The Diary of Dumb Things I Did In College: The Wet Bandits Heist (Part III)
We bolted through the lobby and out the front door. Juggy Fats was running shirtless (yet still masked) the entire time. I’m still amazed no one stopped us as the suspicious silhouettes of a wiry distance runner and an obese clown sprinted across campus. Right before we reentered our dorm, a realization struck me.
“Dude,” I exclaimed, putting my hand on Juggy Fats’ chest. “We can’t go back yet. There’s a security camera in the lobby. That’s how they busted Roach when he smashed the snack machine last semester – remember? Fuck! We’re probably already on the cameras in Ryder!” Maybe, I realized, these ski masks were not so over-the-top and unnecessary after all.
In the fog of his drunken, exhausted, and adrenaline-fueled mind, a glint of recognition sparked in Juggy Fats’ eyes. “Okay,” he sighed. “So whatta we do?”
We had to account for two factors: the time and the clothes. First, we had to wait for a believable hour to reenter our dorm, or else they’d only have to compare the time between when we appeared in our dorm with the time we left Ryder Hall to deduce it was us it who pulled the heist. Secondly, we had to ditch the sweat suits and ski masks for normal non-criminal clothes.
The only place I could get normal clothes at this hour was from my sports locker in the athletic center. “That’s perfect,” I thought out loud. “Dude, we can go to my sports locker, put on some workout clothes, and reenter the dorm as if we just finished an early-morning workout.”
Juggy Fats, not wanting to devise his own escape plan, went along. We trudged carefully to the athletic center, letting our buzz dry up as Ryder Hall was flooding. The gravity of what we’d done and the importance of never getting caught hit me all at once. Juggy Fats, on the other hand, couldn’t stop whining about his lost sleep. “Bro!” he coughed, exhausted, “I just want to crawl up in bed. Who cares if we get caught? The dean will probably find it funny and let us off with warning.”
I shot him a glance that disagreed, fervently. When we finally got to my locker, Juggy Fats was again complaining, “Oh man! I don’t want to wear this,” he squealed, wiggling into my tiny track singlet, “I look like a fucking idiot!”
“That’s ironic,” I hissed, “Coming from a guy who colored his tit blue and stamped it on some chick’s door.”
“Touché,” Juggy Fats replied, standing up. His huge gut flopped out of the bottom of the singlet like a disgusting parody of a belly dancer, but at least his incriminating blue tit was covered.
“Okay,” I said, satisfied, “Let’s get some Z’s.” We sleepily walked into our dorm as the first rays of a cold, Wednesday morning broke across the snow-covered campus.
Before it seemed my eyes had shut, the phone was already ringing.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion tomorrow.
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About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.