When I first moved to Arizona in 1977, I was lost at sea. I had few friends, but I needed work. I didn’t know my way around very well. So, I started driving a cab. We tend to go with the familiar, and I had a lot of experience driving people around.
In the prior four years, I had never been robbed. I had been ‘defrauded’, which is the legal term for not paying your cab fare. But never outright robbery. I soon found out, however, that robberies can take some very bizarre forms.
The following events occurred after I had gotten off of work one afternoon while I was walking home.
In the mid to late 1970s, downtown Phoenix, Arizona was a very different place from what it is today. Today, it is devoid of personality, with “cultural” centers and other government funded or subsidized monolithic structures everywhere you look. Big and sterile is the impression given by present day Downtown. Although there are a few eateries, there is little resemblance to what most people would think of as a community anywhere to be found.
Not so in the 70s. Although there were many areas in need of repair, the Downtown area of Phoenix was certainly a community, with places to shop, affordable restaurants, pharmacies, movie theaters, grocery stores, and places to live along with long term residents. And I was a resident of Downtown Phoenix.
One appealing aspect of living Downtown at that time was that, if you worked in the area, you did not need an automobile to have a life. This is in direct contrast to most of Arizona. The car is an object of worship here. But for me, the lack of a car and living Downtown was a result of the less than amicable ending of a relationship with a girlfriend.
Railroad tracks divide many communities, and they divide Downtown Phoenix also. South of the tracks is a predominately industrial and warehouse area, and that is where I worked. It was a walk of about eight or ten blocks from where I worked to where I lived. There was nothing about the area that anyone today would consider dangerous. The number of transient, indigent, and homeless individuals numbered in the dozens then, as opposed to in the thousands now.
I worked weekends sometimes, and one beautiful Sunday, late in the afternoon, I was crossing the railroad tracks on my way home after work. Phoenix is a rail hub, and there are lots of tracks in the Downtown area. There were perhaps ten or more sets of tracks where I was walking, so it was necessary to step carefully to avoid tripping. From where I was, I could see the old Union Pacific train depot just a couple of blocks away.
As stated above, the number of street people were few, so when I noticed an individual a little ways from me, I simply noted him and kept on minding my step to keep from tripping on the tracks. There was no one else in sight.
I was surprised then to notice this man standing and blocking my way a few yards in front of me. Mindful of the need to watch my step, I gave the guy a quick glance while I stepped to the side. And he immediately stepped sideways and forward to block any further movement by me.
I looked up with the intention of querying this person as to what he was up to, but my thoughts instead immediately focused on the large hunting knife that was pointed at me less than a foot from my throat.
That was my first realization. The second was that this person was bedecked, from head to toe, in writing pens. He was wearing a ball cap, with pens attached to the brim as well as pointing up from the rim of the cap all around his head, like some insane crown. He wore a long sleeved shirt that had dozens of pens in both shirt pockets and all the way down the front pleat. There were pens all the way around his collar, and on both cuffs. He had pens in his pants pockets, and all the way around his waistline on his belt. He had pens in the cuffs of his pants.
There were pens of every possible description. Some were obviously very expensive, like an executive’s fountain pen. Others had seen better days, and were beaten up as if they were found on the street. Every possible color, shape, type, and size of writing pen was on him fastened some place or another. He had a clutch of pens in one fist. And in the other hand he held the knife.
I was speechless still, and could only look the guy over. He was perhaps fiftyish, maybe five feet seven inches tall or so, with a very stocky build. He had a weathered, puffy kind of face, in which there were buried unreadable eyes.
I looked at him, and he looked at me. Not one word was exchanged between us. And with slow, deliberate movement, so as not to provoke him, I reached into my shirt pocket and handed him my pen.
As soon as I did that, he grabbed it quickly, and his attention was focused completely on his new acquisition. And I gingerly stepped back from, then around him. He took no further notice of me. He was totally absorbed in the pen I had given him (a typical writing instrument such as the kind purchased in a convenience store). I was making my way as quickly as I could, still having a few tracks to negotiate, when I turned once to see what the guy was up to. There he stood, his back towards me, still studying his new pen.
I made my way home, picking up a six pack of beer on the way. I was pretty shaken up, and I finished up the six pack quickly. I did not call the police. In retrospect I suppose I should have, since the guy was obviously a danger to the public. But the episode was so strange that I was concerned about what the police would have thought of me.
Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays, and several times in the years since my encounter with the Pen Man I have dressed for Halloween parties much as he was dressed that afternoon. At the various parties I went to so dressed the reaction from other partygoers was always very tentative. Personally, if I see an unrecognizable costume at a party I will ask the person wearing it what he is supposed to be. But no one has ever asked me that when I was the Pen Man. At least, not right away.
For one thing, my pens lacked the extreme variety of his, as mine were purchased in bulk at discount stores for costume effect only. And, I used a cheap rubber knife. One Halloween, I stayed home to give out candy, but having the holiday spirit, I was dressed again as the Pen Man. Phoenix Halloween evenings can be balmy, and I sat outside in a lawn chair to give out the goodies. Oddly enough, many parents would not let their children come into the yard once they saw me.
I do not know what became of the Pen Man. Years later I met an individual who had worked at a liquor store Downtown at time of my encounter and he remembered seeing the guy. I hope the Pen Man is doing well. And I hope he has lots and lots of pens.
