Treehouse Kidnapping

I survived a kidnapping when I was a child, but don’t bother searching for news clippings of the event in your local library. I never went public with the incident, as it was more humiliating than harrowing.
 

  The neighborhood I grew up in had a relatively nice mix of kids, and I believe very few of them went on to become homicidal maniacs. But if I had to pinpoint one who may have chosen the murder route in life, Brandon Kervek was the kid who would get my vote.

Our neighborhood was surrounded by a wooded area that was bordered by a small creek formed from a sewage drain. A makeshift bridge (really just an old piece of wood) led across the creek’s three-foot width, which might not sound too intimidating to an adult, but the possibility of falling in mucky sewage and getting in trouble when you went home smelling like poop afterward posed some serious consequences to us local kids.

Once you’d gone over to the bridge, you were able to navigate the woods to a clearing, at the center of which stood a rickety old fort that was, despite its condition, the coolest, most desired hangout spot in the neighborhood. The structure was shrouded with mystique. I never knew who built it - it was always there, possibly built by the ancients of our neighborhood. The fort’s ownership seemed to get passed down, unofficially, to each new generation of neighborhood kids. And I mistakenly thought this was my generation’s turn. I was wrong.

One day I found myself alone at the edge of the woods, which was a rare occurrence. The creek was filled with frogs and I loved to catch them, even though I’d just hold them for a few minutes before letting them jump back in - but into a different part of the creek, far from where I found them. I honestly thought of it as a nice little move for those frogs, and one they wouldn’t have made on their own. I wanted them to experience a new environment. I needed more human friends.

After half an hour of frog-relocating, I started to think about visiting the fort. It called to me, unseen but only a few hundred yards away. Unable to shake my desire, I made my way to the clearing. The base of the tree had cigarette butts and beer bottle caps (though I didn’t recognize them as such) scattered around - this should have been a warning to me, but didn’t register as such. I was busy fantasizing about bringing some handheld video games into the fort and converting it to an elevated arcade when a rough hand grabbed me from behind and turned me around.

It was Brandon, sucking on a cigarette and staring at me curiously. Behind him was his partner in evil deeds, Eric, also smoking it up. I considered telling them what I’d heard the Surgeon General say about cigarettes, but thought better of it - probably because I was absolutely terrified.

The duo looked me over, sneers on their faces. “What the [bad word] are you doing here?!” Brandon asked. Though he’d seen me around the neighborhood for years, he didn’t know my name. I was a bug beneath his feet, and he was preparing to squash me.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I did the only thing my nervous system allowed: exploded into tears. I’m not proud of it, but I truly believed my young life was coming to an end right then and there - and I had good reason to be that pessimistic. Brandon had crucified a live frog on a nearby tree not long ago, shooting it with a beebee gun until it was dead, then leaving its corpse on the bloody trunk for everyone to see. I told you he was diabolical. I believed anyone who could do that to an innocent amphibian would have no problem snuffing out a slightly larger creature like myself.

There I stood, at the base of the fort, blubbing like a baby in front of these two thugs. At first they laughed and taunted me vague threats of injury. But soon I began hyperventilating, and my sobs softened as my upper body heaved. I was losing control, and they realized it. They actually started to become worried - maybe they weren’t quite prepared to dispose of a body just yet. So they did something surprising: they put their arms around me, told me to calm down, and brought me up inside the fort.

I thought it was a trick - maybe they wanted to toss me out, to see how many times I’d bounce - but I was in no shape to put up a fight. I couldn’t even speak. The inside of the fort was even more impressive than I’d imagined, despite a pervasive smell of cigarettes. The two teenagers sat me down amidst the car magazines and cobbled-together furniture and reassured me that they weren’t really planning to do me any harm - they only wanted to give me a scare. Brandon popped open a couple beers and offered me one, but I declined with an emphatic head wave. Eric declared, “Man, I never saw anyone cry so hard!” I guess that’s something to be proud of.

