Thanks for...Something

After taking his frustrations out on his dartboard, Desi sat down to try – again – to write a thank-you note.

A very particular thank-you note.

“Thank you for the gift.”

He glared at the screen as he typed the last word and debated putting it in quotes to make a point.

The harshness wasn’t entirely deserved. The gift came from the head of research and development of the largest black market organization in the sector. There was little doubt that it was a pretech device of some sort, making it rare, expensive, and potentially quite powerful. If only they knew how it worked.

Desi continued typing:

“My wife, as you know, never puts down a puzzle unsolved. This is perhaps why you chose to gift us such a peculiar object, with no context outside a note reading ‘good luck’.

“It has not, in fact, given us good luck. Were I a superstitious man, I’d say it’s cursed.”

This is normally when he’d delete and start over, but this time he decided to follow the path of least resistance. For catharsis, if nothing else.

“We spent the first week of our break trying to figure it out and didn’t get far. Why are there so many protrusions? Why does one wiggle? What’s the point of the groove down the side? What’s rattling inside of it?

“This was the start of Loren’s obsession. Anytime we put it down, she’d return to it within the hour. She nearly canceled a dinner with her brother until I reminded her she could enlist his help.

“This turned out to be a mistake on my part.

“Have you seen Brian’s house? With the number of spiked, poisonous, and carnivorous plants around, an inanimate object should not have caused the most harm.

“Halfway through the meal, the siblings began using a multi-tool to try and pry open what they thought was a hatch. Then Loren’s hand slipped.

“The object – we’ve taken to calling it Geoff – leapt through the air and landed in the salad bowl. The serving spoon catapulted into a plate of curry, flinging salad across the room before splashing us all with red.

“Geoff’s weight tipped the salad bowl over and he continued rolling across the dinner table to knock over all three glasses down the line. Juice cascaded across the tablecloth and soaked into the remains of the charcuterie.

“The three of us did nothing but watch as one glass tumbled off the table, bounced off a chair cushion, and landed upside-down on the carpet. It miraculously remained unbroken, until Geoff had his final say and dropped off the table like an anvil.

“We were all so shocked at the Rube Goldberg-esque sequence of culinary destruction that not even Loren noticed the gash the multi-tool had left in her hand until blood was already dripping onto the floor.

“The splashes of curry on our clothes apparently looked enough like blood splatter that our mere presence sent multiple exhausted ER nurses into a panic until we had a chance to explain.

“A couple hours and several stitches later, we returned to Brian’s and relegated both Geoff and the multi-tool to the corner while we salvaged what we could of an otherwise pleasant dinner.

“Loren’s hand has mostly healed now, but she’s using the injury as an excuse not to write these notes. Regardless of what it’s meant to be, Geoff has been given the title of ‘statue’ and rests within a protective case on a shelf.

“I won’t deny this was one of the more exciting events of our honeymoon, but I wonder if this is the sort of wedding gift you give all your employees. If so, please accept my advice to instead give them something normal. Like a bread maker. Or maybe a gift card.

“Sincerely, Desi & Loren Codac (but mostly Desi)”

He stared at the completed letter and felt the creep of satisfaction. As tempting as it was to send, a letter like that could ruin his reputation in some circles. Still, the sense of accomplishment reduced the frustrated fugue that had overtaken the last few days. Perhaps some modifications could redeem it.

As he debated what was salvageable, a bandaged hand reached over and tapped the ‘send’ button on the screen.

“There,” Loren said from behind him, “now you can’t stress about it anymore.”

He swiveled his chair around to face his wife. “Loren. You just sent an incredibly sarcastic thank-you note to your employer.”

Rather than express any of the horror he felt, she laughed. “That’s all? By your face you’d think I’d killed someone.”

“You may have killed both of our careers.”

“You hang out with too many uptight people.” She sat on his lap and draped her arm across his shoulders. “I promise the worst that will happen is you’ll get a sarcastic response back.”

He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. She was probably right. Tag wasn’t the sort to take offense to sarcasm, nor engage in politics like most with his amount of power did.

“Wasn’t that the last note we had to send?” Loren asked.

“‘We’?” She’d matched each gift with the gifter, but Desi had done most of the actual writing while she changed her name every place she could think of.

“What I mean is…” She pressed her palm into his chest before tugging at his shirt buttons. “Why don’t I show you how I can single-handedly help you relax?”

That, he had no arguments against.