16/10/2025
Love this!
Animac
For three Thursdays in a row, something peculiar happened to me on my walk to work. I’d be trudging along, coffee in hand, mentally preparing for the day, when a man on a bicycle would glide past.
He wasn’t just any man. He was impeccably dressed in a vibrant, mismatched suit—think a purple blazer with green trousers. And as he passed, without slowing down, he would call out a single, hyper-specific compliment.
The first time, it was: “Astounding posture! You carry the weight of the world with remarkable spinal integrity!”
He was gone before I could even process it. I spent the rest of the day standing a little taller.
The second Thursday, I saw him coming. He locked eyes with me for a fraction of a second and declared: “A truly formidable coffee-cup grip! Unwavering!”
I looked down at my hand. I did, in fact, have a very secure hold on my latte.
The third time, I was ready. I saw the flash of color turning the corner. My heart beat a little faster. What would it be today? He cycled past, his voice clear as a bell: “Exquisite rhythm in your walking gait! A metronome of purpose!”
And he was gone.
I was, by now, completely invested. Who was this man? Why was he doing this? He wasn’t flirting—the compliments were too bizarre, too clinical, and he never stopped. He was like a wildlife commentator praising the unique traits of a passing animal.
I started to notice a pattern. He wasn't just targeting me. I saw him do it to others. He told a construction worker he had a "commanding and efficient whistle." He told a woman waiting for a bus that her "sigh contained multitudes." He was a Compliment Guerrilla, launching precision strikes of positivity before vanishing into the urban jungle.
Last Thursday, I saw him chain his bike up outside a nondescript office building. My curiosity got the better of me. I followed him inside, pretending to be on a phone call.
He walked into a small, dimly lit office with a frosted glass door. The plaque on the wall read: "Bureau of Overlooked Virtues - Appointments Encouraged, Walk-Ins Welcomed."
I pushed the door open. The man was sitting behind a desk, typing on an old typewriter. He looked up, not at all surprised to see me.
"Ah," he said. "The metronome. I wondered if you'd stop by."
"What... is this?" I asked, gesturing to the office.
He smiled warmly. "It's a regulatory body. We've identified a critical deficit in the recognition of minor, non-monetizable skills. The steadfast way someone holds an umbrella. The patience exhibited while a slow dog sniffs a lamppost. These are the virtues that hold society together, and they are going entirely unacknowledged."
"My job," he continued, "is field work. I gather data and distribute commendations. Would you like to file a report?"
He slid a form across the desk. It had fields like: "Observed Subject," "Time/Location," and "Virtue in Question (Please Be Specific)."
I stood there, stunned. Then I thought of my barista, who always places the cup lid on with a perfect, satisfying click. I thought of the security guard in my building who has a uniquely graceful way of pointing people toward the elevator.
I sat down and filled out three forms.
Now, I'm a field agent. I don't have a bike or a colorful suit yet, but I have a notepad. Yesterday, I told a stranger at the park that I admired the "authoritative yet compassionate way you threw that stick for your dog."
The look of confusion, followed by a slow-dawning, genuine smile, was better than any thank you.
The world is full of invisible experts, masters of tiny, perfect things. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to see them. And to tell them.
Keep your ears open. You might get a commendation.
