Revenge on the Mac

I got a call from Katie Friday concerning our self-destructive apartment. Apparently, what she thought was a routine quest to grab a coffee mug turned hazardous, as the cabinet door that protects our coffeeware from the elements nearly came crashing down in her hands. Upon further inspection, the screws that affix the hinge to the cabinet proved to be too much metal for the particle board that serves as the cabinet wall. Best of luck, apartment maintenance guys – this one’s going to need a full replacement. We’ve started to notice over the last month or so that our brand new apartment, which finished construction some 2 weeks prior to move-in, may have not been built by proper pros.

Certainly you’ve written a paper at some point in your academic career where you spent so much time making it read perfectly, only to realize it is ten minutes to class and you don’t have a conclusion yet. The conclusion you end up turning in? Probably not your finest work. Probably not altogether coherent.

Hopefully legible.

The revelation is this; the finishing touches of our apartment – things that don’t involve walls, ceilings, and floors – may have been put together in those last ten minutes. It’s shoddy craftsmanship at its best. Or expert craftsmanship at its worst. Maybe both. For some things, speed is not an option. If you want a job done right, just take a deep breath and take your time. Don’t believe me? Well then, maybe you’ll believe what my flashback machine has to say. And here we GO!

Time: March, 1998
Location: Orlando, Florida
Event: Senior Class Trip, Disneyworld

There are many fondly-remembered stories that came out of my SHS class’ descent upon the Magic Kingdom – midnight pillow fights, the origins of Jeremiah the Kullfrog, Daytona Joe, and the Lampost from Hell – but these were all stand-alone tales. What I am about to recount was more of a saga – and as my into suggests – the culmination of which required me to take my time and have a steady hand.

During our time in Disneyworld, the origins of the Shawnee Group traveled as a pack throughout the theme parks. In the morning phone calls would be made, schedules would be coordinated, meals would be planned, and days would be set so that we could all enjoy this “educational” voyage together.

Someone was tapping the phone lines.

A fellow student of ours, one Chris MacAleer (Misspelled the surname for Googling anonymity) managed to tag along every single day with our pack, and we’re not quite sure why. Chris wasn’t in our classes; he didn’t talk to us in the halls. Maybe he just liked the clapping rhythm from that Car Wash song we repeated ad nauseam. Regardless, the Group decided that somehow I was the magnetic leak to this whole ordeal. Because of that, my plans for the day had to include some sort of AM evasion – so that the Mac wouldn’t be at our back. My personal favorite? Being forced to get the commuter bus to the Park from a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT RESORT. Whose idea was that anyway?

On the second to last day of our trip, we found ourselves killing time, waiting for a bus that would take us to Splash Mountain. The Mac somehow knew of our plan earlier in the day, for he had packed a suit and towel as well (He probably works for the CIA now.) As we waited, the Group laid out on a grassy Disney embankment. After all, we can relax on our way to relaxing, right?

I, for one, had other plans.

I had to find a way to find revenge on the one who was tracking our every move.

For the Mac had also taken to resting, but over on a park bench, lying on his back. So while my accomplice (name ends in -imothy Fischer) chatted up our mark, I ever-so-slowly slid underneath the bench. You see, the Mac chose to keep his wallet dangling via an odd clip that hung off a belt buckle – and as you may guess – just off the side of the bench.

I’ve never been so cat-like in my life.

Of course, this escapade garnered the attention of the dwellers on the Hill, and remarkably none of them blew it. It may have taken a stellar effort of my accomplice to make 10-15 minutes of small talk, but once it was done, revenge was mine. With moves of a ninja, I had unclipped the wallet, slid out from underneath, and joined the peanut gallery on the hill. Revenge was mine.

(You know thieves that steal things for the thrill of the heist? That was me – we gave back our loot like five minutes later.)

Here’s to hoping that my stealth and precision serves as a lesson for future apartment complex construction firms everywhere. Sometimes you need to not heed the need for speed.

Indeed.