Flack
05-21-2007, 02:03 PM
"The time I was (sorta-kinda-almost) kidnapped."
The 70’s and 80’s were a very different time. I grew up just outside of town in a small neighborhood with no through streets or traffic. Our neighbors owned tractors and three wheelers and few if any of them had fences. By the time I was in elementary school I had free reign of the neighborhood on my bicycle. As long as I periodically checked in from a neighbor’s phone and was home in time for dinner, I could go and do as I pleased. Life was good.
Danger, however, lurked around every corner within the city. Between serial killers and child abductions, I was convinced that no child lived past the age of ten. Whenever I had to use a public restroom, my mom would prop the door open with her foot, listening for signs of a struggle. If my parents ran into a store and left my sister and I out in the car (people did that back then, you know), we were instructed to leave the doors locked and the windows up at all time. The only exception to rolling down the windows would be if one of us fainted from the heat inside the car, and even then we were only allowed to barely crack it, preventing child molesters from getting their hands inside our vehicle.
Despite the constant threat of being killed, abducted or molested, my sister and I loved going to the grocery store with mom. At the store, we were never forced to remain in the cart or by her side. Instead, we were allowed to hang out in one of about three general areas: near the arcade games, the magazine rack, or the toy aisle. Great thought went into picking where we wanted to hang out, as we weren’t allowed to leave that area (and had better be there when mom came back to get us). The arcade area was fun, but without quarters all we could do was either watch other kids play games, or pretend to play them ourselves while covering the words “Game Over” with our other arm, trying to fool kids (for some unknown reason) into thinking we were actually playing. The magazine rack was a sweet hangout where kids could skim through the latest copies of Mad, Cracked, Dynamite and The Electric Company without actually paying for them. Then there was the toy aisle, where I routinely drooled over the latest Star Wars, He-Man and G.I. Joe action figures, mentally making my Christmas list months (or even seasons) in advance.
While my sister and I were not being supervised, we were instructed to never, ever leave a store with a grownup. In fact, my parents and I had a secret code word: “Star Wars.” If an adult so much as looked at us the wrong way without knowing the secret password, we were to kick, bite and scream as loudly as possible.
In the late 1970’s, our local Wal-Mart got an Atari 2600 kiosk. No longer were we relegated to old magazines or videogames we couldn’t play; at the kiosk, my sister and I could play games like Combat, Outlaw and Surround in head-to-head fashion. Just like arcades, winner stayed at the kiosk while losers would step up to the stick to test their skills against my own. (I did have a bit of an advantage, as I had an Atari 2600 and all of these games at home, as well.)
One particular day, while my mom shopped for fabric or snacks or who knows what, I was dropped off in front of the Atari kiosk. Other kids would come and go, stepping up to the bolted-down joysticks only to have their virtual asses handed back to them. One kid who stepped up to take me on was a young Pakistani boy. Unlike most of my other competition, this kid was pretty good. We made small talk during our battle; he had an Atari at home too, and it showed in his game play.
Just as we were wrapping up our final match, the boy’s father approached us. After our game was over, the man told me that they had an Atari at home. Obviously noticing that his son and I had struck up a friendship, he said (in somewhat broken English) that I should come over to their house sometime to visit and play Atari.
I froze. I replayed the words in my mind: I had definitely NOT heard the words “Star Wars” come out of his mouth. This man was a KILLER! My training kicked in, and I immediately began to scream. Loudly.
At least two Wal-Mart employees got to me before my mother did, trying to figure out just exactly why I was screaming. My mother showed up moments later in a panic. Standing next to all of us was the poor Pakistani man and his son, both with the same shocked look on their faces. After talking with me for a second, my mom was able to explain to all parties involved what exactly had occurred. I can’t remember how exactly my mom explained the situation to the poor man, but I’m pretty sure the invitation for me to visit was quickly rescinded.
The 70’s and 80’s were a very different time. I grew up just outside of town in a small neighborhood with no through streets or traffic. Our neighbors owned tractors and three wheelers and few if any of them had fences. By the time I was in elementary school I had free reign of the neighborhood on my bicycle. As long as I periodically checked in from a neighbor’s phone and was home in time for dinner, I could go and do as I pleased. Life was good.
Danger, however, lurked around every corner within the city. Between serial killers and child abductions, I was convinced that no child lived past the age of ten. Whenever I had to use a public restroom, my mom would prop the door open with her foot, listening for signs of a struggle. If my parents ran into a store and left my sister and I out in the car (people did that back then, you know), we were instructed to leave the doors locked and the windows up at all time. The only exception to rolling down the windows would be if one of us fainted from the heat inside the car, and even then we were only allowed to barely crack it, preventing child molesters from getting their hands inside our vehicle.
Despite the constant threat of being killed, abducted or molested, my sister and I loved going to the grocery store with mom. At the store, we were never forced to remain in the cart or by her side. Instead, we were allowed to hang out in one of about three general areas: near the arcade games, the magazine rack, or the toy aisle. Great thought went into picking where we wanted to hang out, as we weren’t allowed to leave that area (and had better be there when mom came back to get us). The arcade area was fun, but without quarters all we could do was either watch other kids play games, or pretend to play them ourselves while covering the words “Game Over” with our other arm, trying to fool kids (for some unknown reason) into thinking we were actually playing. The magazine rack was a sweet hangout where kids could skim through the latest copies of Mad, Cracked, Dynamite and The Electric Company without actually paying for them. Then there was the toy aisle, where I routinely drooled over the latest Star Wars, He-Man and G.I. Joe action figures, mentally making my Christmas list months (or even seasons) in advance.
While my sister and I were not being supervised, we were instructed to never, ever leave a store with a grownup. In fact, my parents and I had a secret code word: “Star Wars.” If an adult so much as looked at us the wrong way without knowing the secret password, we were to kick, bite and scream as loudly as possible.
In the late 1970’s, our local Wal-Mart got an Atari 2600 kiosk. No longer were we relegated to old magazines or videogames we couldn’t play; at the kiosk, my sister and I could play games like Combat, Outlaw and Surround in head-to-head fashion. Just like arcades, winner stayed at the kiosk while losers would step up to the stick to test their skills against my own. (I did have a bit of an advantage, as I had an Atari 2600 and all of these games at home, as well.)
One particular day, while my mom shopped for fabric or snacks or who knows what, I was dropped off in front of the Atari kiosk. Other kids would come and go, stepping up to the bolted-down joysticks only to have their virtual asses handed back to them. One kid who stepped up to take me on was a young Pakistani boy. Unlike most of my other competition, this kid was pretty good. We made small talk during our battle; he had an Atari at home too, and it showed in his game play.
Just as we were wrapping up our final match, the boy’s father approached us. After our game was over, the man told me that they had an Atari at home. Obviously noticing that his son and I had struck up a friendship, he said (in somewhat broken English) that I should come over to their house sometime to visit and play Atari.
I froze. I replayed the words in my mind: I had definitely NOT heard the words “Star Wars” come out of his mouth. This man was a KILLER! My training kicked in, and I immediately began to scream. Loudly.
At least two Wal-Mart employees got to me before my mother did, trying to figure out just exactly why I was screaming. My mother showed up moments later in a panic. Standing next to all of us was the poor Pakistani man and his son, both with the same shocked look on their faces. After talking with me for a second, my mom was able to explain to all parties involved what exactly had occurred. I can’t remember how exactly my mom explained the situation to the poor man, but I’m pretty sure the invitation for me to visit was quickly rescinded.