In this day an age, I feel like I need to start out this story with the preface: I don’t hate cops. They serve, they protect, and they do the best job they can. Are some crooked? Yeah. Hateful? Yeppers. But hating someone based on their occupation doesn’t make sense. I mean, it would be like hating lawyers just because they’re lawyers, for Pete’s sake! And I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t get warm gooey feelings thinking about lawyers.
Anyway. To the story.
I wake up (dream wake up, not real-life wake up) in a dugout. Which is freaking weird since I haven’t been in a dugout since I did T-ball back in the day with all the other little tykes who didn’t really understand the finesse of the sport but enjoyed hitting things and running in circles.
So I’m in this dugout and it’s dusty, dilapidated, and depressing. Like the green tarp awning that keeps the sun out is bleached, faded, and in pieces. Trash has been blown in from the wind, and with no one around to pick it up, it’s accumulated into gross piles, sprinkled with dead, cracked leaves. Not a pleasant place.
I realize fast I’m not the only person in there. There are two other young ladies about my age in there as well, one of whom is throttling the fence, demanding to be let out. She’s not a happy camper. And when I realize someone has put a makeshift door and lock on the entrance, I’m not a happy camper either.
That’s when the police officers show up. There’s three of them, all in uniform, and I feel a moment of pure elation until I see they aren’t making a move to let us out. They’re the SOBs that put us in here.
Two of them are laughing, thinking it’s great fun to trap and imprison young women, but the ringleader of this unsavory trio is more stoic and thoughtful. And he explains that he and his cohorts don’t want the baseball field destroyed but hope to save it…by holding us hostage. They grabbed three random women to barter with saving the baseball complex from being torn down.
Well, joke’s on them, because I happen to be friends with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Yep, you might know this badass from his NCIS fame, but in my dream, he’s an actual person. And we’re peas in a pod, him and I. So these A-holes are screwed.
Except I don’t have my phone to let him know I’m in peril, but that’s a problem for the next five minutes.
In these five minutes, I’m going to gloat about the fact that Gibbs isn’t going to be too happy I was kidnapped to save a baseball diamond. So I lay into them.
Until they point out I can’t contact him and then walk away, unconcerned.
And Dream-Me is like Real-Me: when I threaten someone, they need to be appropriately cowed or I get angry.
So I was angry. I joined the other lady, jerking violently at the fence and shouting at the top of my lungs to be let out. Or at least to be given my one phone call because it might not be a legit prison but it was close enough.
Surprisingly, they don’t let us out.
But the other lady, the one not yanking at the fence, has been quietly building a tunnel using sporks blown in by the wind she found in the trash piles. So we make our daring escape by slipping into the hole she dug under the fence.
I rush across the street to a housing subdivision, and I race up to the first people I see: a family out walking their dog. We’ve got Papa Person, with a cell phone that’s too hard (he doesn’t have the Internet on it because he’s a cheapskate and I can’t remember Gibbs’ number so I need to Google it). The Mama Person’s phone is too soft (she’s got so much gunk on it, it’s slowing down the processing speed and it’s taking for…ev…er for the internet to open). So I snatch the young boy Child Person’s phone and it’s just right. I find the number to NCIS, call it, and…
And it’s an automated system. Crap.
While this phone musical chairs is happening, I’m explaining to the family as best and as fast as I can that I was kidnapped. They want to call the police. I tell them the police were the kidnappers. By now, a crowd has formed, though I’m not sure where all these people came from. And most of the crowd wants me to go to the police anyway. But there are enough dissenters to stop anyone from calling the cops.
And then, in a dream miracle, I remember Gibbs’ cell number.
As it’s ringing, the three stooges roll up in their police cruiser, looking for their escaped prisoners. I’m trying to hide in the crowd but one of them spots me. So I thrust the boy’s phone back to him just as I hear Gibbs answer, scream at him for help, and take off running.
They give chase and that’s when I wake up.
Sad to say, we’ll never know if I survived or not. But I like to think I did.