In celebration of their 25th wedding anniversary, my parents decided to take a vacation to Hawaii this year. The conversation where they told me this good news went roughly as follows:
Them: “Son, we’re taking a trip to Hawaii this year! Isn’t that great!”
Me: “Wow, that’s amazing! I can’t wait! I wonder what kind of sunblock I should bring!”
Them: <blank stare>
Me: Becase…I’ll need sunblock. When I go with you guys. To…Hawaii. Right?
Them: <incredulous blank stare>
And so it came to pass that I spent this week house-sitting for my dear old mom and dad, whilst they went off on a tropical getaway of epic proportions. I, lovable and devoted son, who has had nothing but care and affection for them every day of my life, am left here in the foul land of Pittsburgh while they get tans. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
And besides, I’ve had my revenge. Oh, yes, I’ve had my revenge. You see, they seem to neglect that I am a college student, fresh out of my first year, and am completely alone with free reign of the entire house! Bwahahahaha! Rest assured that I have been keeping them updated over the phone every day as to which antique, valuable piece of furniture has been broken and/or set ablaze during the rucous parties hosted here each evening.
Never mind the fact that I haven’t thrown any parties, and the closest that I’ve come to debauchery was when I left out that box of General Tso’s chicken overnight. They don’t need to know that until they get back. It’ll serve them right.
But despite my omnipotent control over the Casa de Jester, I learned tonight that there is a dark side to being alone. Truly, tonight has taught me that with great power, comes great responsibility. This lesson, fittingly enough, came in the shape of a key. More specifically, it came in the shape of the key to my house that I left on the kitchen counter when I went to hang out at my friend’s place.
At roughly 1900 hours this evening, while enjoying a mellow session of talking with friends, I happened to reach into my pocket and notice a distinct lack of keys there. Keys are usually necessary for entrance into a house, so this was a problem. No worries, I thought. I’ll just call my parents and have them leave the door unlocked.
And then I heard it. From far off, a faint sound reached my ears. It was the sound of two glasses, filled with tropical fruit drinks, clinking together on a sandy beach thousands of miles away, as my parents enjoyed their vacation. In short, I was screwed.
The other two Pittsburghers who have keys to my house are my sister and grandmother. They are, as of tonight, in Harrsionburg PA and Ligonier PA, respectively, putting them completely out of reach. In short, I was incredibly screwed.
Always there for me in a pinch, my friends sprung to my rescue. In no time at all we had come up with a stunningly original and foolproof plan. Our only option, obviously, was to break into my house.
That plan had some grounding in intelligence: it’s not illegal if it’s my house, and the window to my bathroom is both never locked and not blocked by a screen.
Anything resembling intelligent reasoning abruptly ends there, though, when you consider the fact that my neighbors wouldn’t know it was me whilst calling the cops, and that my bathroom is on the third floor of the house. Never ones to be daunted by logic, we sprang into action.
Truly, a more ideal team of ciminals had never been assembled. Jester, the fearless and slightly idealistic leader, Rob, the quiet right-hand man, Kevin, the brainy cynical one, Sean, the gung-ho powerhouse, and Dean, the wild card. We may not be what you’d call a crack team of troops, but we were certainly cracked.
Rolling up in our Pimpin Hott Ride (Sean’s silver 1995 Lincoln towncar), we assessed the situation. My house is fairly well-tiered, with each floor having its own section of flat, exposed roof, so that it looks like a set of building blocks stacked up. This would make it, in our estimation, a sinch to scramble up to my bathroom window, thus gaining entry and completing our mission.
Sean laid down a suble, a capella techno beat as I clambered my way up onto the roof of the back porch. (No spy mission, after all, is complete without music.) Once up, it was one floor down, two to go. I was feeling good, and the neighbors hadn’t made a peep. At this point I encountered my next obstacle: namely the 12-foot high span of wall between the roof I stood on and the roof of the second story. All, it seemed, was lost.
Just as we had managed to work out a crude plan involving a ladder, duct tape, and a flying monkey, though, hope came from an unexpected place. On closer inspection of the premesis, Rob had located and isolated a piece of information that would be vital to the success of our mission.
That piece of information was as follows: the front door, it seems, was unlocked.
Mission accomplished. That’s why Rob’s my right-hand man. You need people around to do these things for you when you’re too occupied thinking about how much you’d rather be in Hawaii at the moment.
