Keep the Canaries Caged

Mark returned to his apartment after another frustrating day at work. As well, he was cold. His favourite leather jacket of ten years or more had finally worn out. He had thrown it in a skip bin the previous evening after one of the arms had come away.

Why did no one listen him? he pondered for the upteenth time. Jane, his coworker was the worst. The way she prettily condescended and rolled her eyes. She was patient, kind and totally oblivious. He would show them all one day, but by then he knew he would gain little satisfaction.

He climbed the open staircase to his small one-bedroom apartment. His cold hand searching his jean pocket for his keys. Arriving at the small platformed entrance to his unit, Mark was confronted by a square box. Wrapped in plain brown paper, it was stamped on the top with his name, ‘Mark Ambrose’. With no address it was not handwritten, but stamped in black ink as though someone had created a Mark Ambrose template. He looked around and saw what he always saw. A myriad of drab units and apartments just like his. The people who lived here were either young and just starting out, like himself, or older singles or couples who had failed in their dreams. He determined once again not to become any of these.

The package was not heavy. He placed it on his small kitchen table, racking his brain for some forgotten online order. There was no postage stamp, return address or consignment note. Competing waves of paranoia resulted in Mark finally having to open the box. Inside was a brand new, well made leather jacket. Not exactly the same as his old one, but similar. Certainly more expensive than what he was thinking of buying. He tried it on. It was a perfect fit and comfortable. But Mark was not. Taking the jacket off he folded it over his kitchen chair. He had not ordered this and had told no one he needed one. This began to gnaw away and feed into many of his more eccentric theories.

“And there was no sign of who sent it to you?” Jane asked sceptically.

Mark was at work the next day. He had chosen not to wear the jacket and was sharing with his coworker the tale of his recent acquisition.

“So where is it?” she asked. Even though they were inside the office, the heating was not great.

“I left it at home. I don't like wearing it. Who sent it...and why? There is no such thing as a free lunch,” he finished emphatically.

Jane and Mark were both in a dead end job, and under appreciated. They agreed on virtually nothing, but had somehow formed a bond regardless. Both did their job well and with diligence. Their professionalism towards one another had been a constant. It was when talk of other subjects came about that Jane would quickly become frustrated with Mark’s ideas. “You are right about that. Your mum maybe?” she offered.

“She doesn't buy me clothes, and she's got less money than I have,” he replied.

“You're sure you didn't order it?” asked Jane in a mothers voice.

He gave her ‘you know me better than that look’, “I only threw the old one away two nights ago. World record delivery time if I did order it.”

Jane liked to tease Mark about some of his theories, “Did you check it for tracking devices...a bug maybe?”

He was briefly disappointed in himself for not thinking of this, before remembering who he was talking to, “I know you think I’m an idiot Jane, but you just never know. There are some things going on in this world that just don't add-up...like that jacket.”

Jane relaxed. They had been working together for two years now, and had had these discussions many times. She no longer became angry at his idosyncracies and was actually starting to find them a little charming, “Mark, I don't think you're an idiot and the things that don't add up are people. Your problem is that you think it should add-up whereas I'm constantly surprised about how often it does. Most of us are just apes in suits who only a few hundred years ago were throwing spears at each other in order to get some food. Now, we've walked on the moon and do heart transplants...and the spears are now guns and social media. No one's in charge of this mess. How could they be? It’s insane...all of it.”

In that moment their two worlds met again. They both agreed on the state of it, Jane accepted it, Mark could not. “And the jacket?”

She smiled and said, “Dont look a gift horse...wear the bloody thing.”

“But what if it’s a Trojan horse?” replied Mark smirking at his own cleverness.

“Mark, I'm sorry but you're a barista. What is their motive? And who is they again? Is it the Freemasons in charge of the world...”

“No, I'm more leaning towards the Illuminati these days. It doesn't matter what they are called, it's all Deep State. And their motivations are many and varied.”

“So many and varied, that they give a jacket to someone who pours coffee in order to...”

“It’s the thin end of the wedge.”

“So what, a Ferrari next...in exchange for your cooperation? Free macchiatos for the privileged few, is that their game?”

Mark liked Jane. Apart from being pretty, she spoke openly and passionately, if only he could make her see. “Who knows? But I will continue to seek the truth with open eyes.”

Jane shook her head and laughed good-naturedly.“Well the rest of us sheeple appreciate your efforts.”

As usual, at the end of their working day they walked to the train station together. Sometimes, especially in the winter, it could almost be dark and a little scary. Jane had done the walk alone often enough to appreciate Mark’s presence. She felt safe with him. It was a small lonely station which was used by only a few. There were however, many trains passing frequently. So Mark always waited for Jane to catch hers before catching his own train home on another line. They usually sat in silence, browsing on their phones. Mark would sometimes see Jane starting wistfully at one of the billboards at the station. Advertising a pair of Jimmy Choo women’s sneakers.

