D'ohs and Do-nuts
by MPTGraves
It was the Sunday of a dreary 3-day weekend in Searcy, AR. It was the fall semester of 2003, and the student body of Harding University, never failing to perform a mass exodus from the desolation of the legislatively dry White County, had left campus all but deserted, and I was alone in my dorm room. I dragged myself out of bed by some suitably late hour of the midmorning and foggily stumbled downstairs to suite 124, where my boon companions, Patrick and Kevin, dwelt. Kevy was out of town and I was hoping to roust Patty for brunch before spending the day hanging around their room surfing the internet or playing counter-strike. Being the fun-loving college pranksters that we were, it was always with the utmost care that the three of us approached one another, even in the common collegiate state of hazy half-sleep, and we were ever watchful for an opportunity to make mischief in a long-standing game of one-upmanship that had been merrily raging, by that time, for a couple of years. Soundlessly entering the (surprisingly unlocked) suite I found it empty, the lights out, and Patrick’s bedroom door closed. Andy and Joe, the suitemates, were both out of town, their bedroom door open and the lights out. Smirking, I turned away and gently crept past the bathroom and sink to Patrick and Kevin’s door.
The floor plan (pictured below) of the suites and bedrooms in Cone Hall was fairly Spartan. Each room was small and rectangular with a short end on the outside wall to allow for a window which served to split the room lengthwise into halves with matching desks, high beds, drawers, and a pair of walk-in closets on the inner wall, the doors of which faced the ends of the beds such that the bedroom door (on one of the long walls) and the nearest closet door could not be opened simultaneously without hitting each other. The two bedroom doors in each suite faced one another, mirrored across the shared common living room, kitchenette, shower, sink, and toilet with a separate door opening out to the central corridor.
In the vast majority of the bedrooms, the furniture was conveniently situated so that each roommate's desk was against the outside wall flanking the window, with the head of each bed behind its desk's chair. This gave more room for the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, but left the door woefully un-surveilled when the roommates were at their computers. Patrick's side of the room remained in this configuration, so that when one opened the door he faced Patrick's chest of drawers on the opposite wall by the foot of his bed. His golf bag was also standing there that day, a few feet nearer to the door than the dresser, against the foot of the bed, allowing just enough room to access the drawers. Patrick's standard roost was in a very low, collapsible canvas camping chair turned 90 degrees so that its back was to Patrick’s long wall, nestled between the head of his bed and the front of his computer desk. Leaning with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out toward Kevin’s bed, his gaze turned slightly toward the desk, he could view his computer screen, perched precariously at a forty-five degree angle on the leftmost corner of the desk, and still maintain peripheral vigil on the door in the opposite corner of the room over the top of his high metal bed. This odd posture had the added perquisite of permitting Patrick to leave open bags of junk food on his pillow at shoulder height so that he could effortlessly reach his right hand across his chest and past his left shoulder to continually stuff his face without diverting his eyes from the screen.
One would think that this awkward sideways posture would be sufficient to mollify the need of these, my closest friends, to keep an eye on the door, but Patrick was ever an annoyingly clever individual, and had the bonus of natural paranoia bolstering his hard-won experience with one of my favorite pastimes: sneaking up on him and scaring him half to death. As such, he and Kevin had agreed to rearrange their furniture so that Kevin's computer desk was immediately next to their bedroom door, ensuring that he, at least, would always be facing it should I make one of my routine social calls throughout the day. The bedroom door opened on Kevin's side of the room, so that when viewed from within, it was immediately to the left of his desk, just beside the monitor of his computer, directly in his most common field of view. The right side of the desk was flush against the foot of Kevin's bed, which extended to the corner of the room. A pair of bedside tables below the window spanned the gap between his bed and the left end of Patrick’s desk. This configuration was incredibly effective, as I was almost always greeted by two pairs of eyes when I wandered up to their usually open door.
