But when the boss asked him for a pen one night at the club and Clive handed him a skinny blue Bic, the boss had got this look on his face: disappointment. But he’d taken the pen anyway and scribbled the note out and handed it back.
“You really gotta get yourself something better’n that, Clive.”
“What, the pen? What’s wrong with it?”
“You look like some kind of kid that can’t keep track of things. You’re making enough money- what are you doing carrying a crappy piece of plastic like that? Get yourself a good fountain pen ‘r something.”
It was hardly the first time that Clive had had to adapt to the boss’ whims. You wanted to work with Hammerhead, you had to work with his theme. Luckily that didn’t mean some crappy schtick like extra arms or those fucked up SS suits like the Red Skull stuck his guys in- with Hammerhead you just had to look like a gangster. All you had to do was wear a suit, and that didn’t seem so hard to Clive. At least at first. Suit, shirt, tie: not too much to deal with, really.
But the boss noticed all these little details. It was never just a matter of putting on a tie and breaking some knees. The suit and vest had to be tailored, the shirt had to be pressed, the socks had to match the suit, the tie had to be silk and not too loud, and the handkerchief in the front pocket had to be linen, white and folded. Monogrammed cufflinks, something Clive would never have bothered with before, had to be hunted down every morning and put to use. Rings were apparently, a matter of taste, but only if they could fit under brass knuckles: anything too big had to come off. The boss wore knuckledusters like he carried a handkerchief- he might need it, he might not, but the outfit was incomplete without them.
Figuring all that out had taken a couple months, and the look still hadn’t come together until Clive finally gave in and put in a standing order with a local florist for a boutonnière. The boss had finally smiled at him when he came into the club that evening, and told Clive that he looked like a man going places. “As long as you keep sticking to the dark colored shirts, I mean,” he’d added. “Blood stains.”
So Clive thought he was looking fine and working his way up the ranks, but every now and then the boss would pull something crazy like this out. Still, he figured, it couldn’t be that hard to please the man on this. It was just a stupid pen.
“You’re just a fucking stupid pen!” Clive could not get the damned ink cartridge into the damned end of the pen- cleaning a gun wasn’t fiddley enough, now he had to do this whenever he wanted to write a check, too?
Something gave under this fingers and the cartridge slid home. Clive tried to screw the barrel back on before something else could go wrong, but then he saw the ink all over his hand and the rapidly spreading black puddle under his right cuff- the cartridge hadn’t fit, it had just exploded.
The boss was the boss and order were orders but Clive was done with the fountain pen. With a growing mix of frustration and annoyance finally reaching its zenith, Clive dumped the pen and the mostly full box of ink cartridges into the trash bin by his now blackened desk. He stripped out of his ruined shirt, swore, and then used the fabric to mop up the puddle of ink before it stained the desk. The soppy mess joined the pen and cartridges with violent squishing sound. Clive damned the whole exercise to hell. Ballpoints worked fast and they didn’t cost you a shirt before you could write a word.
Clive went to bed and dreamed of ruined silk.
A couple of days passed. Clive thought about the boss’ fountain pen. The boss didn’t forget his things often, and Clive had a chance to see that pen every day for a long while. It was a thick old thing of black enamel with a thin band of gold around the middle. The gold was scratched from rubbing against the boss’ knuckledusters, but even allowing for rough use, the pen looked ancient. The boss left it on the table one night to greet some old friends and, curious, Clive picked it up. There was an inscription he hadn’t noticed under all the scars on the surface.
Capone, it read.
Clive clutched at the pen convulsively. Then, slowly and reverently, he put it down back where the boss had left it. He decided to go out and buy himself a new fountain pen.