I don’t remember much else about my visit. Brandon talked about something called an “ABC Card” that would let him drink legally when he turned eighteen. Because of the simple-sounding acronym, I thought he’d made it up, but years later I found out it actually existed. Eventually I calmed down enough to dry my tears and speak, though I was still feeling enough trepidation that I let Brandon and Eric do most of the talking, eighty percent of which was cursing. The other twenty percent was divided between Catherine “Daisy Dukes” Bach and her wardrobe, and their reflections of my minutes-ago crying jag. Yeah, we were just three cool dudes, chillin’ in a tree fort.

By the end of my visit, they had me in a totally relaxed state, though it was probably only their fear that I’d rat out the location of their speakeasy in the woods. Brandon gently asked me if I was going to tell anyone what happened, I said I wouldn’t (it would have looked worse for me than it would have for them), and we parted ways peacefully. I don’t remember seeing either of those guys around much after that, and in the future I made sure I always had at least one other partner on hand when I made my frog-moving excursions.

Hovercraft Plans

I loved digging through the ads in the backs of comic books when I was a kid. There was all sorts of crap in there back then, most of it kind of on the edge of scamishness - X-Ray Specs that allowed you to see through skin and clothing (to appeal to different age ranges), trick chewing gum that became red hot when given to your enemy (I tried some many years later - that stuff really worked), giant Frankenstein balloons that could be seen from a mile away (the world was begging for that product) and tons more junk for sale by mail order. I wanted it all, but the piece I coveted most was a hovercraft.

The ad for the hovercraft was in the back of about eighty percent of the comics I owned, always teasing me like a cruel temptress with promises of real, actual flight capabilities. The image shown in the ad was pure 70’s black and white cheesiness - a little doofus moptop kid (who probably looked more like me than I’d have admitted) gazing at his wondrous wooden triangle, with a seat and steering controls (or so I thought) in the center, three landing gear-like circles at the corners, and the main engine just in front of the seat. Man, I wanted that thing - I had visions of flying to school, drifting through the clouds as I looked down upon my Earthbound schoolmates with a mix of pity and disgust. I was an evil tyrant in the making. I began saving up my money in preparation to order the device. It would be a full $4.50 investment - plus postage - but I was committed.

In my quest to leave gravity behind, I made many oversights. For one, the hovercraft clearly showed an electrical cord tethering it to some unseen outlet beyond the borders of the ad. We didn’t have an extension cord long enough to get me more than a few feet off our property, much less to school and beyond, but so badly did I want to believe that this airship was all that I’d imagined so badly that I completely erased the cord from my mind.

But the biggest piece I missed was one single word under “hovercraft” in the ad. It was a short but important word - “plans”.

The second factor I dismissed was a note in the ad that very clearly noted the vehicle only got one foot off the ground. I didn’t know what a “hovercraft” was - one foot makes sense when you’re an adult, but what I wanted was an antigravity machine. And those don’t exist. So one foot - that was not going to bring me to the upper edges of the stratosphere as I’d wished. It wasn’t even going to clear some of the grassy areas in front of our house. But that I ignored too.

But the biggest piece I missed - and it must have been my mind absolutely deleting something from existence - was one single word under “hovercraft” in the ad. It was a short but important word - “plans”. Or maybe I saw it and interpreted as meaning that the package would also include plans (as in “instructions”) on how I could use the vehicle. But it turns out - and I should have seen this coming - the thing I purchased was only plans. There was no actual hovercraft, much to my chagrin. So all I could do was to study the blueprints and wish I’d had the means to manufacture the damned thing.

My dreams of flight were permanently grounded, though I did learn to always read the fine print when purchasing by comic book. That’s good, right?

The Disco Dancing Competition of 1977

Most people, if offered the chance to time travel, might choose to witness firsthand a climactic moment in history, a formative event from their own life, or maybe even the instant when Harry Burnett Reese created the formula for his now-famous Peanut Butter Cups (April 17, 1928, if you’re curious). However, I truly believe that, given this opportunity to be anywhere at any point in time, my wife would dismiss all of those seemingly more exciting options for a chance to go back to 1978, to the Moorestown Mall in Moorestown, New Jersey so she should observe an episode that has until now only lived in her imagination - my participation in a “Disco Dancing Competition” sponsored by a local dance music station.

