Sleepy little Millinocket may never be the same

OK, so Alfred Hitchcock wasn’t sitting in a canvas chair shouting directions to a production crew making a suspense movie. The light, for the most part, was provided by natural daylight, and the cameras, if there were any present, were concealed in pants, pockets and purses. Nevertheless, there was plenty of action.

The action, according to the newspaper, wasn’t limited to the town of Millinocket, Maine. It was taking place simultaneously all over the United States in cities such as Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Philadelphia and Detroit. But occur in sleepy Millinocket it certainly did. I know because I was there. The puzzle pieces fell into place on that day: Wednesday, Aug. 29, 2007. My cousin Jane and her daughter Sarah were having a brief vacation that week, and it was the only day I could connect with them in Jane’s hometown. I placed my traveling companion, my black-and-white dog, Lucy, in the car and drove two hours through the beautiful Maine woods.

When I arrived in Millinocket, the traffic was diverted from the downtown area. Suspecting an accident or a fire, I grumbled a bit to Lucy but took the designated alternate route into town. Millinocket, not unlike the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz, appears suddenly after that trip through the woods. A traveler to Millinocket cannot help feeling a bit like Dorothy, her dog, Toto, and their three friends, as he-she approaches the quiet town lying at the foot of majestic Mount Katahdin. That’s perhaps why Millinocket is nicknamed the Magic City.

Jane was not in my late aunt’s house when I arrived, but Sarah was. I inquired for her mother. “She went into town to recycle some bottles but hasn’t returned yet. That was almost two hours ago.”

I tried to reassure Sarah by suggesting her mother may have encountered old friends and become involved in chatting sessions. We waited another half-hour. Then even I became concerned and encouraged Sarah to use the neighbor’s phone, (the house telephone had been disconnected) to call her mother on the cell phone that Jane carried with her. Sarah did so. Jane didn’t answer despite a repeated ringing. Another half-hour passed. No Jane.

“Come on, Sarah, we’re going to the police station to see if we can find out what happened.” I was on the verge of filing a missing-persons report, something I had seen only on a TV crime show.

We were told that Millinocket was “locked down” because of a hostage event at the local supermarket but that the situation was “nearly over now.” Names of customer-hostages had been provided but, for some unknown reason, Jane’s name was not on the list, and her car wasn’t on the impounded car roster. Now we were truly confused. We drove home to find Jane had walked home from the supermarket parking lot. Still unclear why her name was unlisted, she began unfolding her hostage story.

And, yes, it did entail reports of having to sit on the cold tile floor of the supermarket with occasional permission to use the restroom by crawling on one’s hands and knees: “You must not stand up in case you’re seen from outside.” The store management provided the hostages with copies of the daily newspaper and magazines. Jane used her newspaper as a cushion against the cold floor. Almost three hours later, in a single file and holding up their hands with fingers pointing to the sky, they were permitted to vacate the grocery store.

A tactical squad, dressed in full armor and protective headgear, monitored their movements by carrying firearms. Until this point Jane had not feared for her safety. Only then did she realize the potential danger of the lockdown, which turned out to be a telephone hoax with no suspect apprehended.

Jane arrived home minus her car keys, her purse or her car, items that were, however, acquired later that afternoon.

Sleepy little Millinocket may never be the same. And the one child among the hostages, a little boy grocery shopping with his mother, has a lifetime of stories for his future family. Any subsequent TV crime episodes he watches will, by comparison, always be rather dull and bear the stigma of fiction.

Ralph Pettie is a resident of Blue Hill.