All this talk about hostages, plastic figurines, Big Sky Freepers, and even Viking Kittens really brings me back to the origin of a goofy family tradition. My family had this inside joke of grabbing a token plastic figure and bringing it along on whatever travels we embarked, calling it a hostage. My mother published this short story about this in an anthology titled, “A Blend of Voices – The Montana Writers’ Guild”. She died a couple of years ago in Missoula, MT, and my brother Patrick died about 6 years ago in Chico, CA. I hope y’all enjoy this short nonfiction story.
Shirley W. O’Malley’s first published work was a radio play when she was ten. In her late twenties she wrote adult romance and children’s stories, most of which were published. For years she penned only essay finals and typed term papers while earning a BA in History/Political Science, and having and rearing eight children. Today Shirley focuses on reading and learning poetry, and writing creative nonfiction.
The Taking
Shirley W. O’Malley
As soon as the Scott Street Bridge came into view, I felt my chest begin to cave. It’s true, I thought, what they say about heart strings; they really do pull and then tie into tight and ever-tightening knots. I steadied my hands on the steering wheel and tried to take a deep breath. I realized I was breathing through my mouth… panic breathing, they called it at rehab.
“Calm down – easy does it,” I ordered in even measured tones. “Breathe deeply through your nose or that oxygen thing you’ve got stuck up your nostrils won’t do you a bit of good.” I managed the drive past the lumberyard, then the cemetery, and soon was easing to the stop at the entrance to the landfill.
“Well, hi there,” greeted the gatekeeper in the guard house. He did a quick take on the contents of my car. “You’re pretty well loaded up today. That’ll be $8.50.” He handed me a clipboard and I signed the receipt.
“You know where to go,” he said and gestured with a slight wave of his hand. I put on a small smile and nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I proceeded to the “wet weather area,” the closest place you could unload the garbage and debris from your car or truck, and a favor he allowed me, even though it was a bright and sunny day in July. There, as though on cue, the hot tears spilled right through my tightly closed lids, and I gave in to the onslaught as my shoulders heaved and my throat tightened.
“Get a grip, Mom!” Gees, I could swear it was his voice. “You can’t cry like that and breathe, too,” he said. Whenever I went to the dump I encountered the same apprehension, because the last time I saw Patrick, when he knew there was something, yet before all those tests and he was still as much himself -- his youthful, healthy body stretching, tensing, lifting and carrying while I sat and drank it all in. That was before the diagnosis and the operation, before the radiation and the chemotherapy, and before they sent him home “to spend what time you have left with your wife and little children.”
It wasn’t any harder or any easier this time, this trip to the dump – it just seemed he was nearer, closer, yet everywhere. I calmed myself by breathing deeper, slower, looking around, being thankful that I was strong enough to do it myself. I went through the litany of all the things I was grateful for – the last one being that no one else was around that day, as I preferred handling the awkwardness of the oxygen canister and disposable items unobserved. It was the Fourth of July weekend and the whole town seemed deserted.
Having regained my composure, I set about unloading the garbage sacks that filled the tiny little car that gave me such good mileage. It wasn’t easy. Carrying the small but hefty oxygen tank in one hand and the bulky and sometimes heavy plastic bags in the other, I made the six or seven trips to the edge of the pit where the dumpsters were parked several feet below. When I was finally finished I sat in my car, heart pounding and my breathing working almost into gasping.
TAKE YOUR TIME, I told myself. THERE”S NO RUSH. AND YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL YOU ARE PERFECTLY CALM. “Yeah, yeah,” I answered and leaned back a little, still resisting relaxation. I hated having to sit still and do nothing. I would invariably find myself thinking of those things I did not want to have to face, and right now I was going to have to come to grips with a doozy. My vacation was starting in a couple of weeks, and I had to decide now whether to drive, fly, or take the bus.
It’s a short flight to Seattle. It’s more than twelve hours by bus and a good nine hours to drive. But only by driving my own car, all by myself, would I have oxygen all the way. I didn’t know which was worse – the stress of airports and flying with no oxygen, or the long bus ride throught the sleepless night with oxygen only a maybe, or driving alone in an old car that I hadn’t yet taken on a long trip. Since I still couldn’t decide, I shook my head to rid it of the problem and leaned forward to start the engine. As I turned to check the rear before backing out, my glance caught on something at the edge of the pit in the farther parking space.
“What’s this?” They looked like two miniature whatnots perched precariously close to doomsday – even a wimp of a breeze could send them right into the landfill time capsule into oblivion. What were they, really? I leaned out the window and squinted. Two little toy creatures, alone and unprotected! Oh my, my, my, golly gosh! They looked like hostages!
Patrick, ever since his first solo trip as a young teenager, whether by bicycle or by car, had always taken a hostage for good luck. Some crazy little stuffed animal or creaky gizmo, seized from out of the blue, which rode with him to ensure safe passage. Over time, a whole family intrigue had evolved among the eight children, with hostages in every household crisscrossing the country’s highways and byways. Even a bizarre kidnapping with a blatant ransom demand had recently been reported.
“Ah, they’re just stupid little McDonald’s plastic collectibles,” I muttered, not wanting to get out of the car.
“I don’t know, they look like hostages to me,” I argued back. Indeed, they did fit the bill, just sitting there, appearing out of nowhere.
I opened the car door and got out. “Cheap, ugly, plastic hoardables,” I growled, but caught my breath as I got closer. I stared in disbelief. They were cute. They were darling. They were two little gray and white striped toy kittens! And could they be NOT plastic? I knelt down and picked up the one with its little paw extended as though to say, “Choose me.” It was made of china – not cheap plastic, not even heavy ceramic, but real china, and with the dearest expression on its precious little baby face. The other one was just as sweet, but with a whole different pose.
A sudden noise startled me. I seized the other one and quickly stuffed both inside my shirt. I looked around. Had anyone seen me take these hostages? The gatekeeper – ah – that was the sound I had heard. He had deliberately changed the gates to let me know it was closing time. From that distance he couldn’t possibly have seen the abduction.
As I walked to my car I noticed a quicker, lighter step. I settled in behind the wheel. It struck me that an awful lot had to happen to put me and those two figurines together in that particular place, on that exact day, at that precise time. And suddenly there was Patrick with that eternal dance light in his eyes that played out from every magic inch of his being, through his fingers and his tiptoes, and this time my heart did not cave. It lifted and soared and gladdened.
“You,” I said to the first kitten as I placed her in the cubby of the dash, “have a big job ahead. You are taking me and this car all the way to Seattle.” I put the second one down next to her and covered them both with a clean hankie from my purse. I lifted the corner and whispered to number two, “You, my pet, are going to see us safely back home again.”
I fastened my seatbelt, revved the engine and tapped my temple in a two-fingered salute to the universe. As I drove out I caught the eye of the gatekeeper and smiled – and then waved goodbye, as though nothing at all happened.
The fashion and action figure doll community has announced a special benefit to show support for Special Ops Cody, who was recently taken hostage in Iraq. While the Pentagon quickly dismissed the capture as a "hoax," the doll community has called for public support and vowed to work to bring the plastic soldier home, with all his accessories intact.