 

I was new to living in south Jersey that year, so I was already fumbling around to get some kind of foothold in the area. A way to make a name for myself. The child I chose to admire was a classmate of mine named Fred Gerth. Fred was an unremarkable child visually, except for his tongue, which bore a deep crevice down the center - deeper than most humans, because (as I heard him explain many times)

I had three moves, all cribbed from part of an episode of Three’s Company, as well as the performers on Solid Gold, a popular but cheesy television show at of the era that showcased this kind of music.

it would completely split twice a year. I accepted this without question, even though I know now that would have made him a likely candidate for a Snake-Man job at the local carnival. To me, Fred was the epitome of cool. And Fred loved disco dancing - the kid could really move, and he entertained the class many times with his sweet, funky moves.

I’ve always been into rock, and even at age seven I aspired to be the world’s biggest Kiss fan. Yet, I felt a magnetic pull toward anything that would set me apart, and for this brief period of time, it was disco. I’m still feeling the shame.

So when I heard a local radio station was having a big disco dancing competition in the Moorestown Mall, I begged my mother to take me. She complied, possibly for the laugh potential. I practiced my core moves for weeks, picked out a tight black outfit (not quite parachute pants, but close), and psyched myself up for the big day.

My mother shuttled me to the mall that Saturday afternoon, and we found the roped-off competition zone in the center of the mall - the most heavily traveled area. The music was already playing and my competition was already grooving on the floor. The crew from the radio station presided over the scene and kept the excitement level high, there were “spotters” on the floor looking for talent, and a crowd was gathered on all sides. I felt the energy – I was the energy, baby!

Unfortunately, my then-hero young Mr. Gerth was not there. I felt strange being there without someone else I knew to talk to (or dance with, at least), but I’d built the event up so much in my mind that I couldn’t back down. After I’d been given my competitor’s sticker (it fit nicely across my back), I asked my mother to leave me so I could work the floor. She did so, though she was probably lurking just a few stores away, hoping to watch her son do the family proud.

That never occurred, though, because when it came to dancing, I sucked big ones. I had a tough time just getting onto the floor - going from standing to dancing was probably a little less difficult for me than if I had to jump out of a plane while skydiving over an active volcano. I watched the other participants for several minutes, and I had a few false starts before one of the station’s crew slapped me on the back, gently pushing me onto the floor while saying, “Go on, get in there and show us what you’ve got!” With a tentative lunge, I stepped beyond the velvet ropes and... I was dancing.

Or sort-of-dancing. I had three moves, all cribbed from part of an episode of Three’s Company, as well as the performers on Solid Gold, a popular but cheesy television show at of the era that showcased this kind of music. And so, my dance move toolbox consisted of:

#1 - The Arm-Pointing Move. Right arm from lower left to upper right, then back again for several reps. Then I’d flip it around with the other hand. I also tried to move my head to look in the direction I was pointing, but sometimes I forgot. Either way, it must have looked very, very dumb. Way to avoid the clichés, Stevie.

#2 - One Hand On The Hip, The Other Open-Palm-Waving from Back to Front While Shaking It. This was meant to show dominance over the others on the dance floor. It worked against me that they were all in their teens or early twenties, but I’m sure they found the sight of a second-grader waving them off like a traffic cop with the shakes extremely intimidating.

#3 - Both Hands Above The Head, Slowly Arcing Down to My Sides. I only saved this one for the big moments in songs, like when the electric violins would crescendo. It was the most grandiose and I didn’t want to wear it out, you see. I also closed my eyes and made dramatic facial expressions with this move, as an attempt to emphasize what I was feeling. What I was feeling was pride, though it really should have been an overriding shame.

In between the “big three” moves, I was just trying to keep time to the beat, which was a challenge enough for me. A dancer I was not.

