I Was Accused of Kidnapping My Own Son

a distressing momentary inversion of reality

“Are you sure that’s your son?”

Unless they’re tango dancing, it’s unusual for Americans to lock eyes. That’s how I knew something was off about this interaction from the start.

A perfectly average looking man in a polo shirt asked me “And what is your name?” after introducing himself in a Subway Sandwich shop. My son was using the restroom nearby as I sat on a movable, low-to-the-ground vinyl stool.

I told him my name and shook the man’s hand, pretending to recognize him as I tried to remember exactly where we may have met. A faculty luncheon? Picking up our kids from school? He was alone and looked to be in his late 30s. Nothing came to mind. Because he had appeared in my view so quickly and unexpectedly, I didn’t have time to stand to greet him. I was tired anyway after finals week, so I remained sitting and he continued staring down at me.

“Who is that kid in the restroom?”

“That’s my son,” I said, surprised by the question. He just stared at me for a moment, then said, “Is your son’s name Elliot?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he replied. At this point I became confused.

Linus was still in the bathroom enjoying one of his characteristically long early-evening pooping sessions. Now maybe one day my son will begin doing this at home and in the morning after a cup of coffee like a normal person. But honestly, I think he gets some satisfaction out of slowing down whatever day we might be having by using a random away-from-home restroom. He’s comfortable in public, around strangers, and likes to explore new places.

“His name is Linus,” I said to the man. “Then why did he say his name was Elliot?”

Huh? I thought. The man continued, “When he walked past me he said ‘hey man, I’m Elliot.’” I thought about this for a hard minute. I hadn’t seen the man at all until he was right up in my face.

Finally I said, “Well I really don’t know why he would have said that to you. Maybe he did?” Kids can be weird, I thought to myself. “But even if he did say that,” I continued, “that’s not his name. His name is Linus.”

I’m jumping around the chronology here but bear with me. After this entire thing I asked Linus if he told some guy his name was Elliot. “Why would I say that? That’s not my name,” Linus replied. Right. So I guess the man had misheard some other random thing Linus was yelling? If you knew Linus, you’d know he just yells stuff all the time. He especially loves to yell things at others from a great distance. It’s just part of who he is. Insert shrug emoji.

Anyway, at this point the man’s stare became more intense. He replied, “Well I saw him playing alone by the creek, and then you came up to him and the two of you walked away.”

Well, that is indeed what happened. Since this is a full-on cross-examination at this point, let me paint the entire picture for you: Linus and I walked down to the creek together. I wore a graphic tee, old grey jeans and a slightly oversized long sleeve corduroy brown shirt. When I’m not running some kind of arts and humanities event at the university where I work, I relish the opportunity to inhabit the post-grunge rocker part of my identity. Linus was in a tee-shirt and shorts.

After sitting on some rocks and scoping out the place, Linus wanted to go explore the other side of the creek. So he crossed a nearby pedestrian bridge, poked around the tall grasses on the bank, and climbed a big tree with limbs hanging out over the water. I watched him as I sat on a big rock on the opposite side. It’s not at all unusual for Linus to run off a few feet or even a few hundred feet and look around. He loves to run and to explore and to be in nature.

So I told the stranger in the Subway sandwich shop “Yes, I walked up to him and we came up here together — because he’s my son,” ending the sentence with an implied ellipsis.

Here, I want to add one more detail that may or may not be important, but didn’t cross my mind until later: Linus is biracial. His maternal grandparents are from southern China where they grew up fishing, swimming and hiking alone like many generations did before them. Although Linus has a brown version of my big eyes, he thankfully does not have my wintry pale skin. By contrast, my son’s skin stays healthy looking all year long and gets dark after just a few days outside. This evening at the creek followed a few beautiful summery sunny days. Linus was brown.

Finally, the man asked me point blank: “Are you sure that’s your son?” At this point I stood up (taking advantage of my height in a way that I almost never do). “I live here in Pullman. That is my son,” I asserted, as I suddenly and finally realized what was happening: the man believed I was a kidnapper. He believed that my son was not my son. As my reality seemed to invert, I added with more intensity, “Do I know you?”, continuing to look him in the eye. He stepped back muttering, “I just wanted to make sure he was safe,” and scurried out of the store.

Just a few minutes before, Linus was joyfully playing on the opposite bank of the creek shouting at me “Hey dad! Come over here!” (he loves making playful demands) “This side is way cooler. It’s better than that side!” (he loves comparing and contrasting) and I pulled myself up off a big rock and walked across the bridge to greet him, my lanky limbs swinging as they do. I trudged through the mud, climbed up part of the tree myself and we stood in it together. I confirmed that yes: this side was better than the other side. We took in the waning sun, the movements of birds and insects and shimmering water, basking in that dual sense of excitement and relaxation that being in nature with a loved one provides.

Then, breaking the silence, Linus said finally, “I have to poop.”