There's Nothing Like a Kidnapping Story.

When an 11 year old boy is trying to convince you that he has been kidnapped and this isn't his real family and they all know it or at least maybe they do, but they should if they don't,  but he knows.  That 11 year old boy knows that it doesn't help matters at all if he is the sort of boy who likes a kidnapping story. 

I know.  I know that it didn’t help that I have always liked kidnapping stories.  For as long as I can remember though, I have fantasized about being kidnapped and trying to outwit my kidnappers.  

To me, the tragic and perilous plight of a young person in captivity seemed tragically romantic and desirable.  

I would indulge these fantasies especially when I had been ordered to parry my rock collection down to one shoe box (so unfair!)  or clean my room ALL THE WAY (seriously!?).  I  rehearsed how, if one had been KIDNAPPED and held CAPTIVE then one could also escape and one’s escape would be marvelous.  

The escapee would return home a hero and a marvel.  Clever beyond his years.  

And who wouldn't rather meditate on future heroism and marvelousness instead of cleaning his room all the way or pretending to throw away rocks while actually hiding them in a different drawer?

I imagined a ceremony that would be held to both welcome me home AND to bestow me with a medal of honor since I had managed to rescue myself.  

I even planned the menu at my celebration.  The event would be held at the Morris Restaurant since I had not been there since we moved to West Virginia and their cheeseburgers were by far the best I had ever tasted in my life.  

I also admired the lighting.  The combination of paneling and yellow lanterns posted around the room achieved a kind of nostalgia and mystery that I thought would probably feel official and sophisticated to all the guests.  

I knew that cheeseburgers were probably not sophisticated enough to match the ambiance and expectations for the crowd so possibly we could also have steaks and mashed potatoes and asparagus for those who preferred sophistication.  

I knew already that I would not eat my steak, obviously opting for a cheeseburger.  I would not even have to ask about the cheeseburger, they would just remember and I thought perhaps they would push my asparagus in equal piles onto my brothers' plates. Even if my brothers had had good feelings about my return?  The asparagus would probably nullify those feelings.  

I could see the look on Daniel’s face as he stared at the extra large set of spears and I could also tell that the spite in his eyes was a projection of the feelings he had about me and my return. 

So yes, I had planned my return celebration and my heroic honors long before I was ever kidnapped and you should not doubt that it really happened just because I wanted it to.  Because what I wanted and what happened were very different. 

I was kidnapped at the age of 11 immediately following a concerts of the Rudd Family Singers. That’s when I found out that this elaborate fantasy I have ended up being both a source of disappointment along with other trouble.

During the hand shaking ritual in the foyer of the church immediately following the concert, I slipped away.  I told my mom (my real mom, my actual mom, not the mom who had kidnapped me later) that I needed to go to the bathroom.  

A more candid explanation:  I was bored by the hand shaking banter and planned to wander the dark hallways of the church.  I did need to go to the bathroom. So there was no lie involved.  I just needed to go there so I could get away.  I paused outside the bathroom for a drink from the drinking fountain and I remember concentrating very hard to be sure that my lips did not touch the actual fountain.  These fountains were the source of all manner of germs and disease, I knew, and I was staring at the fountain wishing germs were visible when the chloroform rag was clenched across my mouth and nose.  

I woke up in the trunk of a traveling car with a clean rag  pulled taut like a bit through my mouth and tied at the back of my neck.  My hands and feet were bound.  I tried to yell but I couldn’t even hear my own voice over the din of the motor.  This engine was neither quiet nor particularly functional.  Each time the driver shifted gears it sounded as  if the whole car was going to shake apart and the motor stall.    

Just a little excerpt from the first chapter of my novel.  Stay tuned if you want an advanced copy.  

Today's #50thingsofvalue is - Kidnapping Stories.  I've always loved them.  Still do.