Approaching his apartment, and having had more to time to think, Mark decided to investigate further the origins of his serendipitous gift. He had begun to query more the delivery method, as opposed to the contents themselves. There was no postage or consignment note. This meant no one had paid to have it delivered. Which implied it should be someone who he knew. Arriving at his stairs he looked up and then in front, to the ground floor apartment below him. It’s resident a scruffy stoner dude named Dave. They had nooded three times in a year.

“Hey, what’s up?” asked Dave amicably answering his door.

“Ah...hi Dave isn't it? I'm Mark, I live upstairs.”

“Yeah man, what’s up?”

“Um, don't suppose you were around yesterday. I got this parcel delivered to my door, I was just wondering if you remember anyone going up my stairs or if you saw anyone?” asked Mark trying not to sound paranoid.

Dave was just relieved that the question was nothing to do with him, and that he could help. “Noone went up your stairs yesterday.”

“No?”

“No, that parcel was dropped off by a drone. Was sittin’ out here havin’ a doobie when I heard this buzzing. Looked up and there it was,” answered Dave laconicallly.

Mark couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, “A drone? Since when have we had drone deliveries in Melbourne?”

Dave laughed, oblivious to Mark’s discomfort, “Dunno man. But it’s here now.”

The following day Mark was back at work serving a police officer his skim milk latte with lemon, “Officer...Trevor isn't it?”

The police officer presented his practiced professional facade, “Yeah?”

“Um hi, apparently I had a parcel dropped off at my house by a drone the other day...,” Mark was hoping this would be enough of a conversation starter.

“Yeah?”

“Um, is that legal? Can they just fly around the city like that. Don't they need to lodge a flight path or something...?”

“Yeah...probably.”

Jane was giving him a look that said stop bothering the customers, but there was no way Mark was going to let this lie. “It’s just that it was a generous gift, from out of the blue and there was no return address or indication of who sent it.”

A brief twinkle of intrigue entered the policeman's eye, “What was in the parcel?”

“A really expensive jacket, and I’d just thrown out my old one,” Mark could see the officer was about to ask the obvious, “And no I didn't order it online.”

“Mm,” said the policeman taking a sip of his coffee. It was nice, he wanted to thank the young man, “Give me your address, I’ll look into it for you.”

Mark was ecstatic, “Yes!” He quickly wrote out his address on a napkin and handed it to the officer, simultaneously poking his tongue out at Jane.

It was Mark’s day off and he was following the lead Officer Trevor had given him. A designated flight path to Mark’s door had been lodged with CASA, as had a number of other addresses in the recent past. All were registered to a company ominously named Shell Holdings, at an address that Mark was now driving to.

It was a long way out of town. One of those newer suburbs he’d never heard of. After passing through an industrial zone, Mark was soon in what he considered to be the countryside. There was the occasional paddock and large gum trees were becoming common. He almost missed the sat nav prompt which told him he had arrived. There was a gate, giving entry to a large field of dried grass. At the bottom corner of which stood a large red warehouse, a single generic looking vehicle parked out the front.

The gate wasn't locked and Mark felt nervous as he drove up the poorly maintained gravel road to the red building. Drawing closer he could see that on the furthest side away from the road it was fully open, like an airport hanger.

There didn't seem to be anyone around, so Mark shouted, “HELLOOO.”

A flustered “SHIT!” came from the inside of the building.

Mark had walked around to the open end of the warehouse and shouted. It's only occupant now emerging from a back room, tucking his shirt in over his sizeable belly. Trying to quickly organise his fastly receding bed hair, the man squinted at Mark. Not knowing whether to be nervous or officious he inquired, “Yes?”

Mark looked around inside the warehouse. There were boxes of all sizes stacked haphazardly throughout the builing, and drones, at least a dozen of them. “Ah hi, sorry to bother you but..my name is Mark and I think I received a package from you...a really nice jacket...”

The man relaxed, “You shouldn't be here this is private property.”

“I'm sorry I just wanted to know who sent the jacket?” asked Mark.

“Can't help you with that one. I just recharge the batteries and send the drones on their way. You would need to go to our head office,” answered the man becoming increasingly annoyed at this irrelevant disturbance.

“Where’s that?”

“Canberra,” answered the man.

Mark couldn't believe where he was. Seated in a waiting room, he was reclining on what was obviously a very expensive sofa lounge. The kind that had that deep, red leathery look to it, with lots of tightly placed studs. It was excruciatingly comfortable. On the seat next to him, the jacket he had brought with him. The seven-hour drive in his busted-ass Toyota corolla had been nerve-racking. It was by far and away the longest journey his little white vehicle had ever taken. In between thoughts of what he would do if he broke down, were ruminations on what he would do in a situation like this.

