The Perfect Heist

     When my family moved states this past year, we discussed the idea of a clean slate. No one in our new neighborhood would know about the time when my family was convinced to do a musical number in church, which ended up being my dad singing a solo and the rest of us making impeccable eye contact with the 'Exit' sign. No one would know about our beloved family car, which was taken to the junk yard a year before. (It was only taken after I read the eulogy, obviously.) No one there would know about the time I walked into a tree and scratched up my face right before picture day, and no one would know me as the 14 year old who decided it would be fashionable to wear a different solid colored polo paired with dangly penguin earrings each day to school. We could be anyone we wanted. My little brother could show up to school, the newest student in the class, and introduce himself with an Australian accent claiming to be the world champion in tetherball. My sister could pretend to be a retired world chef, and my parents could claim to be working for the CIA. Unfortunately I stayed at college instead of making the move with the fam, but I still brainstormed ideas of my new identity as a world renowned cellist who never wears polo shirts or penguin earrings.

The whole idea about pretending to be someone you’re not is fascinating to me. When I was in high school, I was sitting in class when the woman over the intercom called for Rachel Hardy to please come to the principal’s office. Did I do something bad? Was this for something good? Maybe he just wanted to congratulate me on my flawless attendance. Doubtful, as my attendance record was actually sub-par. Maybe he found out I cut in line at the cafeteria three weeks ago? Had he finally gotten sick of my classy yet casual polo selection? I hurried to the office in my periwinkle polo, which was reserved for Thursdays. As I was walked into the office, I realized what had happened. There stood one of my teachers, Mrs. Rachel Hardy. This was the first of many miscommunications that occurred as I attended a school with a teacher who had the same name as me. The next three years in high school included the lunch ladies thinking I didn’t exist and putting all of my lunch money into my teacher’s account and me receiving countless emails regarding creating new curriculum for AP classes.

That’s not the only problem I’ve had where my identity has been called into question. A few months ago, I received an email from my brother. It read, “Thank you Rachel!! You are so kind!” I read it over a few times, trying to remember what exactly he was thanking me for. I clicked on the previous messages, and read the one that had been sent from me.

     I read the words over and over again. Sent from Rachel Hardy. When did I send that? Did I send that? How could have I sent that? Was I losing my mind? Clearly it said it was sent from me, but when in my life did I ever give up my dream of vacationing in Hawaii? Was I on one of those pranking TV shows? Did average, non-celebrities get to be on those shows anyway? Was I actually a celebrity and just forgot?! WAS I ACTUALLY SUPER RICH AND FAMOUS AND THE PEOPLE THAT MADE FUN OF MY POLOS WERE ACTUALLY MY HATERS?! Was Ashton Kutcher going to jump out of my pantry exclaiming that “You’ve been PUNK’D!!!”?!  I was disappointed to find out I am still not rich enough to build a moat equipped with alligators and drawbridge around my apartment, but impressed to learn my brother is smart enough about coding that he could figure out how to make it look like I sent that email from my account.

     When I went on a cruise for the first time this summer, I immediately recognized the scenery. Upon seeing the big casinos, the flashy paintings on the wall, and the chandelier-lit dining rooms, I knew that this was exactly the type of scene that heists take place in the movies. The bad guys come up with a clever yet dangerous plan to steal all the money, their plan goes off without a hitch, and they’re drinking champagne as the end credits roll. These are my favorite types of movies, so as soon as we boarded the ship I informed my friends Emmie and Dan that we would certainly be pulling off a heist during our stay, minus the alcohol. They suggested we go the ‘steal all the money from the slot machines’ route, but I decided that was much too cliché. I spent the next four days brainstorming different ideas for the perfect heist. Ideas included but were not limited to stealing all the tiny lights that lit up the stairways (because buying Christmas lights every year is the worst thing in the world), stealing all the towels from the ship (not just a couple, because that is the most boring heist ever. Also, I could give out extra towels to the poor. I would be like the Robin Hood of Bed, Bath, and Beyond), and taking every fifth tile out of the flooring so that I could tile my own house someday. All my suggestions were nixed because they were “lame”. (I put ‘lame’ in quotes because that is what Dan thought about them, but I expect a call from him this Christmas season when he has to go to the store once again for holiday lights.) Aside from us not agreeing on a great heist idea, the other major flaw in our plans is that we aren’t criminals, nor do we want to be. As much as I love those crime movies, the only thing I wanted to take from that ship was ice cream, which I actually paid for. There I was, pretending to be a criminal when I really am the girl who, upon receiving her first speeding ticket, started babbling, “Wait!! But I really am an upstanding citizen!! I vote! I never use the carpool lane when I’m driving by myself! I always made sure to rewind VHS’s before I returned them to the library!!” It is clear the criminal life is not cut out for me.     

     So as much as I wanted to change my identity when my parents moved, I decided to simply stick with being me. The world renowned cellist version of me may have a moat around her mansion, but I bet she is pretty boring. The other day I was checking my email when one came in with the title ‘Serve better within minutes.’

     Yes, my youngest brother thought it would be a great idea to sign me up for a weekly newsletter about ping pong under the alias of Bob the Builder. Every week since 2011 I have been receiving ‘Great tips to improve your footwork’ and ‘Bob, it’s time to perfect your topspin’. So really, I enjoy being Rachel Hardy. But sometimes, I am Bob the Builder.

     Can I do that?

     Yes, I can.