It is important to note that despite the fortress-like state of their room, (which I later learned was a carefully-laid defensive formation designed by Patrick to thwart me, personally) ours was by no means an aggressor-victim relationship. Kevin and Patrick were just as eager to go after each other and me as I was them, though they had been forced into a lasting truce due to the close living quarters they shared. That they should band together against me in defense of their common home was a matter of course. They were best friends from high school, and I was a new addition that had met them at college. Finding our personalities eerily similar, we became fast friends. It was not uncommon for any pair of us to sting the third or enlist the aid of our many other friends whenever the opportunity presented itself, which kept life for all of us every bit as interesting as it ought to be in college. My reflexes were thusly honed for defense and my mind ever open to an opportunity, so it was with habitual care that I began turning the doorknob slowly. Patiently taking several minutes, I carefully braced the door with my free hand to ensure it did not noisily shake against its frame as the latch cleared the jam and I eased it open the tiniest crack, allowing me to peer within.
Patrick sat in his usual position at his computer catty-cornered from the slitted door, in almost perfect profile. He was not wearing his headphones for once, but instead had awful Christian contemporary music playing very faintly through his computer speakers. He wore plaid pajama pants and his glasses, having not bothered with his contact lenses, and was busily clicking away at the internet. I saw that he was already snacking hardcore, and every few moments his right hand would snake down to the floor by his silly little low-slung camping chair into a bag that rustled unseen beneath the edge of the desk where a normal person’s legs would’ve been. The low chair and poor posture allowed Patrick’s arms to hang almost to the floor, sitting as he was, and each time he brought his hand back up I glimpsed that it held a white powdered donette. That wasn’t all, however. Patrick’s left hand was alternating with his right, retrieving original Pringles from a tube by his left foot, almost visible through the mounds of crap under his bed. He ate slowly and automatically as he stared, eyes glazed, at the computer screen. Certain that he would notice me at any moment, but morally obligated to give it a shot, I silently slid the door open just far enough to permit me to squeeze in to the room past Kevy’s desk. I held my breath and waited for his head to whip toward me, but it didn’t. This was surprising and highly amusing but perhaps I was too groggy and hungry for the ramifications to sink in, or perhaps the gods of mischief and irony knew that the time was not yet right, and stayed my initiative.
I stepped back out of the room, softly closing the door for an instant before loudly rapping on it with my knuckle. “Come in!” Patrick said, and I sauntered in casually. I hopped up and sat heavily on Kevin’s bed, face to face with Patrick, and inquired about breakfast. Patrick held up the donettes bag and Pringles tube and cheerfully said “Breakfast!” with the ridiculous grin that was one of his trademarks, eyebrows arched and the tip of his tongue protruding slightly from nearly-closed teeth. I argued that powdered donettes and Pringles, while amazing, might not be sufficient sustenance, but this backfired as he promptly agreed, opening an enormous bag of animal crackers and setting them on his pillow within inches of his left cheek with the abruptness that defined his normal movements. Disappointed, because I had wanted to go to the diner downtown for breakfast, and grumpy because I knew that further entreaty was a lost cause, I left in search of food, loudly closing the door behind me on the way out.
Making my way to the student center and the small coffee kiosk therein, I purchased a large caramel macchiato and debated more solid foodstuffs. Nothing in the limited selection there grabbed my eye so I decided to return to Patty’s room to wake up properly with my coffee and wait for the cafeteria to open for lunch. Between the briskness of the air, the half mile of walking, and the coffee, I began to realize through my muddled haze that Patrick was sitting defenseless and oblivious, with no one to warn him and no pressing engagements to draw him from his lair for hours yet. A spark of excitement was struck from anticipation deep in the pit of my stomach, landing in ready tinder, spreading orange filaments of heat that warmed me and quickened my step across campus.
