Adventure Journalism: A Buzz Reporter's Buzzworthy Journey Home

Editor's Note:  We interrupt Beez Waxman's special five part journalistic journey in and around the Economy series to bring you the first part of a nine part narrative series explaining Beez Waxman's absence from this site.

By Beez Waxman

Chapter One:  Captured!

On this grey morning, I was sitting in my grey chair.  As my kitchen clock ticked, I was doing that thing with your eyes where you look straight ahead but bring your eye sight backwards and focus on nothing.  Everything goes fuzzy and then clear in the foreground, like the ants at the beginning of the Lion King.  The lampshade was the ants.  Whenever I do this, I always picture myself drooling a bit… but I never do.  I was waiting for the clock to hit 6:45, then I could head out and catch my bus to the office.  The daily grind.  It was killing me. 

The name’s Waxman.  Beez Waxman.  I’m a journalist.  And before today, I’ve never put the word Adventure in front of it and then capitalized Adventure and Journalist to make it a title rather than a description.

I’ve never done that.  Until today.

My tongue worked a morsel of Reese’s Peanut Butter Puffs cereal from out of a small crevice in a back molar. 6:38.  Chocolatey.  6:38  Peanut Buttery.  6:3-

A rapping interrupted my thought process.   It was at my front door, but I assumed, its attention was not for me, but for my neighbor across the hall.  I ignored the first series of raps, but they were soon followed by a second, louder series. 

“It’s a little early for you to be making all that ruckus,”  I said. 

“And it’s a little early for you to be playing hide and seek; recess is at noon thirty”  Came a gruff voice from the other side of the door.  I turned towards the door, to face my nameless accuser.  The doorknob stared at me, mocking, teasing me- More rapping.

“I think you want Glover, he’s across the hall.” 

“We’re well aware of what door we’re rapping on.  We have a business propisition for you.  One we think you’ll… enjoy.”

The last syllable of his sentence hung in the air between us, as if it had snuck underneath the door to annoy me, echoing back and forth from my forehead to the doorframe.  I considered what their proposition could be, and before I made my first mistake of a very long day, I crossed myself.

As soon as I unlatched the door it was shoved open, knocking me backwards but not off my feet.  No, I didn’t leave my feet until one of my attackers snaked his leg around the back of my ankles and then shoved me in the chest.  This all felt vaguely familiar, in the fifth grade sense.  I was thinking of my old elementary school stomping grounds when a burlap sack was forcibly shoved over my head.  

“Fuck you.”  I said through a burlap filter.  And then the room took a darker shade of black.