Monday, October 09, 2006

Andrew Bishoff Of The North Coast Bishoffs [Content Edited by Author ] *an excerpt of the work 'Elevator' by Kurt Weller


A young boy that lived down the street from us had been kidnapped on one spring afternoon from school. He had somehow been able to escape his confinement only to find that he was in the home kitty corner from his own. He had made his escape late at night and had climbed into his own backyard only to find his parents watching situation comedies on the back porch of the house. His name was Andrew Bishoff but I called him Andy.

They were so relieved to see him that they didn't press charges on the kidnapper. The kidnapper turned out to be a mentally ill teenage girl that had babysat me a year or so earlier. But the last time she had come to the house my mother and father had discovered --------------------------------------------------------------- and told her that she was never to come back to our home.

I missed her a great deal and when I heard the story of Andy Bishoff I became quite sad that she had not kidnapped me instead. I wondered if ---------------------------------- and whenever we walked home from school together I would attempt to probe him for information.

He would never say anything to me about her though, especially when I asked if --------------------------, which I was sure he had because the police had later --------------------------------------------------. He would always run off for home when my questions made him too uncomfortable and I began to hate him for it.

Soon, my questioning transformed into random punches to his back when I saw him in the neighborhood. He annoyed me so much because I didn't believe that he was really shy. It was as though I could see a deep-seated aggression behind every glance away and how he would never look me in the eye.

I knew he was keeping the information to himself. If it had happened to me I would have shared. I told him this every day on the way home from school.

Part of it may have been my feelings of powerlessness at the hands of the much more skilled bullies who tormented me at the middle school. I periodically changed my route home so as to escape any chance encounters with a certain group of kids that would patrol the hallways for me and a couple of other targets.

What I hated most about them was their distraction from my thoughts. I have always been a private person; I have always enjoyed my thoughts, and ruminating about ideas for stories or at times even more abstract creation. These bullies would destroy my train of thought and I hated them for it. I hated how they would snatch my drawings from my hands or rip them from my notebooks in order to ridicule them.

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