The last time we packed up to move, my son was helping me pack up my dozen small boxes that lay atop our bedroom dresser. Each one chock full of special keepsakes: silver coins, old wristwatches, my dad’s relics, a college flask, collectible pins, etc…and one, shamelessly, holds more than a few Montblanc pens. Embedded within are Montblanc fountain, ballpoint and rollerball pens. Silly, to be honest; an embarrassment of riches. I have even given a couple away over the years. What are you going to do, stuff.
Mind you, I never bought a single one of those $400+ pens. Most were birthday or Christmas presents, from people who obviously did not know me too well—I don’t use Montblanc pens!—a few were handed to me on special occasions, when I signed something that was supposedly life-changing. Although now, I can’t remember what was so life-changing then? Anyway, I have more than a few Montblanc pens.
One of those pens, a burgundy Meisterstück Le Petit Prince Classique Rollerball Pen, I stole. I assume the statute of limitations has passed, as the misdemeanor theft occurred in 1985. So, now I can tell the tale.
The crime scene is San Francisco, Spring 1985, I was 26: I attended, as the plus-one with my employer, a wonderful woman, a Congresswomen in fact, named Sala Burton (1925-1987), at a dinner with a local bigwig. The Congresswomen had intelligently hired me earlier to serve her San Francisco constituents—in a building suitably named the Phillip Burton Federal Building, after Sala’s husband. He was a great man equal to her unique fearlessness. I was attending grad school by night mostly, working by day fulltime in her office dealing with constituents, legislative issues, and whatnot. I cut my hardball political teeth in that office, being in the steady presence of Nancy Pelosi—Sala’s heir when she passed, SF Mayor Dianne Feinstein, then-Marin County Congresswomen, Barbara Boxer, Speaker Willie Brown, Senator Alan Cranston, Oakland Congressman Ronald Dellums, and one of heroes, gay-rights activist Bill Krause (1947-1986), all come-and-go for their regular sit-downs with the reigning Queen of the City. And Sala was that, along with being a great mentor. It was a heady era, a glorious and transformative time for me.
Anyway, as was often the occurrence, I was asked to join Sala as her escort for a dinner with a local VIP. Needing the nourishment of a free meal, I readily jumped at the opportunity.
We met at a starched white-tablecloth institution upholding the usual old-school elegant comforts: leather upholstered chairs, muted patterned carpets, dark wood paneled walls and gaudy brass chandeliers. It was much too sophisticated for me. The three of us dined at seven in The Carnelian Room—Maybe, it was a members-only adjacent area, I don’t recall?—a dizzying 52 floors up, in what was formerly known as Bank of America Center (aka 555 California Street); for a time the tallest building west of the Mississippi. It is the shiny red granite and irregularly cut building designed to mimic the nearby Sierra Nevada mountains and infamously used as the site for the 1974 movie The Towering Inferno. “Great,” I remember thinking when informed of this during dinner. The majestic building sits in the very heart of San Francisco’s Financial District, offering eye-popping views to go with its eye-popping cuisine prices.
The Sala Burton I knew was a smart, no-nonsense mover and shaker. She imparted on me the basic beggar-chooser dichotomy: that every encounter was between a beggar wanting something, and a chooser who could possibly granted that wish; and in the Congresswoman’s position sitting on the highly influential House Rules Committee, she was usually the chooser in any meeting. Sala always leaned-in quickly to listen to every ask with judicious respect.
On this night I was serving as Sala’s legal corroborator, a safety valve witness of sorts, as her real dance partner on this evening was a man named Leland S. Prussia. Yes, that Leland Prussia (1929-2011), the Chairman of the Board of BankAmerica Corporation and Bank of America. I remember eating a red juicy steak and not touching a drop of the wine Mr. Prussia had ordered, that I am sure was very good—It could have even been a 1967 Chateau d'Yquem?—but was forewarned not to drink in the Congresswomen’s company. But boy did I need a drink!
