In the best tradition of Fibber McGee's closet, my parents kept a kitchen cabinet drawer for miscellaneous items. If you looked inside, you would find any number of things that had no permanent home.

There were rubber bands that stretched and those that didn't. There were marbles, paper clips, and spare keys to long-ago sold cars. There were small repair tools, adhesive bandages, outdated maps, flashlights with dead batteries, loose pocket change, and miscellaneous pens and pencils–seemingly hundreds of pens and pencils.

The “junk drawer” was always the first destination for the Haley children whenever our parents sent us to find and fetch anything. It was a good starting spot, and more often than not we found what we needed.

As I stood in front of the drawer as a third grader, rummaging through and looking for a closed-end, half-inch wrench for my dad, I began thinking, “We need to clean out this drawer.”

In reality I was thinking, “Why do we have so many ink pens?”

I stirred the pens slowly around with my hand as I recalled the biography I had just finished reading on the life of P.T. Barnum.

“What would P. T. Barnum do?,” I asked myself.

“He would sell these pens,” I answered myself. “That is what he would do.”

I faintly heard my dad in the background screaming, “STEVIE, are you looking for the wrench?,” as I was dreaming up my money-making project.

I took two handfuls of pens and headed to my bedroom. Opening my notebook, I took out a sheet of loose-leaf paper. With each pen, I signed my name to see whether the ink flowed out evenly or it skipped spots. Of course the vast majority skipped; they were cheap Bic pens.

Next, I looked at the ink level in each pen. I reasoned those with the most ink should bring the most money.

I took two sheets of notebook paper. Then using my round-tipped scissors, I cut one sheet in half. I put the half sheet on the bottom of the page and ran a row of staples around the paper. I had my display pouch.

The Peanuts comic strip, lying on my desk, caught my eye. Charles Schultz had his character Lucy selling advice for five cents. That seemed like a fair price to me. In my primary-level penmanship, I printed “INK PENS 5 cents” on the top half of the pouch.

I began dropping the pens in the pouch when I discovered one I had missed earlier. This was a REAL ink pen. It was heavy and could be disassembled so that a curious boy could inspect it to see how it worked. This pen was too good to sell.

I quickly tried writing my name. Nothing. Not a single mark. No matter how much I scribbled, there was no ink.

The inner P.T. Barnum whispered to me, “Hold on to this one.”

I walked into Guthrie Elementary with my pouch of pens and a crude idea of a sales pitch. After using my dime store tape to attach my display unit to my desk, I awaited inquiries.

My classmates were inquisitive, and soon business was brisk. On that day the Goldenrod milkman’s half-pint chocolate milk sales dropped. Mrs. Griffey’s third-grade class traded their nickels, which were meant for their morning milk break purchases, for Bic ink pens.

One of my best friends shuffled through the pens that were left and questioned, “What’s the big deal?”

Then my inner P. T. Barnum spoke, “Show him the pen.”

As I cut my eyes both ways to be assured no one was watching, I slowly pulled my prized pen from the front pocket of my Wrangler jeans. I begin to describe its features: the strong pocket clip, the balance in weight, and the disassembling process, to alleviate any boredom.

After each statement, I said, “It doesn't write though.” I repeatedly stressed that the pen wouldn't write.

A huge smile formed on his face as he adored the chrome. He tested the driving ability of the pen on a sheet of paper. The

smooth turns left and right were continuous, but the ink still didn't flow. If the pen had tires, he would have kicked them.

Then he uttered the magic words to a budding salesman’s ears, “How much?”

I replied, “But it doesn't write.”

He repeated, “I said how much, Stevie?”

If the Bic pens were fetching five cents, I calculated this unique pen must be worth “...75 cents,” I replied.

The deal was sealed when he put three quarters in my hand. I had no money invested in inventory and didn’t have a sales objective, but I liked my new business venture. I liked it until I got home, and things changed.

The change was jiggling in my pocket as I walked into the house. My mood dropped as I saw my dad walk to the gold mine, I mean the junk drawer. The drawer slid open easily since its load had been incredibly lightened.

His face turned red as he hollered, “Rena Mae, we have been robbed. All our pens are gone!”

I grabbed the change in my pocket to keep it quiet. My face must have nervously betrayed my involvement, as my dad asked, “Stevie, what did you do?”

I explained my enterprise in a few words, “I sold 'em.”

My declaration seemed to cause an issue. The super powers–my parents–huddled in a summit to discuss the pending pen dilemma.

They sat me in the kitchen and wanted to know every detail. I explained my scheme, I mean plan, in detail. As I talked, my dad became more and more agitated. He was convinced his boss would fire him once this was found out. Dad figured that Mr. Cary would assume that he was intentionally taking company pens home from work for me to sell.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the three quarters and surrendered them. “Give these to Mr. Cary, and tell him I am sorry.”

My mom quickly asked, “Where did that come from?”

They were both shocked when I told them about the sale of the pen that didn't write.

“Rena, what are we raising?” my dad asked with his head in his hand.

“Johnny, I am not sure,” she sniffled.

They gave me stern and specific instructions to return the money to everyone and get the pens back the next day. Luckily, everyone still had the pens at school, and I quickly made the exchanges. I waited until the end of the school day to get the special pen back.

My friend wanted to keep the pen. He said he liked it.

“But it doesn't write," I said.

He was actually okay with that. He was pretending to be a secret agent with a pen that wrote in invisible ink. I explained that the pen return was necessary to keep the Haley family from being homeless. Reluctantly, we made the exchange.

My parents watched me dump the pens back in the junk drawer, and relief slowly returned to their faces. I kept the special pen and put it in my desk drawer.

In 1992 I was Nabisco Brands ‘Sales Rep of the Year’ for the Nashville North sales team. As I was shaking the regional VP’s hand, he asked me what was the secret of my success. I heard my inner P.T. Barnum say, “Show him the pen.”