When I arrived, I sat my coffee down outside the door and began to reenact my previous entry, peeking in to find him, to my great relief, exactly as I had left him. Burning, then, with intense, white-hot excitement, eyes opened unnaturally wide and every muscle tensed, I slid into the room, coffee in hand, and closed the door without so much as a whisper. Hovering as I was on the very edge of his periphery, I quickly snuck past his golf clubs to the foot of his bed, completely out of his field of view, directly across the length of the bed from him, his left shoulder facing me, his head cocked away toward the screen that I could now clearly see. I was amazed at my repeated success, shaking with heavily bridled glee at his uncharacteristic lapse in watchfulness. I was behind his bed, deep behind enemy lines, in his sanctum sanctorum, nestled between his golf bag and his dresser. I was in his base, killing his dudes, and all his base were belong to me. I was suddenly the widest of awake and almost peeing with excitement as I crouched behind his golf-clubs, watching him through the extended stalks of the clubs like a Bengal tiger gazing through the reeds on an unsuspecting fawn.
It is absolutely essential that there be a clear understanding as to WHY this discovery of a chink in Patrick’s armor was so unbelievably exciting to me, and to the many who’ve since heard the story and known him. Patrick was such an appealing target because it was so rarely that he lost at anything. Quick thinking, sharp tongued, jocular, eccentric, and possessed of a razor wit (though not always the sharpest razor, it was definitely quick to cut), he was an honor student and accomplished classical pianist who played goalkeeper on the University soccer team, ran track, and helped start the ultimate disc club. He picked up new skills with frustrating rapidity and could snap a towel that could draw blood through two layers of denim, (though it gives me numbing chills every single time I remember it). He ate junk food constantly, and his grandparents sent him huge boxes filled to overflowing that kept him well supplied. I had even watched him roll the high score counter over on one quarter playing Galaga, accruing more points than the game can display, so it starts over at 0. He had succeeded in pranking me numerous times, and had evaded certain pwnage from even our combined efforts on more than his share of occasions. In short, this was the most exciting opportunity anyone had ever had to get Patrick, and once passed up it would never happen again.
Surprising Patrick was always difficult, but was well-worth the effort for the thrilling reward of seeing him jump several feet into the air and shriek like a six year old girl who, when blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, opens her eyes to find a massive bullfrog half-covered in frosting inches from her lips. This jumpiness, when combined with the fact that he was the most ticklish human I have ever encountered, played a large part in his constant state of paranoia, as well as the strong resemblance he bore to a nervous meerkat, sitting or standing up very straight and swiveling his head rapidly to watch the Serengeti for danger.
To catch him in repose, without even the excuse of headphones to defend his reputation, was positively electric. I immediately realized that my trappings were unsuited to the black-op on which I found myself, so I kicked off my boots and my windbreaker, careful to keep it from rustling, and sat my coffee down beside them at the foot of his bed. I stood up then, confident in my invisibility, and tried to calm my reeling mind down enough to survey the scene and decide what to do with this beautiful blank check I had been given.
I found myself faced with an impossible impasse. Like the nerdiest kid in school finding himself at prom with the prettiest cheerleader, there was nothing I could do to live up to the enormity of my situation. A loud noise would undoubtedly cause a hilarious reaction, but no more so than camping outside his bedroom door and waiting for lunch time or a bathroom break. Taking something from the room would only show that I had made it inside. Approaching Patrick was a near-impossibility due to the bed between us and the fact that most of the middle of the room between the beds was in plain sight before him. I couldn’t hope to slither on the floor by the bed without being seen 5 feet too soon. The bed would not take my 185lbs without some squeals of protest, and would undoubtedly disturb the enormous bag of animal crackers which had now joined the donettes and Pringles in the snacking cycle.
This being a furnished men’s dormitory, the beds were designed so that they could be bunked. Few did so, as the suites were nice enough in the standard configuration, but to maximize space and comfort the beds were exceptionally high, putting the mattress about 3’ from the ground, leaving plenty of room beneath for storage, or plenty of headroom if bunked. It would seem like an obvious choice, given my description, to approach Patrick under the bed and grab his ankle or goose him through the canvas bottom of his chair. It would seem like an obvious choice, if I didn’t need a lengthy paragraph to describe the state of the space beneath Patrick’s bed.
