Elise Warner - Scene Stealer

I must have been staring at the child. They were such an unlikely pair: the boy clean and neatly dressed, the man unkempt. For a moment our eyes met; his were frightened, seeking help. Or was it my old ladys imagination gone wild? No, I understood children. All those years of teaching elementary school, I knew this child was afraid. The man seated next to the boy nudged him and the child lowered his eyes.

As usual, the Broadway/Seventh Avenue local at Sheridan Square was crowded; I stood to one side to allow passengers to exit but the man pushed his way on, dragging the child behind him. A new rush of passengers hid them from my sight when the subway stopped at 14th Street.

Such a darling boy; why did he seem familiar? Of course! The child was the spitting image of that little tyke in the Cowboy Bobs Big, Bad Burger commercial. The commercial where the boy, dressed in chaps and a ten-gallon hat, twirls a rope and dances a hoedown with animated French-fried potatoes. Big blue eyes and a warm smile people returned. But this adorable child wasnt smiling.

The train stopped at several more stations. Where were we? I couldnt see a thing with that portly gentleman standing directly in front of me. I craned my neck to see around him but garish sprays of graffiti obscured the sign indicating the station; I could barely decipher the lettering. This stop was Columbus Circle; the next would be Lincoln Center. Folding my unread magazine, I clutched my purse and umbrella and murmured, Excuse me. Pardon me, over and over again as I tried to make my way through the throng. I managed to reach the door just as the train announced its arrival at the 66th Street station with a nerve-jangling screech.

Two extremely rude teenagers blocked the door. One was lost in the cacophony of sound that leaked from his oversized earphones. The other was engrossed in paring his fingernails. A gentle thrust with the tip of my umbrella and I was able to make my exit.

The child and his companion were about fifteen feet ahead of me. When the boy looked back, I thought I could see his lower lip tremble. Impossible, he was too far away and my vision, though I hate to admit it, is not what it used to be. The man placed his hand on the childs shoulder; they picked up their pace, reached the stairway and melted into the crowd.

Was it the young actor who performed in the commercial or was it someone who looked very much like him? And why wasnt he attending class this morning? Today was Tuesday, a school day. A very special Tuesday for a retired gentlewoman like me; at 9:45, Alan Gilbert was scheduled to conduct the New York Philharmonic in an open rehearsal of Strauss tunes at Lincoln Center. The public was invited to attend. I eagerly awaited a morning spent with Mr. Gilbert and was pleased to have obtained a $10 ticket. It wasnt often I could afford such a treat. My concern for the boy abated as I thought about the music, Maestro Gilbert and what was reputed to be the maestros blazing heat and power.

The traffic light turned yellow, then green. Car horns blasted the air with impatience. I checked to see if the vehicles flowing past would obey the signal, since at my age the body slows a bit, and was about to step off the curb, when the little boy tugged at the sleeve of my jacket.

Maam. The child gasped, then took a deep breath. Help me.

What is wrong, child?

I never heard his answer. There was a sharp poke in the small of my back and the next thing I knew I lay sprawled flat in the gutter. A crowd gathered round-eyes staring, mouths jabbering.

Should I call 911? A stranger tucked his coat beneath my head. Whatcha think, lady?

I was shaken but no bones seemed to be broken. The boy! I looked for the boy but he had disappeared.

A young girl handed me a wad of pink facial tissue. Theyre clean, she half apologized, just crumpled.

A cab driver helped me to my feet and dropped some change into my palm. Musta spilled out of ya pocket. Can I drive ya to the emergency?

May I drive you. Oh, dear. I dabbed at the dirt that smudged my skirt, hoping I hadnt embarrassed that thoughtful man with my automatic correction of his grammatical error.

Thank you. No. Im fine. Just fine, I assured the crowd. A bruise or two would show up laterthere was a red mark on my knee that would eventually turn yellow, then purple mixed with blackbut except for the dirt and a ladder running down the left leg of my support hosiery, the only thing hurt was my dignity. The show was over.

A teenager handed me my purse, an old gentleman presented the umbrella and a button with a photograph of a dancing French fry. Where in the world had the button come from? The magazine was lost. The crowd dispersed and went about its business.

Ten minutes of tidying up in the ladies restroom at the Center and I decided I looked fairly presentable. I expected a morning spent listening to the Philharmonic would soothe my apprehension, and my expectations were met. Music is always a comfort and by the time the rehearsal ended, my uncertainties with regard to the man and the little boy had been rationalized and tucked away.

By early afternoon, I was sprinkling a bit of wheat germ on my yogurt when a bulletin interrupted the weather report on New York One. A photograph appeared on the screen with the caption Missing! A child was missing. Kevin Corcoran, age nine, the child I had first seen on the subway. He had never returned home from school. The reporter speculatedhad the boy been abducted or had he run away from home? He was indeed the boy who played the part of Cowboy Bob in that hamburger commercial. In rapid succession, the commercial and an interview with the childs mother, distraughtthe poor soul begged for his returnappeared on the screen followed by a reporter interviewing the sponsor of the childs commercial. The man had a distinguished appearance. His hair was gray at the temples, he sported a trim mustache and dressed in a conservative suit. There was something vaguely familiar and disturbing about his uncalled-for smirk. He mentioned the name of his company, Cowboy Bobs Big, Bad Burger, an inordinate amount of times while offering a substantial monetary reward, in addition to a years supply of free hamburgers, French fries and milk shakes, to anyone supplying information that would lead to the capture of the perpetrator and the release of Kevin Corcoran unharmed.