Hide and Seek. Is there a better game when you’re a kid? The neighborhood gang that consisted of me, Evy, Gianni, Carter, Doug, Peter, Greg, Danny, Mark, and when they got old enough, Anne, Susan, and Michele, played outside using the telephone pole that separated our property from the Elenze’s as base. “Free!” we’d yell if we were lucky enough to elude the person that was “It” long enough to dare to sneak from our hiding place and run like hell to touch that telephone pole before being tagged. Protecting one’s hiding place—the one that no one knew about—was essential in order to keep from getting caught.
The time I played Hide and Seek at Carol’s house during a slumber party—the one where we baked a frozen pizza along with the cardboard packaging it came with (wow, what a smell)—I was small enough to hide on the top shelf of the linen closet. The girls called and called my name until they started to scare themselves with the notion that I had disappeared. When I revealed myself, they marveled that I could have climbed up so high.
But, playing Hide and Seek alone with Peter was a different experience altogether. I like to think that he cheated because he had the most uncanny ability to find me every single time. Maybe that’s unfair, but I was a really good hider so the notion that I was unable to elude him hurt my pride more than a little bit. He found me in the clothes hamper; and between the bookshelf and drapery; and even under the dollhouse table—all really good spots.
I thought I had finally hit upon the perfect no-one-not-even-Peter-can-figure-this-out hiding place when I so, so carefully and quietly eased open the door to the dryer in the basement of his house. I climbed inside and ever so, so carefully and quietly pulled the door until only a tiny crack was left open. As I sat inside curled in a fetal position, I could still hear Peter counting to 30 and decided that because he was so clever, he might notice that the door was not entirely shut. As an extra precaution against being found, I pulled the latch until, click, I heard it shut. I breathed a sigh of relief absolutely positive that he would never find me.
Ba bump, ba bump, went my heart. Were those Peter’s steps I could hear just outside the closed door? I held my breath lest I give myself away. I then heard a definitive turn of a knob somewhere above my head, and, woosh, air entered through the little holes that surrounded me, and thrumb, the drum in which I was sitting tilted forward until I was now upside down, and, clunk, my shoes hit the sides of the interior. I had spun twice around before I started screaming. I’m sure he would have let me continue spinning around in there but I suppose he was afraid his mother would hear me and he’d be punished. He pushed the stop button and opened the door. I don’t think he was a bit concerned about me; he only laughed at me for being so stupid as to hide in the dryer.
Maybe I was stupid. Maybe he was a cheat. In any case, it’s an experience I will never forget.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017
The time I played Hide and Seek at Carol’s house during a slumber party—the one where we baked a frozen pizza along with the cardboard packaging it came with (wow, what a smell)—I was small enough to hide on the top shelf of the linen closet. The girls called and called my name until they started to scare themselves with the notion that I had disappeared. When I revealed myself, they marveled that I could have climbed up so high.
But, playing Hide and Seek alone with Peter was a different experience altogether. I like to think that he cheated because he had the most uncanny ability to find me every single time. Maybe that’s unfair, but I was a really good hider so the notion that I was unable to elude him hurt my pride more than a little bit. He found me in the clothes hamper; and between the bookshelf and drapery; and even under the dollhouse table—all really good spots.
I thought I had finally hit upon the perfect no-one-not-even-Peter-can-figure-this-out hiding place when I so, so carefully and quietly eased open the door to the dryer in the basement of his house. I climbed inside and ever so, so carefully and quietly pulled the door until only a tiny crack was left open. As I sat inside curled in a fetal position, I could still hear Peter counting to 30 and decided that because he was so clever, he might notice that the door was not entirely shut. As an extra precaution against being found, I pulled the latch until, click, I heard it shut. I breathed a sigh of relief absolutely positive that he would never find me.
Ba bump, ba bump, went my heart. Were those Peter’s steps I could hear just outside the closed door? I held my breath lest I give myself away. I then heard a definitive turn of a knob somewhere above my head, and, woosh, air entered through the little holes that surrounded me, and thrumb, the drum in which I was sitting tilted forward until I was now upside down, and, clunk, my shoes hit the sides of the interior. I had spun twice around before I started screaming. I’m sure he would have let me continue spinning around in there but I suppose he was afraid his mother would hear me and he’d be punished. He pushed the stop button and opened the door. I don’t think he was a bit concerned about me; he only laughed at me for being so stupid as to hide in the dryer.
Maybe I was stupid. Maybe he was a cheat. In any case, it’s an experience I will never forget.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017
