Playing chicken

I. Will. Win.

This game of chicken began some 13 years ago, when the classic cedar-wood yellow-paint No. 2 graphite pencil began its decline: The first wave of mechanical models were insinuating themselves into the pudgy fists of my fellow third graders but, staunch defender, I stood my ground. Those were the glory days; I had only to spring to the hand-turned sharpener — there was at least one bolted to the wall of every classroom — churn a few rounds, and the deed was done. Pencil life is no longer so simple.

The full force of my fallen state hit me when, a few weeks ago, my personal pencil sharpener broke, in this manner. Fresh No. 2 presented. Disturbing click from sharpener. Foreboding rumble. Silence. Loooooong metallic constipated-puppy sound. Silence. Pencil taken out … Pencil re-presented. Silence. Pencil … re-presented. Pencil re-RE-presented. PENCIL. RE. RE. REEE. PRESENTED. Pencil … not re-presented. Sharpener returned to drawer (springing from belief that, if left to themselves for extended periods of time, objects become bored and decide to fix themselves. Or, alternatively, call upon nocturnal bands of repairmen-elves to rectify the situation).

Foolhardy, I assumed that the lack of a personal sharpener would change little. Assumed that most classrooms, and certainly all of the floors of the main libraries, would be equipped with surrogate sharpeners. Assumed that my situation was not a Level-Five-Code-Red-Gamma-Death-Star situation. But oh, on the contrary.

By the end of my first day of scouting, I had given up asking library employees and fellow classmates where the nearest sharpener was. The response sequence was always the same: A) confusion (as in: “Sharpener. Hm. SHAR-pen-errr … No, I’ve definitely heard of it…”) followed by B) vague gestures to hole-punchers, staplers and other equally unhelpful objects (as in: maybe you could, with, er, you know … with this paperweight?”), finishing with C) the question: “Why don’t you have a mechanical pencil?” (usually coupled with furtive glances to my backpack to see if I have a chisel and stone tablet in there too). The hunt ended with a small degree of success: precept-to-precept word of mouth that the French departmental office was harboring a sharpener turned out to be true. (Hurrah, Europe.)

I spent — bar none — two of the most visceral minutes of my week wedged behind a fax machine, sharpening 11 pencils in a row. Secretarial work came to a halt and passerby stopped in the hallway, trying to place that metallic banshee-keening they knew, just knew, they’d heard somewhere before. Becca: 1. Semi: 0.

Yet my pencil-victory, as is the nature of all victories involving antiquated school supplies, was fleeting. Next day at the gym, in the throes of my best semi-mute lipsync of Mahalia Jackson, I looked up at the TV and caught the end of a commercial. The premise: Modern yet ill-equipped businessman wants to communicate, modernly. Summoning his trusty carrier pigeons, he charges them with the relay of nondescript but highly crucial relay information. Result: Pigeons fail massively, terrifying unsuspecting city folk in the process. Becca: 1. Semi: 5. (One real point; bonus four due to impressive talking-pigeon CGI.)

I tugged out my iPod earbuds. The pedals of my stationary bike became truly stationary. Indignation coursing through my veins. Whatever happened to pigeon carriers? Why exactly, J.K., was Hedwig the first one to get knocked off in the last Harry Potter? A little retro-technologically discriminative, wouldn’t you say? And what, pray tell, does the world have against feather quills? Sheepskin parchment? Papyrus?

Princetonians. Drop that blackberry you’re texting on while reading this article while drinking coffee while cramming for your Arabic quiz at 2:30 while debating whether or not to buy more lead for your mechanical pencils. Drop it. A secret the mechanical pencil companies are keeping from you: The inexorable Hegelian progress of writing technology is not fulfilling. Join hands with me and sing “Kum Ba Yah” ’round those little troughs of mini-pencils in Firestone, brimming like small wells of hope for the return of cedar-wood yellow-paint No. 2 graphite and its simple pleasures.

REGRESS a little. Play chicken.

Becca Foresman is a French and Italian major from San Diego. She can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.