Several large blue plastic storage bins partially filled and failing miserably at their organizational purpose created the primary filler, along with a standard packing box or two filled with junk food and clothing from Patrick’s Mimi and Pawpaw. Crammed in between these larger items could be found any of a myriad of missing artifacts; dirty clothing, reams of school papers, and even some partially mummified animal remains dating back to the ancient Egyptians first settling of the Nile river delta. It was a running joke that despite weekly inspections, regulations, and an otherwise clean room, Patrick’s pit was almost a living and malignant entity, leaving no room for monsters or much of anything else under the bed.
Still, the mental image of slipping unnoticed to a position practically underneath Patrick was compelling, and would be nothing short of the crowning achievement of my long cloak & dagger espionage career-- if there was any way to pull it off. This was an opportunity that required brazenness and actions so bold as to become legendary deeds, and I felt the mantle of greatness settle on my shoulders with a sense of responsibility bordering on fanaticism. I had no plan, but my mission was clear: get to Patrick undetected. My nervous energy transformed into fluid movement, my fear to steel resolve.
Coolly analyzing the tiny chamber I noticed that there was in fact space beneath the bed… along the wall, if one could reach it. One couldn’t reach it, however, because the chest of drawers extended a couple of feet outward from the wall blocking access through the bed frame there, and the foot of the bed had an integrated metal ladder for use when bunked with rungs forming rectangles less than a foot high and scarcely a foot and a half wide. This inaccessible dead space was a direct result of the method by which Patrick had fit so much under the bed. Everything had been shoved in from the side, the only way most anything could fit, so what seemed a completely solid wall of crap from most anywhere in the room fell away a bit toward the wall, out of sight from every angle but my own.
I told myself that going under the bed just wasn’t an option. The entry point was too small. Paper and plastic were much in evidence, so moving in the confined area would be noisy and time consuming. The ends of several storage bins protruded all the way to the wall, and one would have to make his way along the tops of them hoping they would hold his weight just to BE in that space, let alone moving closer to Patrick’s end of the bed. I felt stymied. I had found a fabulous hiding place, but not the route I sought to my elusive and skittish quarry. I reconsidered my options and still my discerning eye did not see an avenue of approach with suitable reward for the risk.
My gaze strayed back to the one open rung in the ladder that was partially covered by the edge of the dresser. I was 6’4”, 185lbs, nicknamed Longshanks, and reasonably athletic. Though lean and rangy, this aperture could easily prove small enough to require a cutting torch to free me should I wedge myself in too tightly. How could I resist? I decided that if I could squeeze through that impossible gap and get under the bed, the rest of the caper would practically plan itself, though I still had no idea what I would do if I managed to get all the way under the bed, let alone all the way to Patrick, whilst avoiding detection.
Without further hesitation, I got down on my knees and put one arm and my head through the open rung, about a foot from the ground. I had to go through at an angle slightly upward to avoid the first storage bin, immediately turning sharply right when enough of my torso was through to reach the open space against the wall. Worming my hands down to the floor as quietly as possible, I lifted myself and slid forward through and over the painful metal, a few inches at a time, realizing that I would have to rest most of my weight on the storage bins and hoping that their lids were on securely and that they wouldn’t crack under the pressure. I could now clearly view most of Patrick under the bed, and could see his hands dropping to the Pringles can nearer to me and the powdered donettes bag on the other side of his chair, barely visible through the criss-cross of metal struts that supported the convex canvas hump created by Patrick’s backside, 8 inches from the floor. Keeping a weather eye ahead in case of any sudden movement, I made slow progress forward, constantly repositioning my hands, sometimes gently lifting wrappers or other potential rustling items to new positions, other times having to rest my weight flat on sheets of paper and hoping not to slide them about.
