The Glove Affair

Title: The Glove Affair

It all began on a foggy Tuesday morning when FBI Agent Terry Franks knocked on Jim's door and handed him a pair of gloves.

"These are the police gloves," Franks said with an air of grim importance, as if Jim had just inherited a rare family heirloom.

Jim blinked at the gloves, which were made of an unassuming plasticky material. "What... exactly are these?" he asked, still holding the gloves at arm’s length, as if they were about to start emitting dangerous gas.

"They're... an interface," Agent Franks explained, his voice lowering in that way people do when they’re trying to sound more mysterious than they actually are. "You wear them, you become part of the system. The system is part of you. No more questions, Jim."

Jim didn’t want to wear them. He really didn’t. But the moment Agent Franks started walking away, Jim made a rash decision: he threw the gloves into the nearest trash can. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn’t want to get involved in whatever farcical espionage nonsense the FBI was cooking up.

And that should’ve been the end of it. But the gloves would not stay in the trash. They were retrieved by an increasing number of people who really, really had nothing better to do.

First, a low-level intern from the FBI’s "New High-Tech Bureau" — a man named Greg who could barely operate a multi-colored pen without an instruction manual — showed up at Jim’s workplace. Greg had been briefed, or so he claimed, on the "vital national security initiative."

"I’m here for the gloves," Greg said, holding up the same pair, now half-dirty, like it was some kind of ceremonial crown.

Jim blinked. "You want these?" he asked, incredulously. "Why?"

"They’re the future, man. The future." Greg nodded enthusiastically, as if he were unveiling the mysteries of the universe. "You don’t understand. If you just wear them, you’ll be part of something big. You’re needed."

But Jim didn’t need them. He avoided Greg. Then came Carol. Then Dave. Then an ever-growing army of people who, by some twisted form of bureaucratic logic, were assigned to ensure Jim wore the gloves. The agents kept multiplying, until they formed a small army of unqualified people who spent their days trying to get Jim to put on the gloves while standing around in his office making poorly-executed attempts at digital espionage. None of them were remotely good at it. In fact, they were the least qualified bunch you could imagine: people who didn’t even understand how email worked, but were somehow key to “covert operations.”

In desperation, the CIA escalated the operation. They sent a special envoy — a woman named Janet who had no real mission beyond keeping herself busy during the week — to make things more "efficient." Janet brought with her a team of overzealous government employees, each of whom had nothing more pressing to do than confuse Jim into participating in whatever the police gloves were supposed to do.

“Jim, just wear the gloves," Janet said, sitting cross-legged on Jim's office floor as if this was some kind of bizarre therapy session. “We’ve been monitoring your refusal and we think it’s an issue of ‘personal resistance.’”

“Personal resistance?” Jim stared at her, incredulous. “It’s gloves, Janet.”

“I know,” she said, nodding sagely. “But it’s not just gloves. It’s an ongoing... protocol. A state of readiness.”

“Protocol? What protocol?” Jim was beginning to wonder if this whole situation had turned into a bad episode of a spy thriller written by someone with zero understanding of intelligence operations.

Then came the private intelligence contractors, and that’s when things really took a turn for the ridiculous. They didn’t even bother showing up in person; instead, they coordinated a convoy of unmarked cars that crisscrossed the city in an attempt to look like they were “covertly” speaking to various members of the public in diners, laundromats, and gas stations. They were "passing intelligence." At least, that was the official line. The whole situation became more absurd as random drivers in sedans and minivans would pull up to nearby convenience stores, get out, and pretend to exchange coded information with the local cashier.

Meanwhile, the regular police and bystanders looked on, utterly confused.

“Is this some kind of joke?” a beat cop asked his partner, who had been watching an unmarked car pull up and the driver walk inside a 7-Eleven for thirty minutes.

“I don’t know, man. It’s like... it’s like watching an amateur theater troupe doing a bad spy movie,” the partner replied, shrugging.

At construction sites, actual construction workers began operating as security personnel and information relays, all while trying to continue their day jobs. One of them, a guy named Hank, wore a hard hat and checked his construction blueprints while speaking into an earpiece that was supposed to help him "coordinate covert data." Hank had no idea what he was doing. He just kept repeating phrases like “the digital pieces are coming in hot” and “I have eyes on the signal.” Nobody knew what any of it meant.

In other parts of the city, security guards doubled as “luggage data handlers” — a role that was as nonsensical as it sounds. The guards were given absolutely no context and were told to pretend to manage bags as if they were “digital packages” being delivered from one “secure location” to another. These poor security guards wandered the streets holding empty tote bags, occasionally looking into them like they had some critical piece of intelligence hidden inside. They didn’t.

The hospital became a metaphorical therapy site for these cosplayers. The nurses and doctors, turned into performative assistants for sorting out the clothing and problems explained in veiled language of the glove squadron, once that weeks batch of attempted covert operation became to hard for the participants to understand. They would wear an outfit, carry some groceries, and 'go to the metaphorical hospital' to have their illness treated. 

Waves of confused people, tried to turn baristas and shop clerks into covert relay hubs, by coordinating their shopping and chatting, with other customers near by, to make it appear as though something intricately clever was occurring. This was to get them to participate in order to pretend it was somehow a useful addition to their regular jobs. Many of them just stood by looking baffled. Some thought they were coronated, by this odd behavior as 'cool spies'. 

As the situation devolved, the telephone company and electrical grid workers — whose job it was to keep the lights on and fix phone lines — found themselves doing performative "digital policing." They spent their days walking around construction sites trying to show the regular police what "was happening" with things that didn’t exist. None of it made sense, but the higher-ups insisted they continue. It was a farce, really.

Worst of all, homeless people and low-income folks started getting roped into this web of nonsense. With no explanation whatsoever, they were told to go to convenience stores and "signal" other random people, often via awkward glances or overly dramatic gestures. They had no idea why they were doing it. They had no idea that it had anything to do with police gloves. They just did it to pass the time.

In the end, the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. No one understood what the gloves were for. No one knew who was supposed to be involved. No one had any idea why they were doing what they were doing.

And yet, somewhere in the distance, Agent Franks was still out there, desperately trying to find Jim. But Jim, fed up and confused, had long since disappeared into the city, leaving the whole operation to rot.

The regular police, who had wisely stayed out of the entire mess, just shook their heads.

"Well," one said, looking at the chaos around them, "at least we're not involved in that."

"Yeah," his partner agreed. "But I'll never look at a pair of gloves the same way again."