I didn't really kidnap a minor, don't worry. It got your attention, though, didn't it?
Well, technically, I did kidnap a 16-year-old for 12 hours but I didn't mean to. At first.
Maybe I should explain...
It was some random day of who cares what month... The weather was warm, or was it cold? I think it was fairly chilly. I woke up that morning (late afternoon), exited my bedroom, entered my living room, passed by the middle aged Jamaican man, and entered the kitchen. Then I did a double take. I re-entered the living room and, as it were (I am probably not using this phrase correctly but you probably don't care, eh?), my eyes were not mistaken, there in my living room was a petite teen girl smoking a huge blunt made out of corn husks. She seemed content, the Jamaican seemed content, and the naked couple cuddled up that I did not recognize seemed content. I said, "Good morning" and proceeded back into the kitchen to make something out of peanut butter (this may not be accurate but it is very likely...) After all, it was only 4 in the afternoon, I was much too groggy to worry about the delightful combination of illegal activity occurring in my very own living room.
Once I finished my nutritious and delicious high-sodium, high-protein, high-fat brunchner (breakfast, lunch, dinner), I went back into the living room. Something I wish I hadn't done. For my eyes had not been fooling me for the third time, the lavish weed buffet had not confused my senses, and I was not simply witnessing some sort of kinky "sharing-of the-toke with a blow up doll" ritual, there was indeed a petite, dirty blonde teenage female getting her jollies on Rasta's (as I was to find out was the Jamaican's nickname) bodacious Bonnarroo prize-winning corn husk doob.
Except, NOT COOL! I calmly sat myself next to the red-eyed insurgent and asked her, "So. What's up?" She replied, "Hey, I'm (yeah, as if I remember her name). My mom is a total (enter word of choice) and she's trying to have me locked up. I'm running away." She explained that her mom was some helicopter mom who is a Wall Street who-cares-what that, as young girl that we shall call Daisy explains, wishes to have her rebellious child locked in the psych ward for not going to school and smoking pot. Rasta had found her in the park trying to sleep under newspaper and one of the bums staying with me decided my apartment was a great refuge for both of these people. Why, you ask? I would say it is because my life is one big orgy of punches to the groin.
Now the chaos, havoc, and madness ensues. Enter Character 1 stage right. Character 1 will go by the name Char1, an unfortunate name choice by his mother. Char1 is a well-meaning guy, an outspoken guy, the kind of guy you don't think you should introduce to your grandmother but when you do introduce him to your grandmother, he turns out to be very polite and timid. Huh? Who? What? Why? I don't know.
Anyway, Char1 has strong opinions about everything. He gives the girl two options. Daisy must either stay in hiding with us, telling her we will all protect her, even if it means arrest (mind you, I would probably be the only one left standing if the cops came) or she would have to go face the real world. He told her, much like a tough-love father, that if she wanted freedom and to run her own life, she would have to go out into the cold, into the dark, and into her greatest fears. Rasta's only comment at this was, "Hey. I can teach her how to be a woman?" To which I replied, "What in the hail do you mean by that?!" He clarified that he wanted to teach her the ways of survival but I am fairly certain he had other plans in mind.
At this point, Daisy was fairly confident she was going to stay with me a few days. I figured, heck, my arrest was imminent for one reason or another, why not be this child's hero and guide? This was all hunky dory until for one reason or another, Char1 and Rasta started to argue. One angry Jamaican and one 6'4 angry Jew with a voice that could topple sweet dreams- oh mercy.
This started to make Daisy anxious. This brave lioness was beginning to cower and look once again like the innocent and scared child she was. That may have been the doing of the drugs but it worked well for me in this case. She took me into the bedroom and asked me, as the most normal one in the apartment, what she should do. I, now on my high-horse for being considered more normal than the drug-toting, homeless Rastafarian man armed with nothing but corn husks and a coconut slicer and a snowboarding sushi chef with a penchant for streaking, I felt words of wisdom overcome me. I asked her questions three... "Do you want to turn out like them?" She shook her head. "Do you want to be homeless, smell like the trail of goo that remains after the carcass of a dead sewer rat are removed, and let old men touch your boobies for a piece of old bread?" She shook her head. "Shall we call your mom?" Yes. Yes, we shall.
After much concern on all ends, we finally made the dreaded call to her mother. I took the phone and in my best Judy Dench voice I said, "Hello ma'am. I just want you to know your daughter is safe and you have nothing to worry about. I am an educated, kind, and mature young woman, much like your daughter. I assure you, her well-being is my top priority. Daisy needed some space and time to think but I think she is ready to return home under the condition that you allow her some independence and your trust. I am very sorry for worrying you but I think you both need to sit down and talk this over without finger-pointing or negativity. I hope you two can work this out." Her mother replied, "I WANT MY DAUGHTER!!" A detective then picked up the phone and I basically told him the same thing but not referencing him as her mother. That would be silly, silly! I assured them both Daisy would be headed home in moments and hung up.
Minutes later, she was headed out with Char1 and myself and on the train headed uptown to her mommy.
Once she was taken care of I went back to bed, hoping to never wake up and exit my bedroom again.