As part of our Christmas gift exchange this year, Bobby and I each had to find something free to give each other. I went through a number of different possibilities in my mind; I could steal something from a store (risky and out of character for the girl whose last theft was a pack of gum at age seven that she tearfully returned), I could find something from the “Free” section on Craigslist (but I couldn’t really imagine Bobby needing an abundance of fill dirt or outdated electronics), or I could give something small and easy (did you know that you can take as many plastic utensils as you want from McDonald’s?) Nothing seemed to be the perfect free gift.
That was, until I thought of stealing permanently borrowing a sign for him. Bobby and I collectively own a lot of bicycles and accessories, and I knew that a large, bike-related sign would make a delightful gift. In my mind, I figured I would pick a sign, go out late at night when I would have complete privacy, unscrew the sign from its post with a little screwdriver or some other dainty tool, and then bring my quarry home. It seemed so quick and easy that I packed some tools and a can of WD-40 into my backpack the other night just after dark and rode off on my bicycle to get my sign. Because, you know, I could just, like, stick it in my backpack and ride home when I was done.
The sign I chose to steal was marking a bicycle path crossing on a private drive where I decided it would not affect anyone’s safety to no longer have the sign in place. The private drive was in full view of several large, well-lit office buildings in a busy area, but after doing a lot of scouting I was forced to conclude that no better sign existed within a reasonable distance. I pulled up on my bicycle, sprayed the rusty bolts with my WD-40 (feeling very crafty and prepared after some research online), easily unscrewed the nuts from the large bolts, and prepared to slip the sign off the post.
It didn’t move. Not a single millimeter.
I pushed, I pulled, I wiggled, and still nothing. The sign was not budging and I had no choice but to leave and return with better tools later. At that point, it was clear that the sign was not coming home in my backpack, not only because it was firmly anchored to a ten foot pole, but also because the “little” sign I was taking happened to be two feet long by two feet wide. I couldn’t imagine a way to ride home inconspicuously with that thing strapped to my back, especially because I was clad head to toe in spandex and wearing a bright headlamp.
The next opportunity I had to return to the sign was at one o’clock in the morning the following day. I slipped out of the house unnoticed (except by my father, who took surprisingly little exception to my explanation for why I was carrying a rubber mallet, a hammer, a crowbar, and several other tools) and drove straight to the sign. Several minutes passed as I searched for and found a place nearby to discreetly park my car, a plan that would probably have been more effective if I hadn’t then used my remote key to lock my car and sound the standard loud chirp of the alarm activating. I might as well have set off a flare.
Despite my best efforts with the new tools I’d brought, the sign would still not come off the post. I wanted to pound the protruding bolts a few times with my hammer, but I knew that would sound like gunshots in an otherwise silent night, and it’s not exactly like I was secluded in the wilds of North Dakota. I started to feel hopeless about getting that sign, so I left to go case out other bike signs in the area. Forty minutes later, I was back in front of the same sign, having unsuccessfully tried to steal a similar sign off the side of a major highway. I had never once thought the process of taking a sign was so difficult, but as I balanced on a concrete guardrail and tried to unscrew bolts that I could hardly see on a sign that was too high to reach, I realized that I might have been mistaken.
By this time, it was nearly half past two in the morning and I was getting desperate. I chipped away parts of the wood post with the crowbar in an attempt to free the bolts, but when that failed, I settled for rocking the whole post back and forth as far as I could. I’m not sure what I was thinking; maybe that the sign would fall off from the movement? The post suddenly gave a tremendous crack as the wood at the base split slightly, and with that I was able to heave the entire thing out of the ground. I suppose I was caught off guard, because I only made it about halfway to the car before I put the whole sign down on the ground and hid in a nearby shrub to think. Because all good robbers stop in the middle of their heist to think GOSH, IS THIS REALLY A GOOD PLAN? MAYBE I OUGHT TO RECONSIDER.
Then I suddenly felt very nervous and exposed, and the sign seemed colossal with its long, filthy wooden post attached. Panic set in and I grabbed it, ran back to the whole, jammed the post in, and fled the scene. Pathetic, I know. I actually had my sign and I ran away. You’re probably disgusted with my hesitation by now, but rest assured: I only made it a mile down the road before I pulled an illegal U-turn, sped back to the sign, ripped it out of the ground, and shoved it in my car. The whole thing, all ten feet of post and four square feet of bright yellow sign, in my little car. It stretched from the rear window to the windshield with hardly an inch to spare, and it smelled like wet dirt and the rotting stench of crime.
My drive home was probably the most nerve-wracking part, only because it was three o’clock in the morning and I was terrified that I was going to be the victim of a routine traffic stop. There would be no good way to explain the sign, other than to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary. “Oh, this, Officer? I carry it with me wherever I go because WHY NOT.” I’ve been pulled over enough times to know that an explanation like that might not work.
Shockingly enough, I made it home without incident, save for one moment of terror when a rabbit darted across the road in front of my car, causing me to swerve and the sign post to swing heavily towards me. Getting decapitated or worse, touched by the rotting end of the post, would not have been a good end to this story. I stashed the sign under my parents’ deck and the following morning, my father took one look at the whole thing, grabbed a hammer, and smacked the bolts until the sign popped off the post and was free. Nevermind that it took him two seconds to do what I could not accomplish in two hours.
Now the sign is wrapped and sitting under the Christmas tree, waiting to be discovered. I know that when Bobby opens the sign, he will see the humor in having a huge sign of his very own and he will appreciate that I took the time to steal something for him, but the real reason I wrote this story is to let him know he is worth the effort it took to steal that sign a hundred times over.
Merry Christmas!