To date, I’ve been tied to some sort of sitting apparatus a total of sixty-four times.

The particulars vary with each situation- someone wanting to use you as an informant type will likely use a nylon based rope tied to a chair with arm rests that sits directly under a dim light source with a swinging capability that can be used for dramatic effect during interrogation. If you are merely being tied for detaining purposes, you’ll usually find yourself with a hemp-based rope, tied in a hog-knot fashion to insure that the legs are as immobile as possible to prevent any fleeing attempt. If you are being transported from hideout to hideout, you’ll most likely have only your arms tied at the wrist but will deal with some sort of blindfold and muzzling technique to prevent you from being able to A) know where you are being taken or B) offer directions when the numbskulls obviously get lost.

Brutus was fired by my father for “insubordinate behavior” a year and a half previous to this unpleasant encounter. I never got the particulars of his termination, but was secretly joyous that he got the heave ho.

See, Brutus didn’t have the most sprinkles on his cup cake. Lacked a few checkers on the checkerboard. And to top it off, was duller than a spoon made for the toothless. I never understood why Daddy entrusted some of the paper’s most important tasks to him.

Daddy was never one for creating the eye-catching, he was more of a content man. “Just get them to read the story,” he’d yell from his leather chair, heels propped in their usual crossed manner on his mahogany desk. “You grab their eyes and I’ll grab their minds!”

Brutus would struggle for hours trying to come up with headlines and fail miserably. He would slap his sweaty brow, sending a halo of moisture drifting to his ink-stained desk. “Think Brutus think!” he’d spittle while gnawing on the nub of a softened pencil. Perhaps he believed that the ingestion of the lead-riddled utensil would make him a better writer.

I would take pity on him and offer my assistance.

I was a whiz with the headlines, even then. The proof is in the pudding:

Tons Terrified By Titanic’s Toll. Simple, serious, to the point without slighting the horrible loss of human life.

Underwood Act Is A Real ‘Payne’ For Republicans for the passage of Wilson’s 1913 Underwood Tariff Act.

Future of Twain Abode Bodes Well led readers to a wonderful article about the wordsmith’s childhood home being saved from certain destruction.

New Home-a For Arizona welcomed our country’s 48th state.

Trolley Folly? Commuters Say ‘Golly!’ my personal favorite, referring to the 1914 Western Penn trolley strike.

All got the big, bold honor of gracing the front page.

“Dennison, you’ve done it again,” Daddy would exclaim. “A real gem, this one.” He would pat Brutus on the back, wipe his hand on the seam of his trousers, then lead Brutus away for a celebratory Scotch.

“It just comes naturally,” Brutus would shrug, shooting a wet, squinty wink in my direction.

I hated him. I hated that Daddy liked him. I hated that I did not have the guts to demand my own pat on the back. I hated Brutus Dennison.

But I hated him more than ever when he said, “Mildred. Get the rope and meet me by the glen.”

He forced my head to meet his gaze. “Time to create headlines, little Molly Sloan. Just like old times! Now… lets see… what rhymes with ‘ransom note’? ”

Brutus Dennison!

“That’s right, little Molly Sloan,” Brutus sneered. “It’s your dear old Uncle Brute.” He chuckled slightly. His chin jiggled and dripped with sweat onto my favorite knickers. I gritted my teeth, flexing my tiny jaw.

“Aw. So glad to see you remember me. I’m touched. I truly am.” Each consonant misted my brow. Brutus Dennison had a horrible lisp. A lisp and a sweat disorder; the man was like a living, breathing sponge.

Brutus had been my father’s assistant at the paper for some time. I never liked him. When we were between nannies Daddy often left me in Brutus’ care. He would offer me lint-covered mints from his pocket as a bribe to stay out of his way. I would take them with faux politeness and discard them later in various potted plants that decorated the office lobby. Then I would slip off to some section of the paper and spend my time flipping through thesauruses, rhyming dictionaries and comic books hidden amongst the reference files and chocolate bars of some of Daddy’s interns.