And that was a big problem, because this was a competition in name only. There were some token winners and prizes, but most people turned out just to enjoy themselves, maybe learn a few new moves, possibly even get some dates. Not me - I wanted to win. I kept up the charade for over four hours - I think my mother went home and came back later to pick me up. Before I left, I did win something... a bumper sticker. Hey, when you’re in second grade, that kind of crap actually seems valuable. Overall, I was satisfied with the outcome of the day. I felt accomplished, in a way that only those completely fooling themselves can feel.

When I got to school on Monday, I had to get to the bottom of why Fred, my inspiration for going disco, had not been in attendance. Our conversation:

me: “So why weren’t you at the dance thing at the mall on Saturday?”

Fred: “Was that Saturday? I forgot”

Me: “Oh.”

I felt sad – maybe if Fred had been at the competition, I’d have enjoyed it more.

Then he began dancing and everything was good again.

The Kilt

I have a sister and two brothers, all significantly older than me - seventeen to nineteen years. Yes, I was not created intentionally. Some call it an “accident”; I refer to it as “unintentional conception”. It makes for some interesting familial situations.

Because of this, when I was a little kid, my siblings were all off doing adult things, like drinking soda straight out of the bottle, wearing deodorant, and joining the armed forces. The younger of my brothers, Mike, did the latter and joined the navy, where he was stationed in Scotland for two years.

No, he did not locate Nessie (though he did spend a day of his shore leave trying to locate her), nor did he develop a taste for haggis with a whiskey chaser (unless he kept it hidden). He did, however, purchase a child-size kilt and tam (a Scottish hat), which he sent home for me. He probably thought it would be cute. Instead, it traumatized me a little.

I never wanted to wear the stuff, and I think my father protested as well, but my brother had been nice enough to buy it for me and send it across the world, so the least we could do, my mother felt, was to get some photos for him. So my parents and grandparents (who lived with us) trotted me out for an improvised photo shoot in our back yard. It became another opportunity for me to be exposed to some ridicule.

The problem was that a kilt looks a whole lot like a dress... oh wait – it is a dress, except it comes from Scotland, where it is commonly worn by men. That’s fine if you live in that country, but while I was old enough to know that the difference between a dress and a kilt was negligible at best, I had not quite reached the age of understanding about what a country is, or how social mores differ between countries. That’s asking a bit much of a five year old, don’t you think?

The vultures got their precious photos, but that wasn’t enough. For some reason, my mother wanted to parade me in front of the house – ostensibly for the amusement of the neighborhood.

It was no surprise to anyone that I started crying once I put on the exotic attire. My mother kept insisting, “Every boy in Scotland wears a kilt like you are, Stevie!”. Maybe if they pulled out a globe or a Mercator Projection, that would have helped. A travel book with large illustrations may have even done the trick. But instead, I was struggling with the concept that my parents were trying to turn me into a girl, and simultaneously having a hard time grappling with the concept of different nations and their customs. The tears did not stop flowing.

The vultures got their precious photos, but that wasn’t enough. For some reason, my mother wanted to parade me in front of the house – ostensibly for the amusement of the neighborhood. I was still sobbing, but she told me everyone would love my new outfit. Her words did not prove to be true.

The older people in the neighborhood felt I looked adorable, and that calmed me down a bit. But then my “friends” – some older kids I looked up to – walked by. They were not especially receptive to my freshly imported clothing, especially the kilt, which to them was not very different from what they called it - my dress. They openly teased me, asking “Who’s the new girl?” and mostly just pointing and making me cry much more. I didn’t like that very much.

My parents brought me inside and, unable to contain my indignation any longer, I yanked off the kilt and threw it on the floor. My father told my mother I’d never be wearing “that thing” again. I was happy, though the photos still survive. Years later, my brother heard the story from me, and apologized. If only he’d had better luck at Loch Ness... a package from Scotland containing Nessie (or at least a photo of her) would have made me so much happier.