It was arduous, tedious, painful, and ridiculously awesome. I was more alive than I had ever been, reveling in the thrill of the hunt and fit to burst with hidden knowledge that couldn’t be shared. It was everything you’ve ever experienced at a stirring 4th of July flyover and fireworks display while catching the winning Super Bowl touchdown pass merged with riding a barrel over Niagara Falls during your first kiss with your true love. Only those who have lived an experience this intense, having stalked a canny human in the ultimate game of hide and seek, can truly understand that I am understating it. The memory alone is potent enough to quicken my pulse and moisten my palms nearly a decade later.
I made it most of the way under the bed, against the wall, my legs still poking out through my tiny entry point, and I stopped, heart racing, unsure of how to proceed. Patrick’s chair was so low that I could see his left shoulder and the bottom edge of his computer screen. I was in the danger zone, and every movement mattered. As I pondered the possibilities, Patrick did a very strange thing. He picked up his Pringles tube and leaned forward, bringing it to his nose—and sniffed deeply. Able to see part of his face, I noticed the intense frown that indicated profound Patricic confusion. Setting the Pringles down, he stood! Frozen, but safely out of sight, my thoughts instantly went to the boots, jacket, and coffee that sat by my feet on the floor between the golf bag and the dresser. My feet would be fine, as the golf bag hid them, but my other effects were just lying on the otherwise-empty floor! Patrick stood and walked to the door, leaving it open as he went into the suite’s common area for a moment before walking back in to the room, his visage still twisted in his thoughtful frown, his brows knitted in consternation. I could see him standing in the doorway from under the bed through a slim crack between a stack of books and some rumpled clothing. It struck me that I had been in the reverse position twice that day, peering from the doorway at my current location, and I smiled. Patrick glanced around the room, his eyes obviously seeing my clothing. He paused for a moment.
I was in a state of high alert and anxiety. If he recognized that it was my clothing, the jig was up. I could almost hear him already, crouching down at the end of the bed with my feet poking out, giggling as he asked “What are yew doin’ under THERE!” in his best admonishing-a-naughty-child tone. Worse, if he left the door open and returned to his seat, I would have to move very quickly or he would think I had come in through the open door, a much less difficult feat, and the impression of my impossible appearance would lose its magic. I stopped breathing and waited for what seemed like an eternity.
Closing the door with a shrug, Patrick went back to his seat, plopping down right before me and proceeding to eat his donettes, though I noticed that he had sealed the Pringles can. With a heavy, silent sigh of relief, I allowed myself to creep closer, within 3 feet. Patrick’s head was clearly in sight, and he had but to look down and to his left to be looking me straight in the eye. The Pringles can was gnawing at my attention in the back of my mind, but merely being within arm’s reach of Patrick was such a victory that I was gleefully basking in my accomplishment, idly wondering if I could find a pencil under the bed to stab up under his seat, or if grabbing his wrist would be sufficient to give him a heart attack.
Realizing that I needed to be closer still in order to do these things, I made my final approach, putting myself within reach of HIS arm and exposing me even further under the head of the bed. I was closer than you are to this page. I was next to the mythical unicorn in its hidden vale, staring at Sasquatch picking his nose in his burrow. I was swimming with Nessie in the bay of Atlantis. All of a sudden I was struck by the realization that this moment demanded far more from me than a simple surprising touch or unexpected shout. I gently reached forward and lifted the Pringles can from the floor, my eyes never leaving Patrick’s face, and placed it under the bed behind me. It wouldn’t be enough, however. The Pringles were the closest thing to the door of the room, easily explained away by my having sidled along the side of the bed on my stomach, however impossible the actual act might’ve proved. No, the Pringles were insufficient. I had to have the powdered donettes. Reaching under his chair, inches from his butt, and sliding the bag of donuts through the latticework of the chair and under the bed while he was eating them, having him look down and around, jumping up horribly confused with that enormous frown only to find me, Cheshire-grinned with powdered sugar all over my face, lying under his bed chortling, would be a true champion’s victory. I might even be able to scare him in the deal, perhaps waiting for him to reach for another donette and grabbing his wrist just after he discovered their absence.
