My friends like to call me a “plant thief,” but I’m not sure it’s that simple.
This story began with a dilemma of mine. At the beginning of every school year, my suite holds an annual “pasta night,” which I had every intention of attending. That is, before I was invited to another meal; a pressing invitation I knew I couldn’t ignore. The Student Government Association–of which I am a part of–and the Resident Life staff were invited to a dinner at the President’s house.
How could I ignore a summoning from the new president, Dr. Waers? My hand had been forced, but to my roommates, my decision wasn’t as obvious. As they saw it, I was skipping a beloved tradition to become a brown-noser to Milligan’s new incumbent. Attempting to make peace, I asked if there was any way I could make it up to them, which I soon regretted once I did.
“If you’re going to leave us, you will have to come back from the President’s house with a souvenir,” they plainly stated. There was only one way to earn their forgiveness, and this unfortunately, was that. They made it sound easy, as if I could just walk into his sanctuary and walk out with a piece of it.
“It doesn’t need to be anything special,” they continued. “Just a toothbrush or a soap dispenser… maybe even a plant.”
Knowing I had no other option, I began plotting my course. I was anxious at the idea of Dr. Waers catching me in the act, however. How could I explain away his toothbrush in my hand? “Oh sorry, I got lost.”
The idea of arriving empty-handed and leaving with his property scared me. The poor man just moved into his new house and had opened it up to me, and here I was planning an elaborate heist of his toiletries inside it.
Finally, the night came. As I navigated the steep ascent to his house, I felt the shakiness of my situation as my car treacherously rode the path up. I hadn’t done anything wrong yet, but I already looked suspicious, at least I thought so. I felt like a child who had just stolen from a cookie-jar, melting away with guilt. I had to let someone else in. After enlightening my tablemates of my complicated plan (or lack thereof), I was given some simple advice from my friend and SGA cohort Camden Mills.
“Gran, Dr. Waers seems like a pretty chill dude,” he said. “Why don’t you tell him your situation? He might just give you something.”
This seemed like a good enough idea. “Why didn’t I think of this?” Sure, it could backfire in a major way, but it felt like my best chance. So, I mustered up some courage and began walking towards the Commander-in-Chief of Milligan. I could hear my heartbeat quicken as I plodded along towards him, desperately trying to connect the words in my head as I schemed up what to say.
“Hey, Dr. Waers,” I brought myself to say. “I have a strange request…”
As I began to explain my dastardly mission to him, his face lit up with excitement. The longer I stumbled through and elaborated, the more eager and attentive he seemed.
“I have the perfect thing for you to take,” he enthusiastically exclaimed. Thirty minutes later, he returned jovially towards me with a gigantic artificial plant in hand, the expression of a kid on Halloween plastered across his face. Mission successful.
I buckled the plant into the backseat of my Kia Soul, hopped in the driver’s seat, and triumphantly drove off, the sun setting over Buff Mountain on the horizon behind me. I had passed the first test, but the job wasn’t finished yet. My roommates were still unaware of my brave efforts, but they would have to stay in ignorance of it. That was part of the deal I struck with Dr. Waers. I chuckled as I drove back to MSA, my dear home, where my friends were awaiting me.
“Boys, I’ve done it,” I cried, as I burst through the door with our home’s newest piece of decoration held high and proud. My roommates’ response–a collective jaw drop–was an immediate one.
As their interrogation of my heist and miraculous escape intensified, I met their questions and amazement with deflections, instead looking for a great place to display my hard work. I had won on all accounts, and it was time to bask in my revelry.
As has hopefully become aware now, I’m no plant-thief. I have, however, profited from my adventure, and have enjoyed welcoming the “plant thief” moniker. I had gone into a simple dinner, and left with a new identity of supposed espionage.
My challenge to you, my dear reader, is a straightforward one: when given the opportunity, be on the lookout for choice items you could steal from our new President. There’s a good chance you will not only walk away with a marvelous story, but more importantly, a spectacularly large and very artificial plant.
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This article is the first in the series, “Letters From a Milliganite,” which will feature first-person accounts from students on the various happenings of their undergraduate lives at Milligan.
by Granville Sexton
picture by Milligan University