The hectic crash of creaking steps suffocated the stumbling silence. A small beam of light pierced the dull wooden door, perspiring a meager line across the carpeted floor. The whimper of Tchavaskis fifth lulls eagerly behind the hidden passage. The snap of heavy footsteps fall precariously upon sleek wooden floors, sliding back and forth and back and forth. The boy begins to dream.

The father, a dark, handsome, middle aged gentleman, had always thrown great parties. The New York Times called them "Spectacular" as the New Yorker noted "without the parties, time itself would be a waste." The father was quite proud of these remarks, and so put great effort into planning and preparing his grand extravagances.

Unfortunately, this took much time, too much time, and was soon let go from the firm. However, this mattered little to the man, for he claimed more money than any man could ever dream of spending. He was a father of only one and a husband of a wife long left. His only worry now were his parties.

While at first the parties were sporadic and unscheduled, they soon became an essential decadence of the evening. A night without a party was a night without the moon, or so the father assumed. And so he spent his days planning and his nights partying, devoting little time to such shameful activities as bonding with his only son.

This, of course, was a very guiltful admission, but the father was soon to forget. To the father, a role model was a nuisance, and more so, a burden, and so he wished not to interfere. He himself had no figure in which he could emulate, and so believed it only just to give the boy no better. Just, however, is rarely fair.

The father was often criticized for this fact, but the public was too soon to forget, for the parties were only for the kind and never for the unwilling. Those who abhorred him witnessed no bazaars as those who loathed him did so only in secrecy. If anything were to be said of the father, it was only to comment upon his luxurious extravaganzas. Nothing more, nothing less.

This party, however, was particularly dull. For while his parties were always extravagant, they weren't always practical. Today's party falls upon a Monday, late in the evening with a long night still to come. Like most weekday parties, it is filled with a throw of misfits. Just turned sober alcoholics, stay at home moms without kids, forfeiters who never played, retired gamblers who never quit, and the common elderly gentlemen who never aged. These were the guests of a weekday party, and these were the inhabitants of today's venue.

The father did not so much hate his guests, but feared them. He feared what they'd do if the parties ever ceased, the drinking ever stopped, or the money ever dissipated. He feared not only their judgement but their actions, for these were the lowliest scum the rich could ever seduce. Yes, of course, they were still top of the class in every sense of the word, but at the ever falling bottom of the ever growing one percent.

"Goddamn democrats" the father mumbled, chastising the despicable crimes against the one percent. "Why can't they just let the rich be rich and the poor be poor. It seems to me the poor are getting richer every day. Those scumbags." The father, of course, said this to no one, for today is a Monday, and those scumbags are the very people he entertains. A real curse he may never endure.

Off in a far corner of the grand ballroom, sits a wrinkled, mischievous child. He is not a child in the common sense, for he is far beyond seventy in age, but his mind is as nimble as a toddler's, as curious as an infant's. Though he is not cruel nor dark hearted, the people of the party despise the old man, for the old man represents the inevitable fate of all their fears: age.

The old man doesn't mind the criticism and takes little to no notice of their sneers. The child of sorts came only to relinquish his fears and ponder his dreadful nightmare. The old man wants no part of the drinking or shouting or partying or any of that stuff. He simply wants a place to sit and a reason to live. And these parties are that reason, whether anyone acknowledges the fact or not.

Today, however, the old man is growing tired of the monotonous fate that is the coming night. He no longer wishes to tap to smooth jazz or quick brass. He wants a different tune, a kinder tune, but he's not quite sure what. To exonerate his itching dilemma, he sets out to explore, destined to find whatever it is he forgot to explore.

The boy squeezes tight eyes shut, but no slumber will abide. The boy knows he's not tired, but wishes greatly for could sleep. The light beyond the door is a new phenomenon to the boy, for the father was adamant that no man nor woman should ever bother the child during nighttime, especially the father.

When the boy witnessed this bazar happenstance that was the creaking steps and swinging light and blaring music, he couldn't help but smile. "Someone's here to save me." The boy mumbled to himself. From what, the boy did not know, nor did he care. All he knew was that there was a kidnapper on the loose and he would finally be kidnapped.

The boy always dreamed of being kidnapped, drowned in chloroform and dazed to bewilderment. He dreamed of excitement and terror and adventure and heroism. He dreamed of having a new life and a new family, and, most of all, someone who cared. For though the boy was young, he knew quite well what kidnapping meant: it meant somebody actually cared.

