life in a pencil bag

The following was published in the UB Post on Friday December 16.

Life in a Pencil Bag

By Cooper Baltis

It’s dark in here. Very dark. Well sometimes it’s light, sometimes I am allowed up there but most of the time, I sit inside this cramped little pencil bag waiting for the zipper to peel back. The crisp sound that sends a shiver of excitement down my lead. Even after sitting in here for six months, I can still smell the fresh tinge of the Mongolian leather each time the zipper is pulled.

Usually, I sit on top of the other pencils, or nuzzle in next to an eraser named Bob. Aside from the occasional grumbling or shiny newcomer, we all seem to get along pretty well. My least favorite tenet inside the bag is George, the fat white-out marker with a disdain for writing utensils. He loves to erase things and always insists on taking up too much space. Me and Chuka on the other hand, we love to write, we love to stain our ideas across the big paper surface with its faded blue lines. We’re dreamers and Bob and George are erasers. But Bob is cool, so I consider him a dreamer as well.

When we are out there, Chuka and I, we are truly happy. Chuka, a blue Korean pen with a white rabbit head on its tip, has been inside the pencil bag the longest. He was the first one to make friends with me, to show me the ropes of “living on the inside” as he called it. I count the conversation we had six months ago as one of the turning points of my life:

“When the zipper peels back, it’s like this sky is opening up,” he said, the first night after I was placed in the bag. If I could see his eyes in the dark I’m sure they would have been wide and wise. “When we are up there, we learn things: things about their world, about their language, about other languages, about their gossip. The gossip is my favorite part. Did you know Zoljargal failed her Anthropology test?”

“No…” I replied on that fateful first day. “Who’s Zoljargal?”

“That’s not important. The important part is she did, she failed miserably and was quite upset. My best advice? When you are up there, you gotta listen. You can’t just write. You also have to pay attention. Did you know that Solongo met a boy named Jamsram at a camp? Did you?”

“No, I’ve only been up one time,” I reminded him.

“Well, next time the zipper opens, you gotta pay attention. If the lesson is boring, try and see what the people around the hand are doing. If you can escape, do it. Nothing like a new pencil bag. Most importantly—constant vigilance. It’s the way of our world.”

So for the last six months, Chuka and I have been heavily following the lives of the people “up there” whenever we are summoned from our pencil bag. For starters, the person who owns our pencil bag is named Davka. She is a nice girl who hums loudly when no one is around. She changes the color and design of her nails once a week and sometimes wears a ring that stains the skin on her pointer finger green. When the teacher isn’t looking, she likes to draw small flowers on the desk. Both Chuka and I hate it when she does this, as it is very painful to have our tips ground into the tiny wooden grooves of the tabletop.

Davka’s friend’s name is Saran, a heavier girl who always picks her nose during class. Saran is trying to go abroad to Germany and is always studying. She is assiduous and mouthy, correcting the teacher at every chance she gets. Usually, a girl named Solongo sits on the other side of Davka. Solongo always falls asleep during the longer lectures, using her puffy rolled up jacket as a pillow. She usually has a single headphone in her left ear and sometimes, Davka listens to the spare earpiece, the chord like a dangling wishbone between the two girls.

“What do they listen to?” I asked Chuka one day, as he nudged himself between Bob the eraser and George the white-out marker.

“This is my territory,” George the white-out marker growled, as Chuka scooted on top of him.

“We all have to live in this cramped space,” Chuka said patiently, trying his best to cover the agitation rising in his voice. George had been at Chuka’s throat for weeks now, commenting on everything he said and threatening sanctions and violence.

“My territory…”

“Anyways,” Chuka said, turning towards me. “I don’t know exactly what it is they listen to, but once, Davka set the ear bud down next to me and I heard a little bit of it.”

“What did it sound like?” I asked.

“It was a very fast paced song with this, how should I describe this? Electronic tinge?”

“Tinge?” Bob the eraser asked, hopping in the conversation.

“Party rocker…something about party rocking and houses.”

“This is our house,” I said, looking up wistfully at the top of the pencil bag. Davka had left it cracked just a little. An arc of light had filtered into the normally subfusc space like a flashlight in the dark.

“Yes, but what is a party rocker?” Bob asked.

“Someone who rocks parties,” George the white-out marker said in a sharp voice. “You guys are idiots.”

“If you’re so smart, how does one rock a party?” Chuka asked.

“By invading,” the George quipped.

“I don’t understand,” I said, turning towards Chuka.

We all watched as the zipper was pulled from above by Davka’s hand. The light instantly reflected off her freshly glittered fingernails. She reached into the pencil bag and stirred us all around. She grabbed Bob the eraser and me.

“See you!” I yelled to Chuka as I was hailed to the world above.

Davka set Bob and me in front of her thin notebook. The teacher was talking about the Mongolian economy. She picked me up and started writing. The economy seemed to be doing pretty good these days and could grow up to 20 percent next year, he said, but inflation is rising, and if the government doesn’t hone in their spending habits, the price of goods and services could skyrocket. This is what is known as hyperinflation. Luckily, the budget for 2012…

At the word “rocket” Davka used me to draw a small cylinder adorned with two tiny wings. She used Bob to erase the head of the cylinder and replaced it with a pointed tip. She outlined the cylinder again and began to stipple in the top portion of it, tapping my head violently against the paper.

“Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch!” I wailed, as Davka jabbed my head repeatedly against the paper. She shaded in some smoke coming off the bottom of the pointed cylinder and wrote the word Пуужин above the cylinder. She showed it to Solongo who tried to suppress a laugh.

The teacher walked by and Davka threw her hands over the picture, sending me flying against the chair in front of her. I slammed against the back of chair and fell like an anvil onto the fake wood floor. I bounced once and rolled forward a few inches. I lay there for a moment, winded, when suddenly a boot covered in deerskin shot forward and tried to step on me. It missed the first time, stepping a crumbled piece of paper instead. I panicked.

I thought of what Chuka said, about finding a new pencil bag if I could. But I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Bob and Chuka. No one had ever been on the floor before. No one. That I knew was sure, the closest Chuka had ever been was Solongo’s lap. I was frightened, unsure, and above all—the most alone I have ever been. I thought of all the times I wanted out of the bag, all the times I wanted just a minute to myself. They all seemed so trivial now. I wanted the safety of my pencil bag, the security of my home. Zipped up and kept tight. Clean and organized.

The malicious boot waited for the teacher to pass before finally catching me. I let out a tiny yelp as the boot slammed down on top of me. I felt my stomach being pressed against the floor. I was swiftly dragged by the boot to the leg of the chair. Delirious and in excruciating pain, I noticed Davka’s glittery fingers like a crane slowly reaching down towards me. I would soon be safe.