Thank You Note

Content warning: Contains references to violence.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. About how to express my gratitude to you. You see, it’s really quite the puzzle. You’ve done so much for me and I don’t know how best I can thank you for it. But I’m determined to try.

This morning started like any other. It started in a greasy spoon. As I perused the breakfast buffet, loading up my plate with sausage and scrambled eggs, I glanced up at the television screen set in the wall. The news was on, and it was the same old story - bombs falling in some distant part of the world: death, destruction. Background noise. 

I pulled up a chair at a table in the corner; tucked into my buttered toast. As I sipped on my black coffee, I turned things over in my mind. It was time to thank you, properly. To let you know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me. After all, you’ve had my back since the start. I don’t think you realise yourself quite how much I owe to you, sometimes - perhaps most of the time, in fact. But now, I’d made up my mind to let you know. 

I made my way out onto the street, walked past grim grey buildings begrimed with thick soot. A mother and her child approached from the other direction; the child, face scrunched up with impotent fury, was tugging at the mother’s arm, screaming. The mother screamed back; threatened, swore. I chuckled softly to myself and turned up my coat collar, passing by. Finding a corner shop, I stepped inside; as I did so, a teenage boy brushed past, scattering the pavement with packets of cigarettes which fell from his puffer jacket in his haste to get away. 

“Bloody youth,” said the shopkeeper, shaking his head angrily. “Scum, the lot of them. Should be shot, robbing me blind like that. Tough enough as it is supporting an aged mother without dealing with all the shoplifting.”

I smiled thinly by way of response. Cast my eyes over the greetings cards. Fingered one featuring a cat, yellow eyes peering out of black fur. 

“I’ll take this,” I said. 

Sat in another cafe, drinking another coffee, I looked briefly over a folded newspaper left by the previous customer. The headlines trumpeted the latest policy announcement from the government. Many were calling it harmful. Some were calling it cruel. I pushed the paper aside, set the card down on the table, took out a pen and started to write. 

For all the times you’ve been there for me, I began. When we work together, the world is our oyster. Huh. Perhaps a little cliched, a touch trite. I paused, the pen hovering over the card. As I did so, I became aware of a soft sobbing from a table nearby. A young woman, eyes wet with tears, was looking imploringly at her companion, a man who wore an unfeeling and cold expression. 

“Why would you say that,” the woman said through her sobs. “Why be so petty?” The man took out his phone, coolly started scrolling. Didn’t respond. 

I turned back to the card. Concentrated.

It’s not just the big things you’ve done for me - it’s the little everyday deeds, too, that matter, I continued to write. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed or that I’m not grateful. You’ve always been so accommodating, so generous. I really can’t thank you enough. Hmm. Too cloying, too mawkish, perhaps? I’d never been good with mushiness. Sentimentality isn’t really my style, so to speak.

I drummed my fingers on the table, staring ahead as I thought. Perhaps it would be simpler to send you a gift, a little token of appreciation? After all, actions speak louder than words, as they say. I rose and left the cafe; lost myself in the crowd outside. People hurried this way and that way, sometimes jostling one another in the throng. A light rain began to fall. I made my way steadily down the street, past a peeling shopfront in front of which a young man with upturned, weary eyes sat cross-legged on a threadbare blanket; I noted the passers-by swerving to avoid him, his appeals falling on deaf ears. 

Turning into a small florist’s, I looked over the many bouquets arranged ready for purchase - roses, tulips, carnations, peonies. Again, not really me.

“Looking for something in particular?” The florist said, bobbing up beside me.

“Just a little something to say thank you,” I replied.

“Anyone special?”

“Oh yes, I’d say so. We go back a long way together. I’ll take that bouquet - the one with the wild parsley.”

“Interesting choice,” the florist said, neatly clipping the green stems and wrapping the spray of plants in tissue paper. “Bit of folklore for you - back in the olden days, it would take a very long time for the parsley to germinate. They used to say the seeds had to be sown nine times before the crop would come up. Reason was that the parsley seed had to go nine times to…”

“I’m quite aware of the old superstitions,” I replied smilingly, cutting her off sharply as I took the bouquet. 

Back out onto the streets, the rain now beating down hard from overhead. Past a shop window filled with television screens. I paused to look with interest. The news channels, again - but this time, closer to home. A suburban street alight with fires, bricks being thrown, drunken skinheads spoiling for a fight. Violent anarchy for the sake of violent anarchy. 

“Well, well,” I said to myself softly with a smirk, drinking it all in. But how to express my gratitude to you - that was really the most pressing issue on my mind. That was what I needed to focus on now. Would the bouquet be sufficient? Would it truly convey my…Without warning, I felt myself pushed roughly against the shop window, the bouquet dropping to the sodden pavement. Harsh voices barked something indistinct in my ears; metal glinted in the corner of my eye and a hand was thrust into my pocket. I was thrown violently to the ground. Seconds later I heard footsteps receding, swallowed swiftly by the noise of traffic. 

I rose steadily to my feet and looked around me, calmly taking in the scene. The bouquet lay crushed, stems broken and the flowered heads scattered. The young man I’d seen begging earlier stared from across the street. From where I stood, looking through the driving rain, I couldn’t read his facial expression - was he alarmed, concerned for me? Or was he simply bored, desensitised to such acts of random violence? After all, it was so banal. I snickered at the thought - and at the act itself. It really was deliciously ironic. An older woman walking past looked at me with confusion, as if to ask if I was alright; then, thinking better of it, she hurried on, throwing a backward glance over her shoulder. My snigger now gave way to a laugh: an exuberant, scornful laugh. 

Once again, humanity had delivered. But then humanity had never failed me yet, not one single day, not in all the long years. From the opportunistic politician selling snake oil to the masses to the petty thug breaking and entering; from the executive in the boardroom screwing over people for profit share to the cold-blooded murderer; to the love-cheat, the abusive spouse, the schoolchild picking on their peer for wearing the wrong brand of sneakers. Their creativity was endless, and yet they all made it look so easy. So obvious, so simple.

And so I’ve finally realised how to express my gratitude to you - and it really is the simplest solution, after all. I’ve realised that all I need to do is to say it, directly, right here and right now: thank you. Yes - you, dear reader. Thank you from the bottom of my heart - such as it is. Thank you: for every time you’ve crossed the road rather than meet the eyes of the needy and the destitute; for every time you’ve looked the other way when faced with evil. For every unfeeling response you’ve ever had and for every dark thought you’ve ever held on to or nurtured. For every time you’ve given way to hating, or let your rage master you. For every time you’ve struck an unjust blow against those weaker than yourself, or taken what’s not yours to take. For every wicked deed, every sin, every lie, every act of spite and deception, hypocrisy and greed, cruelty and malice, no matter how big nor how small. My gratitude to you and to all your kind - all those that live now, and all those that have ever lived upon the face of this earth, as ancient as I. You see, it doesn’t matter to me whether you’ve been an unwitting accomplice, or whether you’ve been my enthusiastic and willing partner. The truth, dear reader, is that in all that myriad of moments, you’ve been doing the devil’s work all the same - and the Devil himself thanks you for it.