DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!

 

I can almost hear Michael hollering with his favorite cartoon.  Or was that dive?  Screw it.  Drive is the word today.  Drive, drive, drive and get Michael back to those penguins.  Forget soccer.  Forget Mommy dear who wants everything her way.  Forget the POS death trap that was threatening to shake loose around me.  Just me and Little Man, vegging on the sofa in our skivvies; him glued to the tv, me trying to catch a few z’s...  What a waste, all those Saturday mornings, trading that precious one on one time with my boy for a little more sleep.  Gotta get him back.  Forget the yelling parents, the clueless “athletes”, the stupid phone…  The phone…  Was that the phone?  I strain to hear over the roar of the engine.  No way was I tearing my eyes from the road, now! 

 

HELLO!  911, what is your emergency?  I’m imagining things.  Did the call actually connect?

 

“THAT RAT BASTARD TOOK MY SON!”  Who knows if there is anyone on the other line.  Who knows if they can hear my scream over that of the engine.  Probably just screaming in the wind.  Or at some faceless God who sits back and watches while kids get torn from their parents.  My rant increases.  “VOLVO!  WHITE!  I5 NORTH!  I’M VAN!  FOLLOWING!”  I rattle off my license plate number just to fill the void. 

 

They’ve got to be telling me to stop, right?  To pull over.  What sane man wouldn’t?  What logic was there in a heavy old clunker of a van catching a station wagon?  Okay, so neither would be first pick in a drag race, but come on now!  Little car faster than big car.  But I have more horses.  Score one for me and my big engine.  Big engine that the old ball and chain said we didn’t need.  Eat crow, woman.  I’m getting my boy back. 

 

With my luck, they're telling me my wife called.  Couldn't reach me by phone and that constitutes an emergency worthy of 911.  They have her on the phone.  She's telling me to slow down.  Quit driving like a maniac.  Shut up, woman - don't you back seat drive enough when you're in the van?

 

Maybe she's telling me she picked up Michael.  That he ran to the bathroom while I was rounding up strays, and she had finished shopping and came to watch us and ran into him, and he wanted to go home and now he was safe with her and I was driving after some guy who was just picking up his own kid and now scared to death because some nut job in a van was trying to catch him...

 

Or she's saying that her friend's husband came to pick up Michael, and I really needed to meet the guy, because he was a model spouse who didn't gripe and didn't fail and knew how to coach a team of kids with ADD and keep his son interested in the game, and drive safely on a freeway in the middle of a freakin' police chase...

 

How many sets of lights behind me now?  Was she following the story on the radio?  Breaking news on all the tv stations?  Maybe she sees it while trying to skip past the electronics section and recognizes our Windstar and my lousy attempt to be Mario Andretti?  Probably having a heart attack in the middle of Sears.  Good.  The paramedics can listen to her blabber about what an inept man she married.

   

The noise, the rattle, the broken lines defining the lane becoming solid…  My peripheral vision sees the speedometer inching past 100 into no man’s land.  What, they don’t test these beasts at 150?  200?  I picture a sleek, shiny Lincoln Futura morphing over the gasping gas-hog.  I picture the gap between me and my offspring slamming to a close as I zoom past the wagon and he jumps in the window and we fly off into the sunset.  Where’s Batman when you need him?    

 

I let out a string of curses (forget that freakin’ quarter jar she uses to keep my language in check!) as we pass a couple trucks near Battle Ground.  We crossed state lines already?  Call the Feds!  Get the whole stinkin’ Bureau on this case already! 

 

Shhhhhhh….etland!

 

Eyes back on the road, evil smile glaring back at me with red, red eyes.  Red, red, red…

 

BRAKES!

 

“GET THE HELL OUTTA MY WAY!” Whether the dumbass driver who thought the best time to merge onto the freeway was between the two speeding cars had actually heard me or not, he is getting the message loud and clear as I almost clip his bumper in a furious attempt to avoid barreling right over him.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  Coffin on wheels!  And to think my wife actually wanted one of those little Metros.  “They’re cute,” she says…  “Great mileage,” she says.  “Less carbon footprint,” she says.  Huh – I’ll show her a foot print…

 

Clear road ahead.  Nothing but white Volvo, dark van and the parade of lights behind and around.

 

Thank God.

 

Though I wasn't sure God and I were on speaking terms, much less offering Him gratitude. 

 

'Course it would take an act of God to catch the creep and get my boy back with out killing someone.  My boy.  My son.  My heart had been ripped out and is now stuck in the back of the car ahead.

 

The car that is smirking at me with those blasted red eyes...

