Too Polite

January 9, 2017

Greetings from the sleeper,

When I learned who James Bond was I knew this was my destiny.  Even at that preadolescent stage I felt the connection with the suave, intelligent, handsome spy, adept at dealing with diabolical villains intent on world domination. 

I knew I was meant to drive the perfectly appointed Aston Martin, outfitted with machine guns and ejector seat.  I knew that my hands could be trained to deal lethal karate chops, or wield the Walther PPK.  I felt the resonance of a British accent, knew I was meant to deliver pithy, clever lines with the authority of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and the Oxford-tempered brogue of a Scotsman.

But unfortunately, it was not to be.  I have learned now, after years of self-analysis and tireless research on largely imaginary websites, that I was a victim of a complex method of brainwashing. 

The reason I could not be a 007 agent is because I am too polite.

My parents were part of an ingenious, far reaching conspiracy designed to purge the Double O tendencies from me before I could fully act on them.  From a very young age I was trained in a different discipline. 

Every day there were lessons, ruthlessly drilled into me.  I would be required to wait patiently outside the bathroom door instead of banging on it and yelling. I would be told not to interrupt when others were speaking, even though what I had to say was more important.  I was given orders daily to share, to say I’m sorry, to open doors for others.  I was drilled on being respectful, even if I didn’t want to be. Some training was more subtle: we were never served martinis.

I was taught to put it back when I was through with it, to close it if it were open, to clean it if I left it dirty, to return it if I borrowed it.  I was commanded to say ‘Excuse me’ for everything from bumping into my siblings to burping.   

In fact the lessons went far beyond table manners and courteous exchange.  As a brother among sisters, I was told to be considerate of others, even if I didn’t understand in the slightest it was I was being considerate about.  I was to respect the quiet, privacy, and feelings of others. 

Of course I had my moments.  Occasionally I would forget to say ‘please and thank you’ when I asked for the salt to be passed.  Sometimes I let the door slam on the way out to torture ants in the back yard.  Sometimes I would go through a room occupied by visitors and neglect to say hello and that I was glad to see them. 

These transgressions were dealt with by using a method of mind control so effective that today I can barely express the impact.  First there would be ‘the look’ from my mother.  This would be followed later, sometimes in a surprise attack, with a rigorous lesson using the most elaborate language to reinforce ‘the look’.  For the gravest infractions, there was a threat of torture ‘when your father gets home’.

Slowly the skills I was meant to develop, the lethal instincts I was meant to hone, were driven deep into my subconscious.  I found myself unable to compete in Debate in school for fear of offending the other team.  I couldn’t fully commit to a fight to keep my lunch from being stolen because ultimately I knew I would behave in an impolite manner.

As I grew older, and moved further away from my parent’s influence, I experimented with being rude, but it was no use.  The brainwashing was so effective I couldn’t so much as take the last cookie from a tray at a party where I didn’t even know anyone.

It wasn’t until recently I began to feel the 007 begin to resurface.  Sometimes it comes when I am in traffic and get cut off by a driver who clearly is an evil henchman of some sort.  Occasionally I will feel the Bond in me arise when I am in line at the grocery store behind people who have not yet grasped the concept of the Express Lane.  I know what a trained assassin would do, and somehow, hands shaking, I manage to fight the urge until my parent’s training pushes the impulse back.

I am not sure how much longer I will be able to resist my natural instincts.  It’s not too late; I still look good in a tuxedo, my hands are steady enough to aim a well balanced PPK, and I can easily pick up the icy stare necessary for intimidating my opponents, having quite a bit of experience deliver ‘the look’ with my own children.  Truth is, my years of training in being polite could probably help me affect a more debonair persona.  And I know how to order a martini.

In fact, I have been looking for a new car.  Maybe it’s time to replace the minivan with a bulletproof two seater with the revolving license plates. 

Hope this finds you shaken not stirred,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith