Papier-Mâché Peter
"The End..."
On February 12th, 2014, our beloved son Peter Switzerland Jr. disappeared without a trace.
At first, it seemed like another crushingly normal Wednesday in the small town of New Manatee, Massachusetts. The top "breaking news" story was unseasonably warm weather — which, in New England, only amounted to temperatures slightly above freezing.
Peter Junior, an above-average student with adequate social skills and a singing voice that had earned him the nickname "God's Mouthpiece," arrived at Manatee Elementary on time and attended his classes without issue. In subsequent interviews, schoolmates and faculty all maintained nothing about Peter’s behavior that day seemed unusual or out of character.
Little Pete was wearing the oversized, "Best Dad Ever" polo I’d received for Father’s Day a few years prior, but that was a common occurrence on 'Wacky Shirt Wednesdays' — a district-wide tradition dating all the way back to the town's very first schoolhouse, a single-room structure built nearly a decade before the American War of Independence erupted.
(British troops later burned the original school to the ground, just four days after Parliament declared the colony of Massachusetts to be in active rebellion. Rumors circulated suggesting nine or more people were inside the schoolhouse when the Redcoats set it ablaze, but no fatalities were ever officially recorded.)
Peter enjoyed wearing this particular top because he was clearly too young to be the "Best Dad Ever" — or any sort of dad, for that matter. “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?” he used to say. It was really obnoxious, to be honest. Spouting off his dumb catchphrase while wearing Dad's goofy polo and smirking like a bona fide sapskull.
Still, I would give absolutely anything to relive those Wacky Shirt Wednesdays with my winsome child and sole heir to the Switzerland family fortune. At the very least, I’d like my shirt back.
The last time any witnesses recalled catching a glimpse of Pete Junior was in Home Economics class near the end of the school day. He reportedly baked a small batch of snickerdoodle cookies. His teacher, Miss Gazpacho, later claimed the cookies were flavorful if a bit dry. Perhaps he overmixed the dough.
After the final bell rang, Peter was expected to board his assigned school bus and reach the Switzerland family household around 4:20pm. On this day, however, he never made it onto that bus.
4:20 passed with no sign of Peter at the Switzerland home. Then 5:20, and 6:20. Even 7:20. I'm not going to discuss 8:20.
We skipped dinner that evening as our initial confusion and concern rose to a boil.
A flurry of frantic phone calls followed, but they bore no fruit. We were frightened and juiceless.
So, we set out on a desperate race, by 1997 Ford Fiesta and by foot, to scour all of Pete’s favorite haunts. Hall of Heroes, the tiny Midtown comic book shop that smelled like grandmothers. His classmate Millie Bobby Brown's weird basement with the blacklights and expensive karaoke system and working Skee-Ball machine. The creepy, neglected cornfield behind Lyle Pritchett’s freshly rusted Winnebago. The back alley next to Small Tony’s House of Infinite Pizza where our young son would meet up with a group of Vietnam War veterans for their biweekly dice game.
Nothing.
We were hopeful after the police joined the search. But still... no clues, no breadcrumbs, no solid leads. They didn’t even have any shaky ones.
Our beautiful boy had vanished, and no one ever saw him again.
To be continued in Papier-Mâché Peter - Part 2: "The Beginning..."