 

I let out a yelp as the distance between closes way to fast.  I'm going to kill my own flesh and blood.  Has the pervert gone kamikaze?  Is he finally realizing the futility of his situation now that the cruisers are passing us?

 

Turn the wheel.  Hit the brakes.  No, didn't they say the Titanic would have made it if only they hadn't slowed down?  Hit the gas instead.  No, right foot is already jamming it to the floor.  Maybe halfway through the floorboards by now.  Where's my foot again?  How can all these thoughts fly through my brain in so little time?  Is this what it feels like to have one's life flash before their eyes?  Lousy life I've got.

 

Fighting the wheel, every attempt to correct the skid is magnified a hundred times…  Or maybe one fifty.  How fast are we going?  Flashing lights flying past my windshield.  Windshield?  Uh, oh…  More flashing lights, right in front of me, along side, behind, other side, in front again.  We’re so close I can almost smell the donut the white faced cop is going to puke as we… 

 

Miss each other in the last second of the spin.

 

Thank God.

 

Maybe we should be on speaking terms again.

 

My breath chokes out in a momentary second of relief until the next hurdle approaches.  Bad, bad hurdle.  My body goes rigid as I crank the wheel, hit the brakes, and involuntarily brace for the impact.  I’m closing my eyes.  The van is tipping.  Crunch!  And airborne.  Michael.  Come fly with me, Buddy!  Its a bird!  Its a plane!  Its, Supervan!  Faster than a speeding bullet!  Able to leap tall interstate dividers in a single bound!  All I see is blue skies, sunny days, chasing those clouds away, on my way to where the air is neat.  Can you tell me how to get…   No, no, no – keep me away from the…

 

How is it I still hear the sirens? 

 

I open my eyes and survey the mess before me.  God must have been listening.  The van must have hit the concrete barrier as it tipped from the hard turn.  And now, somehow, I am stopped in the middle of the freeway, facing a dozen cars, frozen in place.  And several officers approaching, guns drawn.  The Volvo…  One officer leans against the driver’s side, shielding the occupants from my desperate eyes. 

 

Michael!  My frozen limbs finally release, and I pry white knuckles off the steering wheel.  Awkwardly, I peel my body off the seat and stumble onto the road. 

 

“HANDS UP!”

 

“DOWN ON THE GROUND!”

 

FREEZE!”

 

The shouts come from all directions and mingle with my own cry.

 

“HE HAS MY SON!!!”

 

I keep moving, one shaky limb in front of the other, my sole focus on getting my boy.  The officer by the Volvo turns to monitor my performance. 

 

BAM!  Asphalt digs into my shoulder as a behemoth slams into me, almost popping my arm out of its socket as he wrestles my hands into cuffs. 

 

“My son!  Michael!  My boy!”  I am blubbering now, tears that I had fought before filling my eyes.

 

The pressure on my back lessens slightly.  “I’ve got him!  McDaniel!  Cover Ruiz!  Jamison!  Come here!”

 

I try to stop my sniveling and move my head enough to watch a pasty faced young cop moving toward us, gun still extended in trembling hands.  Officer Behemoth reaches out and gently lowers the weapon, and they talk in hushed tones.  My ears pick up the word “custody” and “my son”.  Is that a ring on his finger?  Spit-up stain on his back?  Perhaps he understands my plight.

 

With Officer Newbie standing watch, Behemoth pats me down, and pulls the wallet out of my back pocket.  “Louis Feidelberg Halden the Third?” He asks, eyebrow rased.

 

“Yeah,” I mumble, “I go by Bob.  But listen!  You’ve got to stop him!  He’s got Michael!  He put my son in his back seat!  The kids were wandering off the field, and the other coach, and the team…” 

 

The giant holds out a hand to still my faltering explanation  “We’ll get to the bottom of this Mr. Halden.”  Reaching down, he helps me to my feet, and carefully both officers guide me to the side of the road.  My eyes are glued to the darkened back window and the small form behind. 

 

“Chief!” From the corner of my eye, I see another cop emerging from our van, waving a small, rectangular object.  “I’ve got his wife on the phone!”

 

Officer (Chief?) Behemoth ignores him, nodding instead to the officer by the Volvo, who in turn asks the driver to step out.  Lucky for him, my arms are held firmly.  My nostrils flare in frustration, but vengeance would wait. 

 

The back door cracks open. 

 

  Sun bleached hair appears, traditional bowl cut that my wife loves now plastered to the sides of his head with sweat.  A small, round face peers out, eyes wide with fright.  “Daddy?”

 

Its not Michael.