“She’s a damn brat,” slurred Mildred. “You didn’t tell me what a damn brat she was. I think that you owe me more than 15 damn percent for putting up with her damn bratty antics. Damn it.”

“Shut that foul mouth of yours, Milly,” Brutus spat. “You’re lucky that you’re even getting a cut.”

The smoke from Mr. Oldfield’s cigar drifted into the back of the town car. “It’s a damn beautiful day for a stroll in the park,” he shouted from his position behind the wheel. “Children need a good airing out now and then. Good for their growth. Well being. What not, you know.” The words that escaped from his mouth mingled with the smoke leaking from his lips.

Mildred barely batted an eye. She was staring out the window at cars going by, her eyes glazed heavier than a Krispy Kreme. Mr. Oldfield did not seem to notice and continued with his conversation.

“I was telling the last girl that she needed to take the young miss out more. Not natural. Little girl being cooped up in a big old house like that. My boy, hell. He goes outside every day. Strong, sturdy boy. Fast, too. Just like his Pappa.” He whistled, a talent I always admired him for as he could produce a perfect pitch while his lips were wrapped around one of his stubby cigars.

“Yep. Beautiful day for the park. Just gorgeous.” The conversation petered out as he pulled into a small glen and placed the car in park. He twisted his head around to face us and adjusted his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth. “Well here we are.”

Mildred opened her car door and scanned the landscape. Once she seemed pleased with our location, she said, “Come, Miss Sloan. Time to play in the park.”

Mr. Oldfield smiled a kind, yellow-toothed smile at me as he exhaled. “Go on now, Miss Sloan. Go breathe in some of that wonderful, fresh air“

As I slid across the seat towards Mildred’s extended hand, an uneasiness came over me. “Thank you Mr. Oldfield. I will.” He nodded and I watched as he drove away, smoke mixed with the clouds of dirt kicked up by the town car’s tires.

Mildred looked down at me and tightened her grip. “It’s just you and I now, Miss Sloan. Let’s play a game. Oh, I know the perfect one to start with. It’s called ‘How Much Does Your Daddy Love You.’”

I swallowed. “I’m not sure I know how to play that game, Miss Mildred.”

“It’s very simple,” a voice from behind answered. Before I could turn to see the owner, a heavy hand was placed over my mouth. “Rule number one is ‘No screaming from little girls.’ Especially little girls named Molly Sloan.”

‘Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.’ I learned that one from founding father Benjamin Franklin. ‘Beware of the drunken Nanny that wants to take you to the park.’ I learned that one from Mildred the Horrible.

I was no dumb kid, see. I knew that Mildred was a bedroom sheet set to the wind and was in no state to supervise any sort of activity. But the park- Central Park! And it was the fall time, to boot. Orange and purple and auburn leaves- not a primary color would be in sight!

I was a sucker for the autumnal equinox, even then.

If only I had known that Mildred had other plans in store. It seems Mildred was less interested in the orange and purple and auburn colors of the foliage. She had another color in mind- green. A kind of green that you don’t find growing on trees.

When I was about 8 years old, I had a nanny named Mildred. Mildred was the fourteenth nanny I had in my young life, replacing a young Irish woman named Eileen who lasted a mere two weeks. It seems that the classic Sloan stubbornness raised its bullish head early in my childhood years. Apparently I was quite a handful, but who could blame me? I was a young motherless child, hungry to know more about the world, to know what boundaries there were to cross.

Mildred, however, seemed more interested in how I would get grass stains on my romper. She poorly masked her delight as she’d pull my French braids so tight that my eyebrows practically reached my hairline. Secretly, I hated her, but I had promised Daddy that I would try to keep this nanny until Christmas (with a pair of Mother’s pearl earrings thrown in as an extra bartering chip.)

One particular afternoon Mildred seemed to have more of a sensitive streak. Perhaps it was the smell of schnapps on her breath that attributed to this unfamiliar tenderness. She let me wear my favorite pair of paisley knickers. My hair was released from its abominable knots. “We’re going to the park!” Mildred exclaimed, albeit a little slurred.