The Yellow Number 2

As if things couldn’t get any worse, some friends from work had sent more presents home with me. The unwritten rule was to return the favor, right? Great… Now I have to go out and find presents for them. Go out in the snow, fight the crowds, and oh god, the parking! And then there were those people with their perpetually happy faces frozen into smiles that must have hurt by the end of the day, and all those dang “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmases they sling around! And don’t even get me started on the store music, how many times do we have to hear Jingle Bells!

Take this gift, for instance. I just opened the box, and it's a pencil— can you believe it? Somebody sent me a pencil. It’s not even a fancy one where you click and a lead comes out. It’s just a yellow number 2 pencil with a regular eraser and a pointed end. I guess they thought that because I’m trying to be a writer, it wouldn’t hurt to have another pencil.

I tossed it on the desk, feeling just a bit guilty. I did feel grateful. Mostly. But my gratitude was stretched thin, like the tinsel on my plastic tree. It’s just one more thing.

Where was my holiday spirit? It had fizzled out like the Christmas lights when I plugged them in.

I picked the pencil up again to read the lettering on the side: "Enchanted Writes." I laughed. I could use a bit of enchantment. I needed a fairy tale; I needed a good fairy tale story before Friday.

I set the pencil down a bit more gently and checked for a card. A sticker on the box side said: “For your Holiday Spirit. S.N.”

I snorted, trying to imagine which friend thought this was a good idea. Did I even know a S.N?

In my mind, I did a quick tally of my bank balance. It was already suffering. Christmas had a way of making me feel inadequate.

I grabbed my wallet and keys, flipped off the lights, and thought of all the other pressing Christmas chores to do as I left the apartment.

Meanwhile, in the dark, the yellow pencil rolled quickly across the desk, banged into a stack of books, and flipped up onto its pointed end. Its red eraser split into a wide grin as it point-hopped to a large, open notebook and began writing on the blank page in large, looping script.

Alone in the dark, it wrote:

Once upon a time, there was a peculiar forest that everyone knew could not be entered. Hordes of ticks lingered at its edges, ready to greet unsuspecting hikers. Poison oak could present itself suddenly everywhere, even out of season.

The scratching sound the pencil made swallowed the apartment's silence, and would have raised hairs on the back of anyone's neck, had they been there.

Much later…

Three flights of stairs, arms full of bags, my last bit of patience evaporated just as I came home, flipped on the lights, and dumped the purchases on the drooping sofa. My eyes flicked to the unopened wine. If I started with that, I’d never get a story written— the deadline already a weight on my chest.

The writing desk was my pride and joy. Yes, it was a put-together IKEA piece, but it held the heart of my life. All the things that made my writing hand tingle and twitch, ready to write, sat there—my favorite stack of writing-help books, my piles of papers, and the oversized metal snail paperweight. My eyes traveled over it, pulling a grin to my face, which froze when my eyes snagged on my once pristine writing journal next to it. I had left it open to crisp, empty white pages, waiting for my words. But someone had got there first! Thick spidery words filled the first page and the next, and the next! Quickly, I began to read; it was a story I had in my mind, but had never written.

How in the world? How could this happen? Was I losing my mind? I felt instant fear, then switched to indignation. How dare someone write this without my permission! I called out, “Who did this?” instantly feeling foolish.

The pencil box on the desk rattled. I’m sure my eyes widened as I stared at it. It continued to rattle until the lid popped open, and that Yellow Number 2 rolled itself upright on my desk. It point-hopped to the nearest page and wrote "ME" in a looping script.

I went looking for the wine opener.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ah— Yellow Pencil, sir— that is not the story I’m writing!” I scolded the pencil.

“What I mean is it's not your story to write, who said you could get into my mind, my stuff— and why am I talking to a pencil!” I waved my hands expressively.

It began writing again, but I snatched the notebook away, wine opener in one hand, “We are not doing this!”

I erased the first lines of the story, and heard scratching, looked down, and saw the pencil writing on yet another piece of paper on the desk:

“Once upon a time,”

I scribbled over it: “No Forest, no bugs!”

The pencil seemed to lean back and take me in. It eased around my hand and scribbled quickly again:

“Mushroom fruits popped up from the leafy forest floor like submarine periscopes to check out what there was to see.”

“Not that line,” I practically screeched, “That was one of my best sentences!”

I went looking for a glass, glaring back at the Pencil, “Break a lead, or something. I have to write a real story! With you know, witches and unicorns, magic fairy tale stuff.”

I could hear the pencil scribbling madly as I popped the cork and shouted, “Knock yourself out—I don’t have a pencil sharpener!”

Which was a lie, I did.

“I want it to say in a land far, far away, and end with happily ever after,” I snapped.

Also, a lie.

Back at the desk, I eased into my chair, sipping wine. The pencil paused as if thinking, a grin cracked across its eraser, and it scribbled even faster.

“What, what are you writing now?” I reached for the paper, but the pencil slapped at my fingers, like a teacher’s ruler.

I quickly snatched every available piece of paper off the desk, hugging them to my chest. That darn pencil looked up at me, leaned backwards, an open “O” mouth shape in its eraser, and then started scribbling madly on the desk top itself!

“Wait, wait, stop!” I shouted, “Not the desk, please! OK, I’ll look at what you have.” It stopped mid-scribbling and looked at me attentively.

I sorted the pages and found its latest scribble at the top of the page; it said,

"Merry Christmas list.”

“Oh God, not you too, I moaned dispiritedly.

Then read: Item 1: Apartment C4 needs a new apron. Use the last white elephant gift from last year, still with its tag, in your closet.

“What?” I whispered and slowly stood to check the closet, and indeed, there was the apron. I glanced down at the paper again.

Item 2: Apartment E15 desperately needs a big bag of kitty litter. Get it from the corner market. In parentheses, (she can’t carry it up the stairs, broken hip) was added.

I looked at the pencil with growing wonder. I swear its eraser was cocked to the side, as if it was saying, "Well, get going."

That yellow number two had a simple list right from my own apartment building, neighbors I hadn’t spoken to or seen in a while, if ever. I sipped wine as we began to collaborate, feeling excitement build. It felt so different knowing I could make a difference in someone’s life rather than just giving an obligatory gift.

We made plans together and discussed what I could afford and how to go about it until I fell asleep at the desk, my head on my arms, and the pencil nestled in my hair behind my ear.

By morning, I bravely and expertly traversed the Christmas terrain of town once more. I even heard myself humming along with Jingle Bells and shook my head. What had gotten into me? But I smiled a broad, genuine grin, feeling warmth in my chest. Yes, my cheeks ached just a bit, and I smiled even more.

I had dropped off the wrapped apron gift earlier on my way out. A rush of warm, sourdough scent had wafted out of the apartment when a flour-covered young woman gazed at me wonderingly from her doorway. "It's just an apron,” I had said by way of introduction. “I am your neighbor in C7,” I added lamely.

She had thrown herself at me, squeezing me in a serious hug, tearing open the package, and exclaiming, "Oh my, it's just like the one my granny used to have! Where did you ever find it!”

That had started my smile.

By the end of the day, I had found a loaf of warm bread in a bag outside my door, and inside on the desk, my fairy tale story sat finished. The one in my head I didn’t think was good enough, written in that looping script. The enchanted pencil lay still and quiet beside it.

For once, I felt happy, really, happy. I pulled out more wrapping paper and tape and started in, humming along with I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas playing loudly from Apartment C5.