The amount of times I look back and reflect on something with the echoing phrase "how the hell did I get away with that" is truly daunting. The Greenland thing is another prime example, but this one happened before I could use any excuse like "well, I was drunk at the time..."
Everyone goes through a phase of rebellion in their youth, but I had a slight disadvantage; I had nothing to rebel against. My parents were cool people, and approached everything with reason and common sense, and were both loving and supportive. I had friends in most of the cliques; goth, jock, nerd, and even some teachers, all of them being very kind and drama-free. I had a good home life, had fun on weekends, and worked a part-time job, so I wasn't constantly out of funds. Life was pretty good.
And in that way, I was truly screwed.
You see, when everything is going just okay, and you have this desire to rage against the machine, you have to get a little creative. My reality was content, so that's what I chose to rebel against: reality, itself.
I sought to create my own reality through minor acts of absurdity, most of which took place during the classes I skipped (although still managing to maintain a graduating GPA). The local coffee shop I frequented once dared one of my friends to chug a bottle of coffee flavoring syrup, which we turned into a documentary (and I still have, if anyone's curious)... I once skipped my second class of the day so I could go downtown and walk back to my third class and bring everyone pizza SPECIFICALLY because the student teacher in that class was lactose intolerant (he once made fun of me for having a migraine, he was a jerk)... And there was this one time I orchestrated a heist to steal the couch from the teachers lounge, ransomed it back, and managed to get the entire thing in the school paper.
This is that story.
Rather than write a new story, I'm going to tell it, exactly as it was written on our school's website. The following has been directly copied from what I wrote in 2008, with only alterations being made to protect the anonymity of those involved in this felonious endeavor:
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"The thought is put in our heads when our brain is tender that stealing is wrong, even though Robin Hood was best known for his clever act of theft, then returning the profits to the poor. So, simultaneously, when we are young, the thought of stealing is abhorred and praised, with the only determining factor being the intent of what's to be done with the stolen goods. Enter our English teacher, Mr. D.
Can you feel the evil from his name? The hate he has for all manner of life? The sheer malevolent will that hides behind a goatee and purple lanyard? If you've never dealt with him, this is Mr. D.: Journalism/News Production/Yearbook guru, AP lit teacher, and part-time super-villain. What makes this man so evil?
He took the couch.
No, that's all. He took the couch. If you've been in Mr. D's home room, you'd know the couch I speak of. A beautiful bastion of faculty and student alike; a veritable oasis in the midst of a stress-filled school environment, this couch was the one place that let you put your feet up and escape from all your worldly troubles, if even for a minute or two. This was heaven, nirvana, and Valhalla all rolled into one. This was the tree house you had as a child, the bike you rode, your first car, and all those evenings you spent with friends; it was freedom! Now, let me once again state, and hope you further feel the impact of it:
He.
Took.
The.
COUCH!
What was the excuse offered to the masses who were wholly unsuspecting of the disappearance of their favorite piece of furniture? Conjure any excuse you like, for none was given. Students were left to deal with this shock only knowing that the couch was gone, never knowing how or why. Writhing in agony, many students accepted the fact after a long, enduring detox period that the couch was gone, and there was nothing they could do about it. The couch had been moved to the teacher's lounge in room 201 upstairs, and no students had access to it.
This was all foiled by a conversation that started in Mrs. G's forensic science class, 6th block, between Dylan and myself.
The conversation wasn't long, nor was there a lot of content or thought involved, but it contained the most important phrase uttered in our story. Mrs. G lectured about toxicology and the effects of tannic acid on a body, the girls in front of me were sharing a bag of “flamin' hot cheetos,” and somewhere, a paper air-plane soared gallantly above our heads. I, brooding on the couch issue, turned around in my chair to face Dylan. I drew a breath, and muttered
“I'm going to steal that couch.”
