Dye packs, radio transmitters, and other tools of unrequiting

When you crossed the state line I was sitting on the couch and weeping, reading the note your kidnappers had left over and over. It said that I may already have won, and then it listed a bunch of contest rules and exceptions. It all looked very official. I fell over sideways and pressed the paper against my face. It came away tear-stained in one of those patterns you could find a miracle in if you were the type.

But I was not the type. Days went by and there were no calls, no deep voices with lists of demands and snot-choked crying in the background. I would forget and pour two mugs of coffee, which that would set me off all over again. All my money was in a suitcase by the front door. I lived in the act of springing into action, every day the same panel of the same faded comic book.

The police all knew me by name. Some days they would take me out for coffee. As the weeks turned to months, though, they became curt and annoyed as I sat for hours in the lobby. The grief counselor I was seeing kept wanting to see the letter, in truth he was kind of a dick about it. He said things like look you have to realize and filtering your existence through a lens of denial and unhealthy unhealthy unhealthy all the time.

There you were, then, at the bank in line behind me trying not to be noticed, three years gone by, me with a suitcase and a deposit slip, you with just a deposit slip. My little Patty Hearst. I hung around and waited, watched everyone else in line to see your accomplices, your tormentors, but you just deposited your check and walked off, as if Dr. Gary were right. As if it was all just mythmaking. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for jumping the counter and banging around for the silent alarm until a security guard pinned me writhing to the floor.