When Uncapped Pens Disgurgle
Most reporters in the sunset of their careers have prize-winning stories framed on the wall and a shrine full of trophies and awards. I have, instead, the largest private collection of dust rags in Southern California. They pop out of drawers, spill out of cupboards, lie tucked behind furniture and one is wrapped around an oil pump in the back of my car. Their replacement value could be estimated at $3,999.95.
These dust rags were imported from L.A. Bean or bought in job lots from J.C. Penney. Several are from Brooks Brothers. One comes from a tony shop on Rodeo Drive and another was made to my measure by the most expensive men’s furnisher on Rue St. Honore. It has French cuffs.
By now, only lip movers have failed to guess that these dust rags once passed for wearing apparel. More exactly, dress shirts into whose breast pocket a felt-tip pen has been plunged point-down and left to leak. They all bear indelible dark splotches which--if bright red--would suggest the wearer had been daggered to death. As it is, all they prove is that he is stupid and forgetful. Soaking in water merely widens the stain; most laundries will send it back with a note of apology. The only thing left to do is cut the buttons off the shirt and turn it into a dust rag.
The ink-blotch dilemma is shared more widely than you suspect. One senior editor on an Orange County daily wears a vest in the hottest weather because he has ruined every shirt he has. And not only the ink-stained wretches of journalism are left wretchedly ink-stained. Customers keep a tailor in Huntington Beach fairly busy removing breast pockets, folding under the bottom and lowering them to hide the stain. This costs $7 and leaves you with a short pocket but less subject to public ridicule.
Other remedies are at hand, none with much appeal. One is to use a pencil instead of a pen, but pencils are for people who make mistakes. Another is to carry the pen in your pants pocket, which means you ruin $60 slacks instead of a $20 shirt. You can wear a black shirt but you might get mistaken for a Black Shirt. And around City Hall, you see those protective holsters that fit into shirt pockets and carry a dozen pens; they are OK if you want to get jailed for impersonating a building inspector.
A measure of self-discipline is imposed when you come across a shirt so all-fired handsome that you want to be buried in it and wear it only on occasions of state, like Fridays. My all-time favorite shirt is a striped number by Calvin Klein. My mother says it makes me look like an Englishman, which is her idea of a put-down. I prefer to think that it gives me the super-achieving savoir-faire of a junk-bond salesman, and I would no sooner deface it than desecrate the Mona Lisa.
I wore the shirt for nearly a year with sinful pride, fending off appeals for inside tips on the market and living in a kind of fool’s paradise, then looked down one recent day to see that a capless Magic Marker had disgurgled its contents into the bosom of this fashion statement. The shirt and its dreadful Rorschach blot was rushed to the emergency room of a newly opened laundry. The attendant there said to make use of a staple common in every household.
“Hair spray!” I yelled, running my fingers through a luxuriant forelock that disappeared 20 years ago, “What would I be doing with hair spray?”
She explained (as if to a child) that if I sprayed hair spray on the ink blot, it would go away. “Any kind will do,” she added, “It takes off lipstick marks too.”
“I don’t get that lucky,” I growled, and ran off to shoplift a $1.48 squeeze bottle of Clairol Hold-All Conditioner. One accurate squeeze and the ink-stain floated off like a bad dream. My favorite shirt was not only clean but conditioned! I’d go on about this, but I’m too busy cleaning and conditioning this pile of dust rags and sewing the buttons back on. With all that finery, a guy could pick up a lipstick mark.