When I was little, like four years old little, I liked to hide from my mom and crawl under things. That’s probably a not-so-unusual thing for a dumb little kid to do. But hiding from your mother can have consequences.
One day, Mom took me on a shopping excursion to a department store. Her mother-in-law (my Gramma Irene) went with us.
Gramma Irene was not someone to be trifled with. She was clear on expectations and let you know when you crossed a line. She handled herself pretty well. At the point of this story, when I was four, she was 56, younger than I am writing this.
At the store, Mom and Irene cruised through the ladies clothing. I was super bored and unapologetic about it. I’m certain my mother dangled a carrot to convince me to keep quiet while they shopped. I don’t remember the bribe, but it was her modus operandi: if I behaved reasonably well during shopping trips, we’d stop for ice cream, or maybe I’d get some crappy toy out of the deal.
To amuse myself while the shopped, I slipped away from them, hurrying to the other side of the clothing racks. I wasn’t running away, but staying out of sight.
When my Mom called, I’d wander back like it was no big deal. I’d slip away again the moment she turned her attention to the clothing.
I crawled under the clothing on the racks, squatting down on hands and knees, where I could watch them walk but they couldn’t see me. Liking this secret place, I stayed there awhile.
When Mom called my name, I didn’t answer. I thought it was funny to trick them this way. Before I realized how this upset them, they recruited one of the floor sales associates to aid in the search.
What I know now is that organizing a search party means shit has gotten real and people are upset. It’s one thing to say, “Did you happen to see my four-year old son scamper by?” It’s entirely another thing to say, “Please help me find my son! He’s missing!”
I think my mother was affected by Lindbergh baby kidnapping, and anxious about losing me. Maybe she preferred me to her other sons. Whatever the case, shit got real real quick.
Irene shouted, “Mickey! Come here this instant.” The edge in Irene’s voice scared me. Like I said, she was not to be trifled with.
I crawled out from under the clothes rack. Bearing down on me was the sales associate, walking briskly in her heels, probably looking for me.
But she didn’t look down at the floor. I froze there, unsure if I should retreat or try to get across the aisle, and stayed there like an overstuffed wombat directly in her path.
Hide-Panic-Freeze has plagued me for a while
That incident was not the first, and wouldn’t be the last time I hid, panicked and froze, unable to make a decision. I’m sure there’s a psychological component to it but my therapy didn’t unearth it. It’s buried inside me, awaiting its chance to ruin something nice, like a turd waiting to drop in a punch bowl.
Again, I don’t think it’s uncommon. People freeze all the time. Deer do it as well, like when they step in front of a car on the highway, and they’re doing fine. In fact, there are more deer in North America than at any time before.
I’m guilty of it with my writing, as well, over the years, creating something then not knowing quite what to do with it and panicking…but I’m trying to move away from that technique.
Take my book, please
It’s free for today and tomorrow, so if you have a Kindle or like to read it using Amazon’s online book reader, click here to grab a copy of The Blue Djin and The American Dream.
Back to what happened at the store…
That sales clerk cruising down the aisle tripped and fell on top of me. I think she tried to catch herself but she ended up crashing down hard.
Mom and Irene were there almost instantly, but I was already crying.
The Department Manager escorted us to the employee lounge where Irene, who was a practical nurse, checked me for injuries. I was fine. Just being a cry baby.
The sales associate was shook up, tore her stockings, and cut her knee. Irene tended to her wounds, as well, but also lectured her for not being more careful.
“He’s a small child,” Irene said, sternly, as if telling someone to be more careful with their bed pan. “Pay attention. Don’t be so clumsy.”
The poor sales associate was all apologies, but Irene wouldn’t give her a break.
Of course, Mom and Irene took turns chastising me during the drive home, because what I’d done was so dumb.
I wish it had cured me of the hide-from-mom thing, but it actually got worse.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’m into writing the next novel while getting ready to send out queries for the previous one.
If you’re interested in being an advance reader, let me know. I’ll set you up with a copy and my only request is that you offer a fair and honest review of what you read.
More details will be forthcoming, so think about it or hit reply and let me know.
Next Picayune
I’ll be back in a couple of weeks with another story.
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. All the best,
–Mickey
P.S. And go grab that copy of The Blue Djin and The American Dream. It’ll help Amazon understand who might be interested in this book. Click here!!!!!