Last evening a package arrived from Amazon. A package that neither I nor my wife had ordered. A mysterious, enigmatic package. From the outside, there was no indication of its content or providence.
We discussed where it could have come from. What could it be. Should we open it. Maybe Amazon sent the package to the wrong person. Yet the delivery address was certainly mine.
Finally, I opened it.
It contained a bubble wrapped box, a bunch of packing bubbles and three slips of paper. The first slip was a packing slip describing the content of the bubble-wrapped box. The second was a return slip. Where this package came from remained a mystery.
It was the third slip of paper upon which we hoped to gain the key clue, the source of this package, our mysterious benefactor.
It did not help.
It contained a personal note.
An unsigned personal note.
A note clearly written by someone who knows me and how I live my life.
Someone who spotted an emptiness in my existence that I was unaware of.
The bubble-wrapped box contained a gift, a perfect gift. One borne of great kindness and understanding of my lifestyle and of unknown unstated needs.
From the note and content, it was clear that the sender knew me well. It was also clear that the sender was considerate, kind, wise and understanding. They had taken the time to observe that necessary items, those in the bubble-wrapped box, were missing from my life. That the quality of my life and that of many others would be improved immensely by this gift. They had taken the time to research and select the perfect gift to fill this unknown unstated void. And they had executed, purchased and shipped it.
With a personal, yet unsigned note.
Who could this wonderful, kind, generous, person be? Why had they not signed the note? How does one accept such a magnificent gift from an anonymous source without the opportunity to express heartfelt gratitude and the soul-filling joy such a gift brings.
A mystery was present, the game was afoot.
This angel of awesomeness was to be unmasked and gratitude expressed.
Whatever it took.
However long it would take.
All leads would be followed.
As far as they would lead.
This mysterious messenger, this masked angel, would be found.
And unmasked for all to see their true generosity.
In the end, an email was sent. A sleuth engaged. A night passed. And an email received.
I knew who the culprit was.
I had unmasked the angel of awesomeness.
And had a good night’s sleep.
The message on the third slip of paper in full:
Hilton… something for your office. I couldn’t bear the thought of you drinking from shitty plastic cups. Enjoy!
The bubble-wrapped box contained four stunning glass tumblers. They presented in the style of crystal Manhattan glasses. The perfect compliment to the office whiskey collection. The perfect implement to hold and enjoy the Scottish Nectar at the end of a hard day’s work.
A simple call and thank you is not enough.
A note on Facebook neither.
This kind, considerate person needs to be immortalized.
A plaque perhaps.
Maybe have something named after them.
A bridge, a ship, a building, a space shuttle.
I have none of those things.
But I do have a bar.
One I attend regularly.
It is stocked with quality whiskey and bourbons.
All comers are welcome.
It is a place of relaxation, conversation and comfort.
It brings joy to many regulars and guests.
I hereby declare that The Gentleman James V bar open.
All glasses will be raised in his honor.
His name will be whispered with reverence.
His contribution to quality of life and joy known and remembered.
And his presence at the The Gentleman James V is much desired.
For those of you who got this far and do not know who I am talking about, allow me to introduce James V Waldo. He is man with the ferocious visage of a viking biker, an arse that emits a toxic hellstew of gasses that are not present on the periodic table, the soul of a poet, the intellect of a debater, the wit or a writer, and a heart the size of the moon. A husband. A dad. And a very good and special friend.
TL;DR: Thanks for the Whiskey Tumblers, Jay.
Follow the author as @hiltmon on Twitter.