Breeding Pet Rocks For Fun and Profit

My parents liked to mess with me, and in retrospect, I was asking for it. I was a know-it-all little kid in a lot of ways, yet I was still wide-eyed and trusting in others. I wanted to believe... in aliens and U.F.O.’s, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, ghosts, magic, and the other cool, fantastical stuff kids are into (except, of course, Santa - the one they wanted me to buy into). And believe I did.

Thus, with the Pet Rock craze of the mid 1970’s, my burgeoning critical thinking skills were on a collision course with my desire to accept the existence of something otherworldly.

For those who don’t remember or don’t know, the Pet Rock was a windfall for its inventor. Nothing more than a real stone of a certain variety, the novelty and its clever packaging earned its creator mucho dollars during this fad-crazed decade. The product’s success was mostly attributable to its tongue-in-cheek instruction book, gave you tips on how to teach your Pet Rock how to “Roll Over”, “Play Dead”, and even “Sit” - things all rocks were capable of with a little bit of help.

I asked for one and received it, and had all kinds of fun for the better part of a week, taking it through its paces with my father, who was enjoying (and laughing at) my fervor. And after its initial run, it quickly became a fixture on my dresser, along with other toys and items that fell victim to my too-short attention span.

Though it was completely unaware, my Pet Rock was about to receive what manufacturing companies call a “Mid-Life Kicker”. My Uncle Eddie, in traveling around the world with the U.S. Navy, had somehow learned of my Pet Rock (maybe via telegram?), and decided that it was lonely, and should have a partner. So, he shipped a slightly larger, rounder rock to our house and enclosed a letter for me, telling me that it should be the “mate” for my Pet Rock. I really liked that idea.

But my mother and father one-upped me - they suggested I put this inanimate couple into the dark recesses of our hallway closet, and leave them there overnight “to see what happens”. Even that last phrase didn’t alert me - hey, I was a little kid - so I took them up on their suggestion. I’m sure my parents were cackling in the background that night while I naively set up a cute little area for the rock couple on the closet floor in a private area I created behind our winter boots. I turned off the light and left them alone, anxious to see what the morning would bring.

I’m not sure what I expected to find, but I awoke, and - still in my bleary-eyed state - walked across the hall in my little footie pajamas to check on my project. There they sat - the original Pet Rock and his new partner (I never named her - let’s call her “Louise”), exactly where I’d left them. However, the two were surrounded by seven little gray pebbles, neatly encircling them like a litter of sedimentary puppies.

My brain couldn’t hold back a flood of images - reporters hounding me for interviews, famous scientists consulting with me on matters of great importance, potential toy endorsements.

For once, I thought, the magic is real - and I have proof! In reality, the only proof that morning was for my parents’ theory that I was willing to believe rocks could bear children. My mother, with my father’s encouragement and approval, had planted the pebbles after I’d gone off to bed. I went buck wild, calling my closest three friends to tell them the incredible news. They accepted my story with a reasonable amount of skepticism, but the physical evidence combined with the fact that my parents were supporting my story won them over in the end.

My brain couldn’t hold back a flood of images - reporters hounding me for interviews, famous scientists consulting with me on matters of great importance, potential toy endorsements. My mother told me years later how excited she and my father had been to see my reaction that morning. I’m sure it was very entertaining from a parental point of view. From my own perspective, I was in the throes of ignorance’s bliss.

Private humiliation did not quite satiate my parents, so they were forced to move on to public mockery by gently putting forth the idea that I should tell my first grade class about the big event. I was all for that idea, and brought the whole rock family into school in a delicately folded piece of felt inside a small chest. I couldn’t wait to show these kids the wonders I’d been given. That was not smart to do.

I foolishly anticipated only support from my fellow first graders, and was not at all prepared for their laughter, jibes, and a few quickly-concocted nicknames. Kids can be cruel for sure, but they can also be pretty creative when there’s a commonly agreed-upon target for their attacks. I made myself into that target. Fortunately, we moved that year, and my brief history as a charlatan did not follow me to our new location.

