A coating of dust thick as fallen snow obscured the gleaming bronze buddha statue resting, enshrined, on the utmost shelf of the polished oak cabinet. The structure’s vertical frame loomed large in our eyes.
It had been a fleeting fancy. A spontaneous whim of mutual consensus. My eyes flicked to Jayden’s. We both grinned. The trample of feet and the sound of both raised and lowered voices overlapping one another mingled together in a cascade of everyday noise. No one would notice our momentary absence.
The front yard, a combination of lawn and wood chips neatly divided. Its stark duality mirrored the faces of comedy and tragedy from ages past. Flurries of wind conjured forth spinning whirlwinds of leaves as we ran across to where the shed stood. Its aged, splintering wood and fading paint made it appear almost like a discolored porcupine.
A cheap and battered padlock remained resolutely in place, hanging off a circular ring above the doorknob. Leave it to the semi-responsible adults to pick this one day to properly lock the shed, of course.
“Nah, they can’t have..” Jayden muttered, grabbing the lock and pulling on it. With a rusty snap, it popped open. “They DID!” He exclaimed, cackling. I grinned. “After you.”
It only took a few seconds to rummage around the cluttered interior. The shovels were easy to find. Lined up against one corner of a wall, they lay sad and dejected. Like sailors drawn to the mythological siren, the dull wood-handled metallic instruments called to us. Helpless to resist, we answered their inaudible summons.
The chills of oncoming Winter had hardened the ground somewhat, so that it took several combined attempts to break through to the softer soil layers beneath. But with single-minded determination we burrowed like rabbits.
Within a few minutes of frantic work, once the hole reached an appropriate depth, in went the buddha statue. Over it, the foot or so of dirt that we had so proudly excavated. To hide our pirated treasure, we scattered handfuls of leaves and wood chips, and then retraced our steps back inside.
It was only approximately twenty-two minutes later that our criminal heist was brought to light, and the two suspects brought in for questioning by the designated authorities. In hindsight, when one attempts to bury stolen treasure of questionable value, it is probably best not to mark the spot where you disposed of the evidence with a giant “X” spanning neigh a foot in each direction.
As we had been the only two individuals not accounted for at the time of the crime, and our alibis were shaky at best, our singular judge, jury, and executioner found us guilty on all counts.
Long indeed was the subsequent lecture on theft, and the theological implications of desecrating a religious and/or spiritual object. As a fairly quiet, unoffending 11-year-old, it probably should’ve been evident that the intent was not to offend Buddhists worldwide. However, our loudly-proclaimed defense, that we simply saw a statue of a fat gold man and thought it looked like the statue Indiana Jones stole in Raiders of the Lost Ark, fell on deaf ears.
When it became clear to our interrogator, Samanda, that she had misjudged the situation somewhat, and that their admonishments had done nothing but confuse and upset us, she left the small room we were sitting in, and called in our favorite mentor, Robert.
Robert’s honey-blond hair and blue eyes perpetually-offset by the raven-black trenchcoat he would wear year-round. In blazing summer heat and biting Winter blizzards, both he and the thick leather coat were inseparable. In the six or so years I had known him, consistency had always been Robert’s most prevalent trait.
A sigh was the first thing that poured out of his mouth as he sat down and evaluated the situation. Robert had hundreds of variations of that one sigh, each one carrying with it a world of meaning.
What then followed was a lengthy sermon on the philosophical and moral implications of civic duty and responsibility. Robert could take even the blandest of topics and, with the wondrous web of masterful oratory, make you want to hang onto every word. It was almost worth the earlier scolding just to hear him speak now.
It only took Robert ten minutes to grasp that his words weren’t resonating with the intended effect. He sighed again, with deepest melancholy, then chuckled self-consciously. He got up and put one hand on the doorknob. “Can you at least pretend that you’ve learned from this?” He asked. We nodded enthusiastically. “Well then, at least I can go back to Samanda with my head held high,” he stated with new resolve.
We, of course, learned nothing from this. Except that next time we attempted to steal a heavily-guarded idol, it might be best not to scrawl a giant “X” directly overhead.
To this day, I sometimes wonder whatever happened to that singular Buddha statue, to where it was spirited away. I’d like to think some other aspiring pair of adventurers might’ve gotten hold of it again. Or perhaps it’s been tucked away again in that singular unremarkable oak cabinet, accruing new layers of dust, patiently waiting to become the object of spontaneous attention once more.