Leland, in his mid-50’s, was the epitome of a limousine liberal: a Stanford alum—as he intoned repeatedly—and an economist by training, Bohemian Club member, and indeed a lifelong Democrat—as much as the Chairman of the Board of Bank of America could really be. My gut instincts rumbled. My guess, by the sound of it, was that Leland was having a bad time of it and needed some pragmatic advice. And while I can’t discuss what was said, reneging on both my professional and gentleman confidences, it was somewhat difficult for my young idealistic naïve ears to hear. Chairman Prussia’s tale of woe started with a tide of red ink and being plagued by bad loans, he complained openly about an upstart board member named Charles Schwab. In bold strokes, there were regulatory issues, a budding real estate scandal and ruinous shareholder lawsuit exposures on the horizon. Discussions meandered about bailouts, poison pills and golden parachutes—it was the 80s after all—and what the public might find tenable.* It was not an elevating experience, and while chewing my steak with the bejeweled city glittering laying below me, spreading from the Golden Gate Bridge on my left to Treasure Island on my right, I fixated on Alcatraz, straight ahead. Mulling to myself as to whether Leland might be housed there soon.
Anyway, this is a story about a pen.
It all happened so quick: Dinner eventually ended, Sala agreed to a ride home and coffee was being stirred. A bill arrived aside of Mr. Prussia’s place setting as Sala got up to press the flesh with some other members-only patrons. Leland pulled out his pen and signed the bill…then started nervously mulling over something while gently drumming the pen on the table. There was obviously something still on his mind. I remember seeing the pen and how amazing it looked: sleek and burgundy and gold. Something caught Leland’s attention, and he abruptly got up, dropping the pen ever so lightly on the table by the bill. Moments passed, then I was waved over by them near the room’s exit. So, I got up and grabbed the pen. Honestly, at that moment, I was simply going to hand it back to Mr. Prussia. But before I could even act when I finally caught up with them, the elevator door opened and they both entered with Sala turning to me and politely requesting with her warm smile, “Bill, please take the next one down,” …to which I assumed the beggar-chooser drama would be at play. The elevator door closed, and I clipped the pen into my suit jacket pocket.
They were both chatting outside at the curb at the nexus of Pine and Kearny Streets, an awaiting limousine stood running with the driver standing next to the open door. I hurriedly approached them and was quickly offered a ride to somewhere. Respectfully—and knowing my place—I declined and said my good nights, electing to walk, thank you very much. They pulled away as I waited at the corner for the light to change, tapping my jacket’s breast pocket as their red lights melted into the city. I had stolen a Montblanc pen.
Frankly, listening to all I had, I needed to cleanse. Sure, I felt elated being in such close proximity to power, the adrenaline flowed through me, but at the same time, I felt dirtied by the ensuing conversation. I felt guilt too, not from stealing the pen mind you, but for now knowing what I knew. I was sullied, now grossly enlightened. The Clash were right when they sang, “You don’t owe nothing, so boy get running/It’s the best years of your life they want to steal.” At that moment I decided that I wasn’t ever going to be a banker, all those business economics classes be damned.
And yet…Mildly exhilarated, I stopped at three or more drinking establishments of various class distinctions along the 4-mile city walk. It was a glorious spring-like evening in San Francisco, and I was high on life, chatting with anyone within elbows distance, I didn’t care. I could roll with CEOs and ranking congressional majority leaders in the Financial District, barflies and good-time girls in the Tenderloin, and stand-up comics in the Richmond. Finally, about 90-minutes later, I arrived at the closet-sized Ha-Ha-A-Go-Go (aka Holy City Zoo) on Clement Street, a comedy joint that my friends at the time closed—on a nightly basis. It was our safety spot where we would gather and laugh at life and the Reagan-era crisis du jour; Robin was holding court. And by then I could laugh too, having exorcised the dinner, purged my head clean of its vile newfound cynical knowledge; and never once have I mentioned either my dinner companions or what was discussed, the steak I had eaten, nor the pen I had stolen, to anyone. Until now.
* Truth be told, in the days and months that followed, the Los Angeles Times ran a rather incriminating piece about BofA’s possible involvement in a $500 million real estate fraud case—Again, it was the 80s!—that eventually had the too-big-to fail (or prosecute apparently) bank lose $337 million dollars that year, and $500 million more in 1986. And it could have been worse if Leland hadn’t sold their crown jewel, the very building I ate dinner in, for $600 million. To say nothing of the almost 7,000 innocent employees who lost their livelihoods. And yes, both Leland, and BofA’s President, Samuel H. Armacost, resigned in semi-disgrace, with golden parachutes; and no, I have no knowledge of what was discussed between the two of them privately.
Thanks for giving me your attention for a few moments, it is the most precious thing you have, and I appreciate it. Be well.
William D. Chalmers © 2022 GreatEscape Adventures, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Great story and the pen box is impressive.