Mrs. G yelled “Chef, be quiet!” Later, I missed the tannic acid question on a test. That was the only ripple to come of that moment, as the thoughts of “Mission Impossible: Couch Theft” subsided and gave way to more pressing and urgent matters. One week later, after taking the toxicology test in forensics on April 16th, Dylan and I retired to the back tables to work on an assignment. Needless to say, not one question on the sheet provided was answered on that day. We had business to conduct. Dylan and I spent the rest of the long, long class period musing on the idea of stealing the couch: how could it be done? Who would help? Who would drive the get-away truck? When could we do this? Questions swarmed, as the complications took much more of a toll from the excitement that we had hoped. We hashed out a list of possibilities, and kept it for later.
Next week, on April 21st, I walked into D's “Grammar for Writers” class. I'm not a student in that class, nor am I his aide that period. I sat down next to a friend of mine, Kelsey, and started once again on the subject of the couch. Feeding into one another's frustration and anger, we both became semi-irate. I walked up to Mr. D's desk, sat on the table adjacent, and told him plainly and calmly, “Give us the couch back.” He looked up from his pile of AP Lit papers, took a drink of his coffee, and then laughed until he hurt. The threatening look I gave him must have been what pushed him to hysterics, but his point had been made, even without the use of any coherent words: we weren't getting that couch back.
8:21AM on Tuesday, April 21st, I walked out. I walked into the stairwell on the North side of the building, and flipped open my phone, revealing a picture of my cat, George. I had to call someone! There had to be a way of getting this couch back into our possession! I opened the “contact list” directory of my phone, and third down from the top was my friend, 19-year-old Dustin [ed: Sous Chef Shellacked]. Still picturing Mr. D laughing, I feverishly dialed the number, and watched the picture fade from my cat to a picture of Dustin with a lamp-shade on his head (his caller I.D. Picture). There was no answer. I called again. No answer. Again, again, again, no answer, no answer, no answer. Dustin was the only one who could help, so I did the worst thing a friend could do: I called the house phone, and Robert, his grandpa, picked up. Not wanting to be malicious (lest I become that which I seek to conquer, MR. D) and wake my friend up from deep sleep, I asked Bob to let Dustin know I called when he woke up. Bob would have none of it. He set the phone down and forced Dustin to open his eyes and come to the phone. Though any other time I would not condone such heinous acts of sleepus interruptus, it was for the best cause possible: revenge.
The phone, I could tell, lulled in Dustin's hand as he tried with a staggering amount of effort to remain conscious and vertical. I explained to him the story of the couch thus far, and told him that I didn't have a plan, but I needed him and his pickup truck at our school at 11:45AM.
After explaining a little more, and ensuring he'd remember it when he actually woke up, we ended the conversation. I walked back into Mr. D's room, and sat on the table I had sat on before, and stared at him until he looked up from his papers. I smiled, laughed, and went back to talk to Kelsey. She kept insisting that I was up to something. I just laughed, and picked up my things and made my way once again for forensic science.
Half-way into the period, after Mrs. G had settled down into her chair to do some grading, I told Dylan that we were going to have access to a get-away truck. Immediately, we both started thinking of all the possible complications that could happen. We pondered many things, such as where the truck should be idling, what excuse we would use if we were caught, and who would lift while the others ran ahead to secure the doors. Dylan asked to borrow a piece of paper, and began drawing a map. [ed: you can see this below]
The original plan was to grab the couch, and move it towards the student parking lot, where we would have Dustin's truck idling right outside the band room doors. As soon as the foundation for these plans were laid, cracks began to form. There were too many cameras along that way, and too many classrooms to walk by. Plus, we'd have to walk by the main hide-out of hall monitors J and B. Lastly, it was really far away. Much further than it needed to be. (This spot is noted on the map in the lower right portion. It's a circle with the word “NO!” above it, and the circle being crossed out.)
