Cambodia has had its share of citizens come forward claiming to be the relatives of famous singers or members of the Royal family who were killed by the Khmer Rouge. Fortunately those individuals are often revealed as the imposters that they are. We at Rockefeller Without Borders are frequently contacted by people with their own claims. Few as mysterious as the man who called himself Modeerf de Parc III, however. “How can I help you, Mr de Parc?” I asked, wondering if this was a Dutch accent I was hearing over the phone. “Well, I understand you are a man of the people, Rockefeller,” he replied, sounding more French now. “So, as a man of the people, I want you to help me reclaim something that is mine. My great grandfather’s, actually.” I very quickly informed this stranger that Rockefeller Without Borders will not get involved in the following: 1) Repossessing pythons that can pick winning lottery numbers; 2) Repossessing organs for donors who have changed their minds and want them back (kidney the most popular); 3) Removing sun bears from karaoke bars (K-pop is actually really great for the bears’ wellbeing). “No, no, Mr Rockefeller; it’s much more important than that,” de Parc replied, insensitive to pythons that have finally been accepted into society. “Meet me at 4pm today. I will text you the location.”
After cryptic conversations like that, I always consult Miss Savy, the kind lady with the scales who can tell me my fortune simply by how much I weigh today. “Oh, this is not good,” she said, as I stood staring down at the same number as last week. “What do you mean?” I demanded. “I weigh exactly the same!” Then Miss Savy laughed and said: “Backwards thinking… backwards thinking,” nudging me off the scales for the next awaiting client. I quickly departed, vowing never to return. My phone beeped (the first few bars of a K-pop hit, if you really must know); “Modeerf de Parc III. See you at 4pm as agreed.” You want vague and cryptic text messages de Parc, I raged, try this on for size, hitting send on “OMG LMK.” Immediately he replies: “Backwards. See you later.”
Rockefeller rarely gets paranoid, but now Miss Savy was scaring me. Mastered a Dutch accent have we, Miss Savy? I returned to the office to find Ricardo standing in front of the mirror taking a selfie. “Just read a disturbing report, boss,” he said, trying to find the right angle in the mirror for said selfie, snapping away freely at least a dozen times. “Selfies make you more lonely,” the report said. “They’re right. I feel like I hardly know myself anymore. Thought the mirror might help… you know, add an extra me. Could be good for loneliness.” I pondered the immediate removal of his mobile phone in office privileges; instead I informed him that the study was done by Dr Parsons, a divorced, single man with 12 friends on Facebook who lives by himself in a tiny studio apartment without windows. That didn’t seem to help Ricardo, hopelessly flicking through his photos of Ricardo. “Ever met a Mr Modeerf de Parc III?” I asked, holding up my phone message for the selfied one. “Modeerf de Parc? What kind of backwards name is that?!” laughed Ricardo. No, no, not you too, Ricardo… Not you too, excusing myself and promising, at the very least, to cut down on caffeine. “Where you going, boss?” shouted Ricardo. “Freedom Park with Modeerf de Parc?!” I put the brakes on everything but my hand reaching into my pocket for my phone; there it was in mind-bending backwards black and white: Freedom ed Parc. “The French-Dutch-whatever stranger wants his park back!” I shouted, slightly confused by the ‘ed’, getting laughter and a wave from Miss Savy at the scales. Perhaps it was ‘freedomed’? Set free like the once barbed-wired protest park.
Anyway, the game was up for Imposter Parc. I reached him on the third ring. “So you think your Great Grandfather owns Freedom Park, huh?” He laughed, congratulating me on my discovery, adding: “I don’t think, Rockefeller, I know.” It was time for me to give him (and Miss Savy and Ricardo) some backwards medicine. “You do realise that Parc spelt backwards is ‘Crap’, Mr Freedomed one? And that’s how I feel about this claim of yours. My involvement ends immediately.” I vaguely heard him begin to weep. “Why must you be so difficult, Rockefeller?” he cried. “This park… it is not crap… stop insulting me. I want it back… for my family.” Suddenly repossessing kidneys seemed a lot easier (not to mention rewarding); I made a mental note to scratch that one off my never-do list and add “backwards talking park crapping freedom rapping” instead. I returned to the office and friended Dr Parsons on Facebook, suddenly not feeling so alone.