My path decided, I slipped even closer, needing to reach all the way underneath him through his chair to the bag on the other side. Patrick’s snacking had slowed down, and it seemed that he was focusing more intently on his animal crackers than his donettes. I saw him take another, and began to reach forward as his hand went back up out of view. To my consternation he quickly lifted the donette bag and sniffed it deeply, just as he had done with the Pringles. My head and shoulders were partially out from under the bed now, so close to Patrick that I could’ve bitten his arm, and I went rigid, knowing that motion was more likely to give me away than being visible. Patrick sat the bag back down and continued eating his animal crackers, though it seemed that he had partially closed the donette bag! The timing was perfect. Patrick was done eating donettes and I was ready to grab them.
I felt the light of providence shining upon me. I was a lightweight raptor stealing the Tyrannosaur eggs from their nest as their mother stood guard overhead. I would get his prized powdered donettes, oh yes! I would get them and I would sneak silently away! To be so close and yet resist the temptation to go for the kill was a true test of my will and fortitude. Choosing delayed gratification over the joy of sending Patrick skyward on a shriek caused another wave of heat to flush over me. The side supports of Patrick’s chair formed X’s so that it could collapse and accordion together for storage and transportation. Reaching through the top of the nearest X, the hairs on my arm brushing the canvas seat just fractions of an inch from Patrick’s posterior, I reached through the right side of the far X and carefully pinched the top edge of the donette bag. Sliding it toward me gently, I knew that I would have to drag it over the forty-five degree side of the far X support to get it to me. This was done with the utmost care; seconds ticking away as I gingerly tugged the bag steadily nearer. There was the tiniest “plop” as it cleared the strut, but it went undetected by the man sitting directly above the now-mobile paper donette bag with its crackling plastic window. I had to keep it on its side to fit under Patrick without brushing him, but was then able to lift it out of the chair and back under the bed with relative ease.
I had done it! The moment was too fresh for me to realize it, but I had just pulled off the most difficult piece of the most difficult caper ever. I had the pink panther in my pocket but no monogrammed silver glove to leave my mark. I can hardly remember moving backwards under the bed, having to worm my way in reverse over such treacherous terrain while bringing Pringles and Donettes with me. I recall it being much more difficult, especially exiting through my undersized bolt hole, but I still managed to do it much more quickly than I had on the way in. It wasn’t until I got all the way out that I realized, to my dismay, that I had kicked my coffee cup over on the way under the bed! It had landed on my windbreaker, which was better than the carpet, I supposed, and thankfully the sipping lid had kept the spill minimal, but half a cup of caramel macchiato was now on my jacket.
I was too excited to bother with putting on my wet windbreaker or sliding in to my boots, so I left them by the bed and instead picked up my coffee and donettes and Pringles and crept to the door. Thankfully Patrick was still barely too far turned to notice me, and I was able to set the bag down on the corner of Kevin’s desk while I worked the knob, sliding out the door and pulling it almost shut. I pulled the same trick as earlier, this time not bothering to close the door all the way, and hollered a “Hello” as I pushed the door open. Patrick’s head snapped around in normal fashion but without a trace of surprise or suspicion as he greeted me with a traditional “’Sup fool?”