As the fog of youth lifted over the next year or two, the plates in my skull continued to solidify and it became slightly more clear to me each time I recalled the Pet Rock incident that I’d been duped. Eventually I confronted my parents. They were still milking laughs out of their prank, and revealed to me they’d even prepped my teacher before I’d gone into school that fateful day. I asked my mother why they did it, but she wasn’t able to give me any more substantial a reason than “We really loved laughing at you, Stevie!” At least she was honest.

I Was Batman

Many children pretend to be superheroes. It’s a common fantasy, along with the childhood desire to be a firefighter, police officer, or ray gun maker (I used to think that was a real job).

Unlike those other chumps, though, I never once pretended to be a superhero. When I was six, I actually was Batman. I’m serious! My mother fashioned my first Batsuit (I had several throughout the years) out of the world’s cheapest Adam West-era plastic mask (it only covered the front of my face), a football shirt (the brown helmet in the center looked kind of like a bat icon, if you were either drunk or not good at seeing), and a cape so thick that my neck bore a sweat-induced black ring long after I’d removed it at night. Did I care? Not one whit. I honestly believed I was this crime fighter, and as such, that I answered to a higher calling. There really should have been some kind of help for kids like me.

I wore that Batman costume many full days, and I still have pictures of me watching television, playing with my toys, and even eating with it on. My friends, also children, put up with it - maybe they respected me (as I hoped), maybe they felt sorry for me (the probable reality), but I’m willing to bet the sheer strength of character I showed by truly believing I was the Caped Crusader won them over. Maybe.

“It’s okay, Batman. We’ve got everything under control.”

It all changed for me one beautiful night, when any doubts I had about the reality of my “identity situation” were purged from my system completely. Since it was the 1970’s, young children were allowed to walk out their front doors in the evenings in order to visit accident scenes – which was fortunate for me because I lived in a semi-urban area of north Jersey just two houses away from a gas station, a very busy road, and (that night) a really ugly, but non-fatal, multi-car pileup.

While my parents were enjoying their post-dinner coffee, I heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights out our front window. Without hesitation I donned my Batman garb, told them I was “going out to play” and walked down to the end of the block to see what help I could offer. This was my big chance!

As I approached, I saw smashed cars, accident victims being put into ambulances, reporters, police vehicles and a small battallion of officers presiding over the scene. I’m pretty sure my speed slowed, because as much as I genuinely believed I would not be questioned in my Batman costume, the shock of being on the periphery of an honest-to-goodness accident caused me to hesitate. I stopped just short of the gas station parking lot, hoping not to be noticed as I worked up the courage to offer my services to the police on duty.
One officer must have been keeping an eye on me. Surely he sensed my apprehension and understood my intent. He walked over to me, and with a complete lack of humor that I am still grateful for, looked me square in the eye and said:

“It’s okay, Batman. We’ve got everything under control.”

I don’t know what I said to him after that, if I spoke at all. I know I made it home, somehow (maybe by walking backwards), and I know a switch had been permanently flipped in my brain. A real authority figure had acknowledged that I was Batman. Despite what I had thought prior to that moment, I must have been harboring some doubt - because now, without question, the hero and I were one.

I told anyone would would listen - my family, neighborhood friends, that old man Duncan who liked to eat pastries in front of his house - and they nodded and acted impressed, though their enthusiasm was clearly lacking. In retrospect, they may not have even believed that the incident ever occurred. It was a formative experience for me, though, perhaps blending fantasy and reality so convincingly and at such a young age that I’ve never fully recovered. Deep stuff, huh?

Shoplifting for Santa

Note: This story appeared on the Holiday Stories 2 episode of the Risk! Show podcast.

I stopped believing in Santa at a young age - I believe it was the Christmas when I was four. I remember I’d been questioning the logistics of the whole delivery system, like lots of kids, and I was feeling some doubt. But then my sister made a comment one night when she walked in the door - she said she’d just seen a sleigh on a nearby rooftop as she was getting out of her car. Then she cupped her hand to her ear and looked around excitedly asking, “Are those sleighbells I hear?!”

