The Easy Way

I didn’t remember practicing my circle spins, yet my head was swimmy. The back of my neck throbbed. I tried to rub it only to discover that I couldn’t move my hands! Paralyzed! At least that’s what I thought but I soon discovered that in fact, my hands and feet had just been tied to a chair. Tightly. Too tightly. This was a professional rope job. I was groggy but I tried to think – had I wronged a cowboy?  I tried to make out where I was but an incredibly bright light was obstructing my view and not helping my swimmy head at all.

A man’s voice called out from the area beyond the light – “So, here we are.”  He had an accent as thick as my Aunt Minnie’s calves. I tried to place his speech but it was unique, somewhere between Pepe le Pew gargling and everyone’s Uncle’s Italian Restaurant Waiter impression.

“I’m not gonna say a damn thing,” I snarled, “until you untie me and turn down that light.”

The man with the accent did not hesitate, “Of course I cannot untie you, you understand I am sure, the knot is very tight and it would take quite a long time. As for the light, I will turn it down and with an apology, the lighting here really is awful. We tried to get it adjusted but the electrician couldn’t make it out until Thursday.”

As light dimmed and the room came into view, I surveyed my situation. We were in some type of an office, there were just a few chairs, a desk, and on the wall was a painting of either someone’s Great Grandmother or a bowl of fruit.

Around the room there was a little guy towards the back, two burly men by the door, and on the couch, a goofy looking guy. I made a mental note to ask him where he got his Goofy costume. The man with the accent stood closest to me. He was of average height with an average face and an exceptional mole. That mole creeped me out.

When the man put the mole in its’ cage, I breathed a sigh of relief. In the form of a fart.

The man got right to the point: “We can do this the Easy Way or the Hard Way.”

“Your clichés don’t scare me!” I boasted. Then I braced myself, had I used the word cliché correctly?

We sat in a long, tense silence. Waiting. Then I realized that he was serious, those were the only two options available. I was stunned; I’m an American, I expect options. We have 300 types of cereal and a legally mandated 14 coffee shops per three city blocks and now I’m only being presented with two torture options? After all that I had gone through, the years of training in choosing the exact items from an endless buffet, in settling on a single television channel from 430, in picking just one My Little Pony from the wall display.  I pushed back. I demanded more. I also asked for a Pepsi. And a turn in the Goofy costume.

“I suppose,” accent man countered, “that we could do this the Rough Way. We might still have some of the tools out in the garage. There’s also the Way of No Return, although I don’t think that’s legal anymore.”

All of the men started laughing. I laughed too. Laughing is fun.

“We could give him the Old Fashioned” shouted out the little man in the back (as people in the back are apt to do). They mulled this over for a few minutes but no one could agree on the steps as it had been so long, so they dropped that option.

My captor thought for a moment. “There is of course the way with the mustard.”

“A Number 3?” Goofy asked in a way that made me think that there were several options with mustard involved.

“Yes, a Number 3,” said the man with the accent, “but on second thought, we don’t want things getting weird.”

“I guess that rules out a Manny Tomlinson then,” the little man said sadly.

I noticed then that one of the burly men was drawing in a book. He would show the drawings to the second burly man, they would smile, discuss, and then rip the page out and toss it aside. I told them that it was wrong to draw pornographic pictures in front of company and not share. They laughed and said they were drawing out uses for my foot after it had been separated from my body. This time I did not laugh along. I still hadn’t gotten my Pepsi or a turn in the Goofy suit, even after I promised to leave my pants on. On top of that disappointment, I was now stressed that I would have to throw half my shoes away.

Some other ideas were thrown around the room but at that late hour no one was sure where to get a 55-gallon drum of sugar or a rabid jockey on a horse. I suggested that perhaps they had things mixed around on that last idea but I was told to shut up, that it didn’t concern me. I suggested that if that was truly the case that perhaps I could take off, but the taller of the burly men felt like I should stick around, that I might still be useful. No one had ever called me useful before. Those kind words brought out a flood of emotion. I asked for a hug. He hit me with a stick. A tear welled in my eye. That was the kind of hug that dad used to give me.

Accent man stepped forward. He hoped I would understand, they were trying to be accommodating but there just weren’t many more options and they were behind schedule as it was. He asked if I could just make a choice from what had been proposed so they could get this process started and he promised that they would work to broaden their options for future captives.

I thanked him for his courtesy and attempts to meet my needs. I thanked everyone for their effort, except the guy in the Goofy costume.

Just as I was about to announce my choice, the police broke through the door and rounded up all of the men. As they dragged the man with the accent away he was screaming, “What would you choose, tell me, what would you choose?!?!”

I smiled and shouted back, “You. It was always going to be you.”

*The above story is an excerpt from Noell Evans’ new book, We Are Not All Winners. To find out more information about Noell and his new book, please go to https://wearenotallwinners.wordpress.com/