I made my way back to the same spot on Kevin’s bed that I had vacated earlier, hopping up to sit, directly facing Patrick in his chair. Looking across at him I could plainly see where his donettes and Pringles had lately resided, but he remained oblivious. I proudly held my coffee and the powdered donette bag in my right hand and the Pringles in my left, looking supremely self-satisfied. My grin actually extended past the bounds of my face, but the moment was too awesome for physics to care, so I got away with it. My chin up-thrust and my butt wiggling like an over-stimulated bulldog, I looked at Patrick expectantly as I opened the bag and popped a donette into my mouth. Doubtless thinking that I had brought matching junk food to dine with him as a joke, he made an exaggerated duck of his head to the right side of his chair where he expected his donuts to be waiting. After a moment’s failure to compute, Patrick swung his head around to his left side in an even more exaggerated swooping motion, where there were neither the missing donettes nor the expected Pringles. With a colossal frown that matched only my own grin for intensity, Patrick stood and twisted, moving in his twitchy and abrupt manner in a vain quest for his missing comestibles. Having secured a front row seat, I continued stuffing my face with donettes and quivering like a leaf as I greedily drank in every detail.
I am not sure how long I managed to keep from guffawing like a drunken Englishman at a Benny Hill marathon, but it couldn’t have been any great span of time. Patrick looked under his tiny seat, under his computer, under his pillow, and finally, having given up on logic, he delicately lifted a single sheet of paper from his desktop with his thumb and forefinger, looking authentically disappointed when there was nothing beneath it but his desk. Dropping back in his chair defeated he finally returned his gaze to me, and spoke the sweetest sound I have ever heard. A mingling of desperation, outrage, pleading, consternation, demand, self-pity, and awe:
“HOW!?!?!!?!?!”
Of course I was in no state to answer, and in fact a small piece of my brain began to wonder if dying from laughter was a clinical possibility. This did little to improve Patrick’s mood. He jumped up and began pacing, running through possible scenarios in his mind, striving desperately to understand.
“Well the door was closed, so you must have been in here the whole time, probably in my closet!” he inaccurately reasoned, as I choked and sputtered on the deliciously stolen donettes. I managed to hold up my coffee and shake it at him, proving that I had been to the student center at some point, and destroying his half-formed theory. Stomping toward the open closet beyond his dresser, he found my windbreaker and boots on the floor.
“Well you were here…” he said, realizing that this did nothing to explain anything, as obviously I had been in the room both before and after the deed.
“Maybe you came over the bed!” he shouted, his face hilariously distorted in a ridiculous rictus. He leapt athletically atop the foot of his bed between his golf bag and dresser, stomping noisily across the bedspread and spilling animal crackers everywhere.
“I’M SURE I WOULDN’T’VE NOTICED THAT!!!11” he positively screamed, half-kidding at this point but caught up in his role, playing it to the hilt. He admired a job well done and found my magic to be of quality, an excellent challenge to be puzzled out, despite having been the target.
“OBVIOUSLY YOU WENT UNDER THE BED!” he cried, leaping to the bare expanse of floor that he didn’t even pretend to think I had crossed. My laughter at this was perhaps the hardest yet, as “under the bed” appeared, from our vantage point, about as likely as teleportation. Patrick proved as much by throwing himself to the floor headlong, stopping his momentum in a push-up position, and vigorously slamming his body sideways full-length into the mounds of unmoving junk to demonstrate my point of entry. His theatrics had my stomach cramping, and I was having difficulty seeing through the tears and my smiling cheeks, and difficulty breathing through the partially chewed donettes that I was continually cramming into my mouth.
“WELL IT MUST’VE BEEN THE WINDOW, THEN!” came next, the screen outside the window and the lock inside and the fact that it had been right in front of his eyes the entire day revealing how baffled he truly was.
“The vent!?” he plead, looking 10 feet up the wall at the 6” x 8” vent with its screwed on metal grating.
“You’ve found me out!” came my muffled declaration from my now-prone position, flopped disjointedly over Kevin’s bed, my arm holding my coffee cup upraised in proclamation, crumbs spouting from my mouth like a snow-covered geyser.
At this point I couldn’t resist. I cleared my mouth, wiped my eyes, and sat up.
“I like how you got up and left the room and came back,” I said, tantalizing him with my knowledge. After a moment of thinking his eyes widened and he whirled on me.
“I SMELLED YOUR COFFEE!!!!!” He exploded, pointing accusingly at the cup from which I was sipping.
