All I did was sit on a bench................

Dear Ethers,

At 8 years old I was kidnapped from a school by an old man.  This is a true story.  For 7 hours I was alone with him in his apartment.  There was nothing sinister.  He was simply lonely.  

I had been playing soccer since I was 4 years old at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles.  Anyone could come and watch our games.  There were many soccer fields set up at once for all the events going on over the weekends and with so many kids, there was chaos. 

It was half time and my mom, who was team-captain, was handing out Gatorade and apple slices to hyper players.  Sitting on an aluminum bench scraped with graffiti sat this innocent looking gentleman.  I remember exactly what he looked like to this day.  He was wearing khakis, argyle socks, black sneakers, a sky-blue lightweight sweater with a white shirt underneath and a flat cap.  He wore heavy rimmed glasses.  He beckoned me over and asked me about the game.  I thought he was someone’s grandfather so I tried to be polite.  I plunked down next to him and after a few more questions was itching to go back to my teammates and gossip.  As I started to get up this feeble man suddenly had a strong grip.  He told me that he wanted to show me something at his house.  I told him I couldn’t go because I was in the middle of a game.  He started to pull me.  When I called out my mother’s name she couldn’t hear me.  When I tried again, he covered my mouth.

He kept pulling me until he pushed me into the front seat of a very old Buick.  He locked the doors and said he only wanted to talk to me for a few hours and then he’d bring me back.  I was hysterically crying.  I could see my mom’s black hair in the distance, her head bent over handing out cups to kids.  I wondered when she would notice I was missing.  

His apartment was in a retirement home only a block from the school.  It was a swirl of oranges and browns with a lot of stripes and plaids thrown in.  His rug was the color of pea soup.  I remember because I sat on it without budging for hours.  The strange thing is he simply turned on the TV and watched, commenting on a joke or a line every so often.  I recall never feeling threatened for my life, just missing my parents and feeling chilly because I was in shorts and a T-shirt from my uniform.  

He never offered me food or showed me the bathroom.  But he was very protective of the phone and the door.   He wasn’t a complete fool.  I kept asking him if we could go back to the school.  I asked him whose grandpa he was (I still didn’t understand he had nothing to do with my team).  I looked around to see if he had any pictures of family.  There were none.  Everything was so tidy.  

I was patient.  Incredibly patient.  And he was very quiet.  I was so confused.  Time just kept ticking away. 

And then there was terrible rapping on the door.  

“Police, open up NOW!” 

My captor did not budge.  I did not budge. 

The door was knocked off its hinges and there were a handful of cops who grabbed me by my shirt and hair and pulled me off the floor.  They carried me downstairs in a rush to my parents who were white as ghosts and held me with all of their might.  That was the first time I had seen my dad cry.  A female police officer asked me if I had been touched, and I said no.  They took me to the doctor anyway.  It was humiliating.  

The man never explained to anyone why he took ME specifically or why he took anyone at all.  He had no record and was not senile.  He was given a restraining order.  

From then on my mom never let me out of her sight anywhere.  Eventually she let up when I got older, but she watched me like a hawk.  She said she failed me as a mother and would have killed herself if anything had happened to me.  She later told me that the hours I was gone she had collected sleeping pills and was going to take them with a huge slug of alcohol if I had been found dead.  She, to this day, says she has never been closer to death in her life (and Ethers, she has had a life-threatening illness……..I’ll write about that one day).  

I’ve had many weird and wonderful things happen to me in my life.  I know the man who kidnapped me is long dead.  But I’ll always wonder what those lost hours spent between us meant.  Why they happened and what their significance was.  He could have stolen everything, I’m so lucky he just got away with 420 minutes. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Sometimes curiosity DOES kill the cat! Locked means locked....even if it was slightly ajar for just a second...20 years later and it still makes me wonder....

Dear Ethers, 

Wipe. Wipe. Spray. Wipe. Wipe.  Okay?  How does this page look today?  Spotless?  Fresh?  Good!  I really want to have a clean slate and get out from under the duvet.  I woke up this morning, opened my eyes, saw the sunshine (even though it was late October) and said, “Today I’m writing about a fond memory.”  That’s a great way to re-start a week, I reckon.  So Ethers, let me take you away from a very dusty One of 365 to a smaller set of numbers.  A girl yet to be tainted by the mysteries of love, or worries about the future.  Just a nutty memory that still makes me curious almost 20 years later. 

I had a childhood friend who had 2 older sisters.  They were in college when we were just in elementary school so I never met them. I had heard stories about these fabled girls.  They were supposed to be very beautiful and talented.  One was an Olympic medalist in horse riding and the other was a very accomplished medical student.  I’d heard that when one of them was little she’d fallen ill, but I never knew from what and frankly, I never asked.  

I used to hang out with his childhood friend daily.  Her house was really grand.  She lived in Bel Air and had an amazing backyard with a fantasy-like pool and screening room with every movie you could think of (even a popcorn making machine).  I had died and gone to heaven!  When I would sleep over, I always stayed in the guest room.  I really wanted to stay in one of her older sister’s rooms but was always told sternly by my friend that they were off limits.  I always found it really strange that their doors were the only locked ones in the house.  

One weekend that I was sleeping over, the sisters were coming home to stay for a short trip.  I was extremely excited.  It was the age when older girls were heroes—especially beautiful ones you heard stories about and had doors that were locked.  I recall my friend being anything but pleased. 

They tumbled in and were as glorious as I had imagined.  They both had long golden hair, sparkling blue eyes and pale skin.  Slim and well built, they were elegant and well dressed.  The only thing I noticed was one of them had a slight limp, but I figured that was from an injury from horseback riding. I glommed on to them immediately.  I could tell they were flattered but my friend didn’t seem very thrilled.  Especially about me getting terribly close to the Olympic champion sister.  

We had a great weekend and we’re just preparing to eat breakfast.  I’d just showered and noticed the door was slightly open to the normally locked room of the sister who rode.  I thought we were friendly enough so I could take a peek in and see what she was up to.  I was also dying to see her sanctuary.  I pushed open the door and there it stood.  Right in the middle of the room.  A prosthetic leg!  It was in a black sock with one Doc Marten laced to its ankle.  Being young and stupid, I burst out and told me friend what I had discovered.  “You’ll never guess what was in your sister’s room.” I said in a fit of laughter.  “A joke leg!”  My friend’s face fell and she turned crimson.  I began to color too.  “What’s wrong?” I asked.  “This is why I didn’t want to hang out with them.  And that’s why their doors are locked.  My sister had cancer in her leg and it was amputated.  She has several false legs that she owns and leaves here when she visits.  Some are in her room and some are in my other sister’s room.  She’s really sensitive about it.”  I was horrified that I had laughed.  But I still didn’t get it.  “But she is an Olympian….”  “In the Special Olympics…” my friend said.  I didn’t know what to do or say.  I knew that my friend was upset because she felt I knew some dirty secret (even though it wasn’t at all).  

After the leg incident, my friend stopped inviting me over, slowly stopped hanging out with me and didn’t take my calls.  I was confused, but I guess I understood that I had seen something she didn’t want me to, and now she had to get rid of me because I knew this secret.  When I turned 12 I went off to a different school than her and we never spoke again. 

Just recently I saw her name in the LA Times.  She had gotten married!  There wasn’t a photo—but I wonder, maybe if I hadn’t discovered that leg, if I would have been a bridesmaid in that wedding.  It’s strange how little things in life change fate.  If only that door had remained locked and I hadn’t been so damned curious.  What an odd memory, eh? 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365