The Ransom Note

 

The note read: “If you want your beloved Mike back, put an envelope containing $20 under your garbage trolley before midnight tonight.”

I was confused at reading this note, even a second time. Mostly I couldn’t understand why someone would do such a thing. The absurdity of it all: twenty dollars isn’t much of ransom, and who the heck is Mike?

The message was printed, large, childish-printing, mixing upper and lower case, in blue crayon, on one of those many cards you get around Christmas time assorted charities. This one was of the ubiquitous snowy scene and Northern Cardinal. The kidnapper needed two cards.

My neighbor on one side is named David. David Something. My neighbor on the other side is Donna Evans and her husband Caleb. Across the street is Ms. Walton. I don’t know that I know all their kids or all their pets but Mike doesn’t ring a bell. He must appear important to someone, the kidnapper, obviously, who only wanted, who could only think, twenty dollars was a lot of money. Which is interesting since none of us had millions or even thousands we could get our hands on easily in a day or without other notice. I had to ask myself if the kidnapper hadn’t lowballed his ransom because he knew any better. Smarter than all the TV-ransom shows.

On top of that if I put money under trolley would I only have to wait and watch until midnight to catch the varmint? What happens if I don’t leave the money? I didn’t know who Mike was but I got this strange sensation he’s not very large or important or necessarily missing. Somebody’s cat, that had wandered in and now wanders out so the owner writes him off? The kidnapper would have to know the cat was named Mike. Maybe from social media? Maybe by luck of being around at feeding time? We have one older woman, real nice, very cordial, who walks the neighborhood and seems to know everyone’s business. I think she is disarming and not a threat so we, I know I do, talk to her very easily. She might have heard of a Mike and our kidnapper overhead it.

One other conclusion I could come to was “they,” the kidnapper, had the wrong address. And then had the nerve, or lack of brains, to stick this note in my door in broad daylight. Someone was either awfully brave or awfully stupid to walk to my side door and stuff this note in it risking being seen. I have some very nosy neighbors. We watch out for each other.

It took a moment to register that the neat ploy on my part, I’m so smart, would be to go on-line and show a copy of this note on the neighborhood Facebook group and ask if the person who knows “Mike” would kindly contact me. Or, better yet, I could tell the world somebody sent this note to the wrong person. That might make an interesting story for “Twilight Zone.” Ought to liven up Facebook, if nothing else.

Ms. Walton might have a cat. Or had a cat. I can’t say that I paid any attention. Mr. Walton had been a lawn-mowing obsessive. A “LMO” is what I called him. And still his yard was never much better than mine. She liked her flowers and is terribly polite. Ideal cat person. Should I walk over and ask?

If Mike was a person, I didn’t know him. Not any of my relation. My neighbor David didn’t have kids, as far as I could tell. He was about my age, kept to himself probably on the Internet learning how to build bombs, or something.

Who is Mike? Who was Mike? How’d I get chosen to fork over a twenty? I didn’t want to cause harm. I also disliked having to run to the ATM to get money just because I don’t carry any. And then what, leave it under my garbage trolley? With a hope that the kidnapper will take it, in return leaving Mike with, instead of the wind carrying it away, or someone else notices the envelope and helps themselves, out of devious curiosity? What am I, chopped liver? If anything I ought to get to negotiate, face to face, masked and distanced, of course.

I took a post-it note, and the ransom note, put them in one of those envelopes you get in the mail from the charities, and stuffed it under the wheel of my dumpster. On the post-it I wrote, “No!”

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