Where there is a will, there is a way. And where there are people desperate for a couch, havoc will be wrought, and the carnage left behind will be impressive, to say the least. Dylan, re-examining the map, found a new extraction point: the faculty parking lot, out by the 400-building. We worked out the theoretical problems with this tactic, and it seemed to be the most plausible of all solutions conceived. At 9:57AM, I took the bathroom pass, and stood in the same stairwell I had stood in earlier that day, and called Dustin's cell phone. Much to my dismay, he was awake, and picked up.
I updated Dustin as to the current plan. He was to park and idle the truck right outside the doors in the faculty parking lot. The couch would be placed in the back, secured, and I would jump in the shotgun position, and take off with him. It seemed flawless. He agreed. We hung up, I went back to class, and waited out the rest of a very long class. Lunch, as well, seemed long. It was painful. Callie, Kelsey, Dylan, David and I all sat at a table in Mr. D's room, trying to make time go by faster. Occasionally, we would all pour over the map that Dylan drew during forensics, and try to keep it a secret from Mr. D, who was still in the room. An hour went by, and we all walked over to the journalism room (which you can see in the lower-left portion of the map.) After waiting for Mr. D to be distracted, we left the room at 11:32AM, and walked upstairs to room 201.
The door was unlocked, and only one person was in the room. Dylan and I cleared the couch, which was in the far corner of the work-room, of all papers and binders. We felt for a good grip on it, and hoisted it. The one person in the room asked us if we had the authority to move the couch. I replied we were just taking it back to journalism, where it rightfully belongs. Without any further questions, we made our way out the door (very carefully) and into the upstairs main hallway. The couch was semi-heavy, and we beckoned for David's assistance in lifting it, while Callie and Kelsey ran ahead to make sure there were no people, and hold doors open. David declined, and ran off, saying he did not want to get in trouble. [ed: if you're reading this, I still haven't forgiven you]
We picked up pace down the hallway, and eventually came to the top of the stairs. Callie held the door open while Dylan and I maneuvered the couch as gracefully as possible through the narrow doorway, and glided (almost TOO fast on one occasion) down the stairway. Kelsey was waiting at the bottom, holding the door open. As soon as we made it into the parking lot, I asked her to grab my gear from the journalism room, where I had forgotten it. Kelsey took off running as Dustin whipped into the parking lot, threw the engine in neutral, and jumped out. He opened the tailgate, and we pushed the couch into the bed of the truck. Dylan locked it in, and I faced towards the school. Dustin yelled “Aren't you coming?” I turned around for a moment and yelled back “Meet me out front by the cross-walk.”
Dylan, Callie and I all took off running down the main hall. Kelsey was running towards us, with my backpack in hand. She gave it to me. I threw a quick wave to everyone in the vicinity, including the people in the office who looked quite bewildered by the kids running through the hall, and once again started running. Dustin pulled up to the cross-walk, and I jumped in the passenger seat.
Once home, we unloaded the couch into my garage. Dustin took the truck back to his house, conveniently located three doors down, and ran back over to my house. We closed the door, and I grabbed my camera. [ed: seen below]"
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And that's where the story ended as written. I sent pictures of the couch to Mr. D periodically, and it became evident that there was no way he was going to get it back. Or wanted it back. He had passed it on.
Through more conversation, I had found out that this couch was purchased used in the 80's by Mr. D when HE was in college. It was his couch in his dorm (which, in hindsight, explained a few things). He had brought that with him through his life, and eventually, it wound up at his job as a teacher. And despite my comical tone in what I wrote, Mr. D had always been my favorite teacher, and someone I looked up to in both a professional and personal way.
The couch became a semi-permanent fixture in my bedroom for a long time. Whenever there were gatherings, that couch was there. It was used and lived on and had a good life. I'm sure that couch, by the time of it's expiration, had experienced more life than some people ever do.
Being who I am a decade later, I should throw out some disclaimers that contradict the story and spirit of this article:
1. Stay in school
2. Do your homework
3. Don't steal
4. Respect your elders
5. Febreeze doesn't work against 30 years of funk
Criminal Masterminds, myself (left) and Dylan (right)
The map
In the act of GTC (grand theft couch)
The Couch (capital C)