He had found the place easily enough. Shell Holdings, Canberra. Mark hated using things like google maps, but needs must. What he wasn't prepared for, was after a brief inquiry with the security guard at the front gate, and subsequent checking with the man’s superior, being ushered into this lavish anteroom. Before him sat an immaculately attired receptionist, complete with bunned hair, practical glasses and a pencil tucked behind one ear. She might have been attractive, there was no way to tell. She was perfectly presented for her work, nothing else.

Mark had been sitting for only ten minutes or so, when the secretary briefly took her attention away from her computer screen, touching the implant in her ear. “Mr. Seymour will see you now,” she said, indicating the door next to her desk.

Mark picked up his jacket and folded it over his arm, walking towards the entrance. It looked like an ordinary office door, but it opened automatically, just as he was about to reach for the handle. If the waiting room was lavish, the office was next level opulent. Animal trophies, interspersed with pictures of presumably Mr Seymour with celebrities. A bald man sat behind a large desk smoking a very large cigar, “Mark Ambrose, take a seat,” he announced convivially.

Alarm bells were ringing for Mark. He felt like a bit player in a James Bond movie who was about to be quickly eliminated. He wished he was back in the coffee shop, working with Jane. “I-I-l was just wondering who sent me this jacket,” he inquired sheepishly holding up the item in question.

Lowering his feet from the desk and walking around to tower over Mark, the large, clean shaven man gesticulated with his cigar, “Why, I did of course. Do you like it?”

This wasn't going well, “Ahh, no, yes...why?”

Mr. Seymour seemed a little put out by Mark’s response, “I'm a very rich man Mr. Ambrose, and I have thought long and hard about what I should do with my money. There are any number of opportunities for philanthropy in this world, I have chosen another option. One of my many tentacles,” at this point, Mr Seymour deliberately enacted a creepy persona, spreading out his fat fingers comically, “is as a supplier and installer of security cameras. I have the ability to monitor these...monitors and study the populace. In certain circumstances I can then choose to help people on an individual and personal level. A small token to brighten up a person’s day.”

Mark suddenly became deflated. All his angst as well as his anger and suspicions, had been for naught. “So you saw me throw away my old jacket. And you bought me a new one?”

“My team did some studies and we found that small random acts of kindness have an overall positive effect on society. Makes the populace generally more happy,” replied the billionaire, “Just doing my little bit for mankind.”.

Resigned to another dead end rabbit hole, Mark shrugged, “So I should have just put the jacket on and been grateful, just like Jane said.”

Shaking his large head and returning to his desk, Mr. Seymour disagreed, “I don't know who Jane is, but to the contrary Mr Ambrose, I'm glad you came. Your tenacity and single-minded thoroughness in tracking us down is exactly the sort of person we are looking for here at Shell Holdings. Would you like a job?”

Within a week Mark had moved to Canberra and was happily ensconced in his new job of ‘Monitor and Gift’. One of many in this position, he spent his day watching screens for mishaps or clues as to how a well-placed, simple anonymous gift might improve someone’s day. He didn't miss making coffee for a living, this was much more rewarding. Mark had made friends too, lots of them. He did however, miss Jane and with that thought he spent the latter part of his second day watching the feed from a certain railway station in Melbourne. There sitting in her usual spot, she sat looking at her phone, occasionally glancing up at the billboard advertising the shoes she could never afford. Mark entered in her details and smiled at his samaritan act. This job was so rewarding! Especially so when it came to people you cared about.

Within a few days he checked in with Jane again, and found her proudly wearing the shoes that his company, Shell Holdings, had bought for her. There was the tiniest tug of disappointment at her willingness to accept this largesse without checking for strings. Still, that was sheeple for you, going about their lives without seeing the bigger picture.

The flawless receptionist sat on Mr Seymour’s desk, absently tapping the pencil while she spoke. “Seem to be getting a lot people in Mr Seymour. You sure we’ve got enough jobs for them all?” she asked, oozing indifference.

Matching her belligerence, Mr Seymour puffed away on one of his endless cigars, “Gladys, I have thousands of ‘Monitor and Gift’ cubicles. Soon we will have the optimal number of birds in one place. Then phase two of ‘Keep the Canaries Caged’ can begin. Before the sheeple know what’s hit them we will have eliminated enough truth seekers and freedom warriors from the populace in order for us to make our move.”

“You really should grow a curly, dark moustache Brian. I can feel a twirl coming on,” said Gladys.

“Ha!” laughed the large man, “you’ll see Gladys. The algorithm predicts when we reach a certain number, pffft, we gas the lot of them in their cubicles. Then we can truly begin to take over!”