Clear And Present Danger

There is a phrase in life, a warning bestowed to us in history, legend and metaphor.

Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

I am not entirely sure if it relates to my Personal Assistant Electra, but she is Greek and she is bearing a gift.

There is no Trojan horse being wheeled into my office just a shoe box shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper; beautifully bound and tied with old string. The central knot is in itself a work of art. My name and address is written on the most perfect franked vintage luggage label and the parcel even has multiple pretty postal stamps adorning the opposite corner. The whole package resembles something out of a Victorian fairy tale for children. Just sitting there on my glass desk in the centre of my palace of light. The whole back wall is a floor to ceiling window; a wall of crystal overlooking the Thames from the most perfect dynamic height. The parcel already feels like an invader; it does not belong.

The box is alien, the brown papered nostalgia screams out in this setting. Just sitting there looking at it on my perfectly ergonomic formed chair it feels like I am looking at a bomb. It has the power to send a chink into my armour and bring my house of cards crashing down. Electra smiles as she leaves. She raises an encouraging eyebrow, smiling at me. I smile back, in truth inside I am screaming. I want to throw this intrusion at her and knock her to the floor and make her promise never to infect my sanctum with this shit ever again.

Of course I don’t.

I can’t look at it any longer I go and stand at my window. I stare at the OXO tower, one of the last old anchors of the London skyline. I stare at the river and track a tiny boat carrying tourists along. I appreciate the grey and gloom of London. It is only truly appreciated by the people born and raised here. Then in my soundproofed, super expensive office suite, I scream as loud as I can, “Fucking Hell”.

I am getting fat and old. The world is changing like the skyline. From being a trader in the eighties to running teams of them in nineties. Then in the new century making money with property, then hedge funds then in the last decade new-fangled currencies. I find myself now the king of altruism. I take the richest monsters and turn them into saints. I open new cancer wards with the money from tobacco. Wind farms financed by oil. Scholarships from the old plantation money. This week we are about to announce a new school of scientific excellence for girls, all bankrolled by three leading fashion houses. Cleaning money is not just for criminals; now everyone must do it for fear of being cancelled. I understand more than anyone about gifts. I am the world’s secret Santa. Not one penny of it is done for kindness. That parcel on the desk is a gift. I hate gifts.

Even the meaning of the word gift is a bare faced lie. An item given to someone without the expectation of anything in return. All gifts are contracts. We give so we can be forgiven, or maybe to improve our social standing. We claim it is to make the other person happy or less sad. Yet why do we always expect something back in return. We use them to make the other person remember or even to forget. We use them to influence and manipulate. They are a way for us to make a statement about ourselves, who, why, how much you may love, care or respect. It is just another form of currency. Gift giving is a form of abuse. A way to control through positive reinforcement, an exchange for compliance and reciprocation.

Returning to my desk I lift up ‘my gift’. Not so heavy. I know underneath that brown paper is another layer of tasteful gift paper. Then a white cardboard box. Inside it will be stuffed with revolting pink tissue paper, a card full of false sentiments and ‘the gift’. It has been the same for decades. It is from my sister. A master at weaponizing gifts. She is the only person in the world who can wrap something with a mountain of passive aggressive hate. She always knew that a gift was an act of diplomacy and how important it was to relay your true intention. In a way you have to admire the skill in selection and presentation. The ability to tell someone externally you love them and appreciate them, while simultaneously telling them internally you truly hate their guts. Shaking the box, I am still none the wiser.

Reaching into my drawer I pull out a beautiful Japanese knife made by a master artisan in the shadow of Mt Fuji. I toy the edge of the blade under the string. The string stretches and I see it start to fray under the tiniest of pressure. Stopping I put the knife back down. Sometimes the easiest way to play the game is not to play the game. I buzz Electra.

Appearing at the door she looks over at the parcel and smiles at me sadly.

“Can you take this away,” I say.

“Certainly, where do you want it.”

“Put it in storage with all the others.”

She walks over to the desk and picks it up.

“Will there be anything else.”

“Yes, send my sister the standard thank you card and add a basket of muffins.”

“Certainly.”

“Send some flowers too.”

“Any in particular.”

“Lilies, white lilies.”

“Everything is ready for your drinks reception tonight.”

“Excellent, are you going to attend?”

“I would not miss it.”

“Good.”

Just as Electra is leaving she spins on her heel and says one last thing.

“Oh, and if I don’t say it tonight, Happy Birthday.”

Thank you for reading my story.

This is for a writing challenge called SFS 3: Brown Paper Box.

I publish my stuff independently for no other reason that I would rather these strange ideas that rattle around my head from time to time have a place to go. Hey, better out than in.

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1st published on Vocal July 2021