My sister then suggested I look out the nearby window, which I almost gave me a head injury. I pulled back the curtain, but the only sight that met me was the blackness of the night sky. She was really trying to sell the story, though, and she said, “Ohh... we must have just missed him!” Our parents were in the room, and they chuckled at her comment. There was something in my sister’s voice and expression then that got me thinking “something ain’t quite right here.” It was all just too convenient, and the conspiratorial tone (“Maybe you’ll see him next year!”) in the room sickened me. I decided right then and there that Santa was a sham, and I wasn’t having any more of that particular myth.

I was forthright with my parents and told them that I didn’t believe, but they must have felt some guilt because they tried to push Santa down my throat even harder. That Christmas I merely endured the concept of Santa, feeling somewhat more enlightened than my peers - how gullible they were. But it wasn’t until a year later that I really made an issue out of it.

My father was the Electronics Department Manager of a regional department store, and it fell upon him to book their location’s Santa every year. I overheard my mother saying to one of her friends that my father had prepped this year’s Santa, telling him I was a non-believer. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?” I thought. Not really - I was only five. But now alerted to the situation that awaited me, I set about forming a plan.

“So, Stevie - I hear that you don’t believe in me!” The condescension was oozing out of him.

On our way into the store, my parents were attempting to subtly manipulate my brain into being more receptive, telling me, “We know you don’t believe in Santa, but you’re going to meet him today, and since he knows everything, wouldn’t he be upset to hear that a good little boy like you doesn’t have any of the Christmas Spirit in him?” and other similar propaganda. I was strong and did not relent. I nodded, sure in the knowledge of what I was about to do.

As we entered the store, I noticed my father’s co-workers and employees paying special attention to me - this is always more obvious to a child than adults allow themselves to believe. “So are you excited to meet Santa, Stevie?!” one giddy woman asked.

Oh yeah - bring him on. The line for Santa was long, so my parents let me walk through the toy section to kill some time. Big mistake. Since my father was a manager there, I was allowed to roam relatively freely. I knew what I had to do - I’d been pre-visualizing it for days. I selected some of the low-hanging blister packs of action figures. “Yes, these will do nicely,” I thought. By and large, there were few security cameras, even in big department stores, during this time - so after a quick over-the-shoulder check, I ripped open four or five of the action figures, removed their heads with a quick plucking motion (I’d practiced) and stuffed the decapitated doll parts into my coat pocket. I sure was pretty devious little brat when I felt I’d been wronged.

With a cautious look, my parents brought through the line to see Santa. Within half an hour, I stood before, then sat on, “Santa” himself.

Pity this poor man, hired to portray Santa for just a short span of time each year. He had a lot of patience - I’ll give him that. But he was trying to take me on a trip that I just didn’t want to be on. I didn’t despise him - I despised what he stood for.
He did a bit of ho-hoing and got down to business:

“So, Stevie - I hear that you don’t believe in me!” The condescension was oozing out of him.

“That’s right, Santa,” I replied, trying not to sound too snide.

“That’s a real shame. Can I ask why you don’t believe?” He was really laying it on thick.

“Well, is it true that you know if I’ve been good or bad?” I asked.

“Oh, yes - yes it is!”

“So - have I been a good boy or a bad boy?”

“I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Stevie, and I know that even though you don’t believe in me, you’ve been a very good boy this year!”

The setup complete, I removed the action figure heads from my coat pocket and held them to his overly roughed cheeks.
“Then why did I just steal these?!” I asked nice and loud, for all to hear.

The proceedings came to a screeching halt. My father’s employees suddenly had to be in another location of the store. Santa, as far as my brain can recall, did not respond verbally. He may have stammered a bit, but his rhetoric had been stifled. A red and green-clad worker ushered me off the platform.

My father was at a loss for words as well. My mother may have managed a shameful, “Oh, Stevie!” but there was no lecture as we made our way out of the store, moving through throngs of other parents actively shunning us. Nor was there any discussion on the drive home. Only years later did they discuss the event, and even then it was in hushed, halting tones. I have to say, I believe a lesson was learned that day, and I made sure it wasn’t learned by me.