I am still unsure how Bryson trapped himself with a plastic bag from Borders, but he was indeed securely handcuffed in such a way as to meet CIA standards for transport to Gitmo (as in “Can it Gitmo ridiculous than a boy locked in a bag?”)

We had just purchased a few books at the Borders Express in Sunvalley Mall, the usual sprawling complex of hot pretzels and overpriced fashions, this one in Concord, California, where we were visiting his grandmom and granddad. Once the purchase was made (two books, one a hardcover), I handed Bryson the bag, as he had carried such bags in the past without injury or incident. In fact, his track record for carrying bags was nearly flawless save for that time he dropped his cherry snow cone in among his new clothes because he wanted to save it for later. But that was when he was 5. Now he was 11, his bag-carrying skills at an all-time high.

So firm was my belief in his abilities, I took my eyes off of him for several minutes, so firm was my belief that when I again turned to him, both he and the bag would not only be there, but in a decent, non-threatening condition.

Such haughty actions were quickly punished.

“Dad, I’m stuck.”

Hmm, that voice came from very near, and it sounded like my son. But how could it possibly be him? Stuck? No, because we are outside of Hot Topic, where there is absolutely nothing that could trap a young boy other than the fashion display that whispers, “Hey, little man, come inside for the dose of coolness you’ll never get hanging around your dad.”

“You’re what?” I turned to him. Everything seemed just fine. Bryson, check. No trenchcoat-wearing strangers, check. Bag with books, check.

Plastic wrapped tightly around wrists with fingers turning blood-red, that admittedly seemed to be a problem.

Each of the bag’s handles dug into the flesh of Bryson’s wrists, his arms pinned together at the point of the restraints. Was this a sign we had all become handcuffed by our own wants in a society that emphasizes things over our own humanity? Or was this a kid who had somehow tied himself up with a book bag?

Let’s go with the latter.

“Bryson, what …? How …? I don’t even …”

He struggled against the plastic, wriggling his hands. The bag refused to give.

“I don’t know, I was just doing stuff and now I can’t get out,” he said.

“But what exactly were you doing?” I said. “Because this really took some effort.”

At this point it was difficult to take seriously. My son has been trapped by plastic, outwitted by a book bag. Inanimate object 1, straight-A student 0.

He struggled some more, trying to pull his arms apart. The plastic showed no sign of weakness.

A few shoppers slowed as they passed, gazing at the boy ensnared by a common mall container. Several looked at me with a “Aren’t you going to help him?” look, quickly judging by parental skills. A few merely smiled.

But others looked at me rather wistfully, as if dreaming of the day they too would be able to restrain their children with such a simple device.

I inspected his predicament a little closer. The plastic clearly was embedded into the area where small bones made up the wrist area. No way was he going to slip these bonds. We had to devise a more clever escape, something very Houdini-like in its nature to confound the bag and render useless its evil plan.

“Just twist your wrists and pull them apart,” I said. “It’s just plastic.”

Plastic, indeed. This was some sort of demon-infused plastic that refused to surrender to the writhing of small wrists. Not a millimeter did it give.

“I’ve been trying that and I can’t move,” Bryson said. “It’s starting to hurt.”

The beet-red glow moved from fingers to the lower part of the hands. Drastic measures must be taken. My fatherly instincts took over.

I pulled out my camera.

“Don’t even try!” Bryson said. “I can’t even believe you!”

He darted away, walking as fast as a boy attempting to hide he was handcuffed by a bag in a mall could. I caught up to him less than a minute later as he leaned against a gleaming marble wall of the Macy’s.

I snapped the photo, looked at the LCD screen. Dang, no flash. I called up the menu, switched on the flash and shot again. Perfect.

“Fine, are you happy now?” Bryson said. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey, remember that time Ryan got his finger stuck in the bowling ball?” I said. True story. Ryan, 7 at the time, actually got his finger stuck in a bowling ball. How does that happen? A manager used soap from the men’s room to extract it. “Remember how funny we all thought it was? Well, except for Ryan, who couldn’t stop … OK, look, let’s get this thing off of you.”

I bent down and he turned toward the wall.

“Just leave me alone,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”

“If you could do it yourself, you would have already done it. Just let me look.”

It was like those Chinese fingercuffs. I searched for a clue, a part of the bag that might release its grip allowing me to unravel the rest. But it looked impenetrable.

“Just how did this happen?” I said. “Because then we can reverse what you did and get you out.”

“I don’t remember. I was just twisting it and stuff and flipped it up. Now I can’t move it.”

“So you were flipping it? Which way?”

“I think I sort of flipped it like this.” He swung his arms outward.

“So if we flip the bag backward we should be able to get this off you.”

I pushed the bag toward the narrow slot between Bryson’s arms. He pulled away.

“That hurts,” he said. “It won’t go that way.”

I looked inside the Macy’s. The woman at the cosmetic counter looked back. I balanced the possible solutions.

One, continue to struggle hoping we would find the plastic’s weakest point and bring it to its knees.

Two, ask the cosmetics lady for scissors, resulting in sympathy I neither wanted nor needed from a woman in a white smock.

Three, pretend everything is fine because a plastic bag can’t cause irreversible harm. Can it?

I went with four: Tear the damn bag. I ripped it open at the seams, the bag giving up its contents with one quick pull. Suddenly it wasn’t so tough.

Without the weight of the books, Bryson quickly untied himself. Normal color soon returned to his hands.

But now I was stuck carrying the books without a bag, walking around the mall looking like a shoplifter. Perhaps the bag won after all.