The Sheaffer from Hell
Ron Dutcher
first published in the Summer 2002 issue of the Pennant Magazine

Perhaps you cannot recall the first fountain pen you ever saw. Perhaps your parents wrote with them from as early as you could see, and you can't possibly remember the first. However, I grew up in a small farming town in northern Indiana, where the neighbors, like my parents, were simple country folk, who went to church every Sunday and rarely bothered to lock their doors at night. Many of them could barely read, and I never once saw a fountain pen. Even today, you couldn't find a fountain pen in Huntington if you tried. As far as I knew the pen industry jumped from John Hancock's goose quill to Bic disposable ballpoints with nothing in-between. So I remember well the first fountain pen that I saw. I have been trying to forget that memory ever since.

It was in the summer of 1986; Reagan was in the Whitehouse and I was a penniless 19-year-old undergrad student. Fortunately, I lucked upon finding a well-paying summer job to make next semester's tuition. The job wasn't easy though. I worked for a plumbing company in Blissfield, Michigan where all the plumbers had bad backs. I could do simple work myself, but mostly I was the grunt muscle for the others. I carried pipes, toolboxes, air-conditioners; anything heavier than a cup of coffee.

I often worked with a huge man named Larry Pixly, and we were always assigned the heaviest work. Pixly resembled a beefed-up Kenny Rogers clone but always had a goofy, boyish smile that made him look like he was twelve years old. He passionately argued that Elvis was still alive, and his favorite expression was "I haven't been so happy since the pigs ate my little brother." Time passed pleasantly fast when I worked with Pixly.

The saga of the pen begins with the day we visited the Groff farm. The Groff's were a pair of twin brothers, well into their 80'fs. They kept to themselves, rarely venturing into town. Legend had it that they were millionaires; that their grandfather had invented some kind of plow in the 1800'fs and had made a grand fortune. This was hard to believe when you looked at their farm. The barn had collapsed a few years ago and the rotting timbers were left where they fell. Their house was a large Victorian with turrets and broken bay windows, and the roof looked as though it would go with the next breeze, which would be disastrous for the crows that had been nesting in the huge holes. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved the place. So we were all surprised when they ordered a new furnace. It was like buying paint for your house while it was burning down, but our philosophy was never argue with the customer. We would install a new furnace even though it would be useless with the broken windows and holes in the roof and walls.

Their farm was way off the main road and not easy to find, but Bixby knew his way around. We pulled into the gravel driveway shortly before 8:00 am. Already the sun was getting hot and it promised to be a real scorcher. No walk existed from the drive to the house and the high weeds soaked us with dew as we blazed a trail. Even before we reached the house, we knew we were in trouble. The sour stench of cat waste seethed from the place.

"You boys are early", Mr. Groff said. He poked his head out a broken window and looked us over. He seemed completely oblivious to the smell and swarming flies. He had a pipe in his mouth and wore a filthy flannel shirt. He was alarmingly thin, and looked like a tattered scarecrow. "Early to bed, Early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy and despised," he said and began to cackle at his own joke. "My pappy used to say that. Hey Zachary, Come look at these here boys," he called inside the house.

A perfect likeness of the first brother appeared in the window. "Yes, what fine boys they are," he said in a slow dismal drawl. I could feel my stomach turn. This was starting to look like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.

"Why don't you show us the old furnace and we'll get started," Bixby said. Bixby whispered to me. "Let's get this one done in a hurry."

The basement was a terror. The electricity ran, but the burnt light bulbs had never been replaced, and our work lights barely cut the darkness. The Groff brothers loved cats and they were everywhere. Hundreds of them. The resulting filth was astonishing, and it would have been humorous if I weren't ankle deep in the stuff. Several times we nearly passed out from the ammonia fumes and bug bites. Just as we were starting to work Larry's light caught several dead cats by a cistern. We hurriedly ripped out the old furnace, a job that usually took a full morning, in just an hour. We, swearing at the weight and the slippery stairs, hauled down the new furnace. I left Bixby to the ductwork, and I went to cut vent holes in the floor upstairs.

"Would you show me where you would like the new vents in each room?" I asked one of the brothers. Zachary led me to each room and randomly pointed where to put a vent. I drew the outline on the floor and drilled a hole so I could get the power saw started. As fast as I could, I cut the rectangle into the floor, and dropped the register into place and moved to the next room.

One of the rooms surprised me. It too was a sty, but it didn't look like it had always been one. A Steinway grand piano was rotting next to a broken bay window, and a huge ornate desk stood beside a wall-length bookcase. I plugged in the drill, dropped to my knees, and pulled back a soggy oriental rug to cut my hole. But as I did, I noticed a gold pen that had been under the rug. I picked up the pen and looked it over. The weight impressed me. I was interested because I had never seen a fountain pen before. The cap was posted and the gold nib and engraved gold overlay sparkled in the dim light. For the first time that day I didnft smell the rot and filth. I didnft mind the flies. I was completely unaware of my surroundings as I turned the lovely pen in my hands. I had never seen such fine craftsmanship.

I was lost in this reverie, when an explosion of pain hit my backside. I dropped the pen and yelled. I turned to see the biggest, ugliest cat I had ever seen. It spit out a threatening hiss then turned and leapt out the window.

gThat there was Nicodemus,h said Zachary. gDonft you worry none. He aint got the rabies, just the mange. It makes him a bit testy.h I ignored the pain and the remarks, and holding it up, I asked what kind of pen this was.

gOh you found my Pappyfs gold pen. My Ma gave this to Pap just before he left to go fight the Jerrys. He nearly took the pen with him, but he said it was too nice to risk losing, so he told Ma to hold it for him until he got back. He never did though. So Ma carried that pen for years until she got sick, and then she gave it to us and my fool brother lost ith

I handed him the pen and he ran to show his brother. I rubbed the pain out of my hind end and went back to work on the floor.

Pixly and I worked through our breaks. We didnft even slow down for lunch, and for a job that normally took at least a day and a half, we finished by 3:30. We tested the furnace and it hummed perfectly and we hurriedly gathered our tools, preparing our escape. The brothers invited us to stay for dinner; we politely declined.

Now, a few decades since my day at the Groff farm and since I have grown interested in old fountain pens, I keep trying to visualize that pen. I know it was a Schaeffer, and that it was an early solid gold, floral hand engraved model with a #3 nib. It was a lever-filler and the lever was near the end of the barrel, so that the cap covered it when posted. I didnft know what to look for back then and I wished I had known to check to see if it had a single or double pressure bar. I have never seen another Schaeffer as lovely as that one. I would most anything to have another look at that pen, but not if it meant returning to the Groff farm. Surely the Groff brothers have passed away, but Nicodemus is probably still waiting to take another bite out of me.