“Mmmm,” I slurped, smacking my lips appreciatively.
“I LEFT BECAUSE I THOUGHT JOE WAS MAKING TEA IN THE KITCHEN!” yelled Patrick, struggling to recreate the scene, and knowing full well that Joe’s tea and caramel coffee smell nothing alike.
“Is that why you sniffed your doughnuts?” I asked innocently, realization beginning to dawn.
“YES!” he barked, frustration, confusion, and a hint of what sounded like guilt creeping back into his voice.
“… but when I realized he wasn’t here I thought that maybe stale Pringles or rotting donuts smell like coffee… so I stopped eating them.” He confessed lamely.
This was too much. I erupted in a spasmodic fit of choking, hacking laughter that caused so much blood to rush to my head that I would not have been surprised had I blacked out or simply popped. The truth of the lengthy sequence of highly unlikely events that took place to allow my success had set in, and I couldn’t even tell anyone. Patrick could never guess the complexities of the situation that happenstance and divine mischief had perpetrated against him. My great feat was made possible only by the fact that I inadvertently kicked over my coffee on my way through the ladder’s rungs. If Patrick hadn’t smelled coffee, he never would’ve stopped eating the Pringles and donettes. He would not have left the room and returned, proving with his own eyes that I was not within and that his Pringles and donettes had been safe so recently. With his steady eating pace, he would’ve consumed the entire bag, never leaving me an opportunity to take it without being found beneath the bed. Only the timely scent of caramel and coffee, and his hilarious rationalization that his donettes and Pringles were the cause of the aroma had allowed me to turn a decent sneaking job into an impossible disappearance.
The story was complete. Every condition had had to be absolutely perfect for success. Patrick had to stay enthralled on his computer eating for over an hour. I had to purchase the coffee to prove I had left and to provide the required scent. Kevy, Joe, and Andy had to leave town. The suite door had to be unlocked, the bedroom door unlocked and closed. Patrick had to choose not to wear headphones, and to have his room clean and arranged so impossibly. I had to silently fit through an infinitesimal space and maintain the wherewithal to conceive and complete my mission. Best of all, Patrick now knew that, somehow, I (or some tool of mine) had come within inches of him without him ever noticing. All of his paranoia and defensiveness had been violated to the utmost. His most carefully laid plans were mine to peruse at will. The conquest was complete, and the legendary act has since gained mythic proportions. I can’t remember a single thing we did the rest of the day, but I’m okay with that.
The following morning, Monday, I had the pleasure of recounting the tale for the very first time to an audience of my peers, including Kevin, in the student center on campus. The story took an hour to tell, and most of those present skipped a class to listen. There wasn’t a dry eye in the bunch, and Kevy especially turned a peculiar shade of cherry and cried merrily. Telling this story has never failed to brighten my day for lo, these many years, and it is only now, as 2011 draws near to its close, that I finally commit the story to writing. I spent years drawing pictures and animating comics teasing Patrick with various improbable vignettes illustrating “The Great Donut Pwn”, which I hope will forever accompany this story in its digital format. For all my telling many people, Patrick has remained ignorant of all details. He has waited nearly a decade to learn the truth. This story is the realization of that patience, and is dedicated to Patrick, who once told me “if you never tell me how you did it, I’ll never know.” -MPTGraves
COMICS
These images actually do an exceptional job of showing a cutaway of Patrick's half of the dorm room. Coupled with the floor plan there is little left to the imagination.
Watch this one carefully, the "crappy team" mentioned above is the University of Kentucky, of whom Patrick is a diehard fan. Their basketball coach for many years was "Tubby" Smith, who makes an exceptionally brief appearance in the image below. The poster on the wall was of Rupp Arena, where UK plays basketball.
This one isn't animated. Or is it?
_____Patrick "Peabody" ____________Kevin "Beehan"_____
Peabody & Beehan meerkatting contemplatively