Who that somebody was he did not know, nor did he wish to wonder. As long as there was somebody, anybody, the boy would be happy.

But as luck would have it, the old man was interested in no kidnapping, or even caring of any kind. The old man, much like the boy, wanted only the peace of happiness, and believed Tchavaski was just the person to inspire such a feeling.

The old man was, unfortunately, wrong.

As the boy patiently awaited his kidnapping, he became tiredly impatient. The boy was growing tired and feared very much the possibility of falling asleep before the man, for he could hear grunts and huffs, would take him away. This saddened the boy greatly and instituted a sort of solemn grace in his diligence. "I will stay up till the end of time if that's what it takes." The boy declares triumphantly. And so he does.

When this act proves futile, the boy decides to take matters into his own hands. If the man won't kidnap me, I'll kidnap myself, and he'll be forced to save me. So the boy throws off the soothing comfort of warm blankets and cool pillows, hops to the ground, and tears the heavy wooden door with all the might he may muster.

The old man heaves, flabbergasted by the jolt, and grows small in fear of being caught. But the boy heeds little notice of the man, and continues on his way in search of a seeking kidnapper.

When the boy leaves the sight of the old man, the old man grows ever curious. Though he is wise in his age and kind in his heart, his curiosity cannot resist. What the boy is up to is of top concern, and no amount of Tchavaski can ever change that. And so the old man braces his quaking legs with the solitude of his cane, and springs himself forward, set to explore this young child's curiosity.

The boy finds little in way of kidnapping, and so, much to his avail, the boy triumphs hopeless. "There's no use in even trying!" The boy blurts through aching sobs. "No ones ever going to love me!"

The old man turns a corner to witness this traumatic scene, and grows very tired with empathy. The old man knows the boy's burdens, and aches with the grace of reality, and so goes to comfort the boy.

"Are you here to kidnap me?" The young boy asks through still falling tears.

"Why, no, kiddo. I don't suppose I am."

"Oh." The boy grows short with sadness.

The old man falls to the floor with all the grace he may muster. He looks at the boy, "Why, kiddo, do you want to be kidnapped?"

"I don't know." The boy mumbles under his breath.

"Well I suppose that you do know. Otherwise you wouldn't be here moping and crying."

"I ain't crying!" The boy spouts emphatically. "And I ain't moping either. It's just...just...allergies."

"Must be some pretty bad allergies to cause that kind of reaction." The old man teases with a poke of the cane.

"I ain't havin no reaction. I'm allergic."

"To what, may I ask?"

"Loneliness."

The old man frowns. A ferocious sense of forlorn depression scrapes at his withered heart. The old man knows the burdens of the boy, for he himself had no father, and his own son was too often ignored. "Seems like us kind sort of got a tradition like."

"What do you mean us kind?"

"You and me, were of the same blood."

"You ain't my father!"

"No, no, I'm certainly not that, thank the lord, but that's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean, you and I got the same kind of DNA. We think the same, you and I. Put through similar situations, I suppose."

"What kinds of situations?"

"Oh, just the kind you're mighty familiar with. Long, lonely nights. Cruel, harsh days. Bullies at school, tyrants at home. No one to love, no one to be loved. A kid lost to forget, and always to be forgotten."

"What are you trying to say."

"What I'm saying, boy, is that I know how you feel. I've felt that way myself, a long, long time ago...and I'm here to tell ya it doesn't have to be that way."

"What do ya mean?"

"I mean...well...I mean..." The old man stumbles, "You wanted to be kidnapped, right?"

"Yea. So?"

"Well why don't you let me do the kidnappin? Sure, my house is no mansion, and my food is more than meager, but my love is strong, and my guilt undeniable. I wanna give you what I never gave myself."

"What's that?"

"Love."

"There ain't no such thing!"

"Just because a man is blind don't make the whole world inept."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, just because you don't see it, doesn't make it any less true."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've felt it. I've seen it. I've lived it."

"How do I know your not just some old creep who wants to get in my pants?"

The old man chuckles. "You're a wise young fellow. And blunt, too. I like that." The old man sighs, "Well...you can't know. Not for sure, anyways. But I can promise."

"How do I know you're not lying."

"You can't. I suppose you'll just have to trust me."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because, in an odd sort of way, I am you."

The boy smiles.

The old man chuckles.

The father sighs.