That Time I Was Almost Kidnapped
a true Y2K story
In 1999 I was working at Symcor Services—today just called Symcor—a ‘financial services’ company housed in a disgustingly overlit building on Front Street, in Toronto. My official title was ‘fraud investigator’, which sounds fancier than it was. In reality I was just another dipshit temp with an endlessly extended contract that kept me employed but exempt from health insurance and a decent wage. My job was to uncover instances of people defrauding their banks through various schemes. One of these involved depositing an empty envelope into an ATM while claiming it contained a cheque. I was begrudgingly good at my job, but enthusiastic about the methods for bank fraud I was learning.
This was my last straight job.
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? premiered in 1999 and quickly became popular. I worked the night shift—7PM to 3AM. Ninety percent of my co-workers were Filipino, which meant that by the time I finished work I’d been force-fed a shit ton of pan de coco by women who thought—not incorrectly—that I was too thin. I shared my cubicle cluster with Carmelita and Rosaflor, both inveterate gamblers who named the office pool they ran Who Wants to Be Hundrednaire? I put in five bucks every night, but never once won.
Symcor had an arcade in the basement next to the cafeteria. This is where I spent most of my time, spending basically what I was earning on NBA Jam and Street Fighter. My boss, Andrew, had bullied me during high school. He seemed bummed to recognize on my first day. I wasn’t sure if it was because he felt guilty, or whether he was disappointed Symcor had no lockers to shove me into. Any fear I had about being caught spending my shifts playing video games evaporated when I realized he was my competition for high score on NBA Jam. I was surprised he’d entered his actual name, ANDREWRICH. I just entered ASSBOY.
Y2K was a big deal at Symcor, which ran entirely on computers. I was 25 that year, so not smart, but I was smart enough to recognize that the Y2K fear was silly. We had a million contingencies in place should something drastic happen, including hundreds of candles—oddly rose-scented—that were stinking up the office supplies storage room. At 11:55 on December 31st, while everyone sat anxiously at their desks, I prepared to leave work early. I had viable excuses ready, but figured that once midnight passed uneventfully the office would collapse into an orgy of relief, and Andrew would be in the parking lot smoking a joint—just like he was in high school—unconcerned with checking attendance.
I snuck out without being noticed. Minutes later, out on Front Street, fuck all happened. The lights stayed on. Traffic lights turned red, yellow, and green. The streetcar made its turn onto York Street smoothly. Back inside Symcor, Carmelita would be calling out the night’s numbers, and the winner of the pot would again be Filipino. All was right in the world. I began the five block walk to the bus stop on Spadina. This part of Toronto was dead during weeknights, but busy on weekends when suits from the suburbs came into the city to go clubbing. December 31st was a Friday, so asshats in Axe body spray were jockeying for parking spots while yelling ‘fag’ at any man holding a book. I’d learned to leave my books in my desk.
Once I reached Simcoe Street, the noise died down. Condominiums were being built on the north and south sides of Front Street. The block was all portable toilets and construction materials. Walking toward Spadina, I heard what sounded like mumbling behind me.
I turned around. A black 1985 Chevrolet Monte Carlo without its headlights on was right behind me, moving as slowly as I was walking. A woman’s head was halfway out the window, trying to get my attention.
“Hey mister,” she said, her eyes bulging, pupils like black saucers. “Come here, we need some help.”
