Presidential Pants Pandemonium

In hindsight, this was a bad idea. Terrible, even. I don’t know what happened or why I even attempted it. But, what’s done is done, and my uncle’s the proprietor, maybe he’ll let me off the hook or something. Anyway, if I get arrested and a lawyer needs to use these notes in a case for my liberation, I guess I should explain.

It’s the PTA fundraising lottery’s fault. My family won this raffle and used the money to go on a two-week vacation in London. Awesome, right? WRONG. The flight had cold dinner rolls and was turbulent the whole way. Most of the cash we won was blown on the flight, AND we forgot to convert our money, so the lady at the dingy hotel brusquely rebuffed us. So, lucky us, we got to sleep in a church.

My family is resilient, so we decided the next morning to convert and check into the Ruysdael Hotel. After three hours, a billion pounds of red tape, and one extremely memorable paper airplane dogfight, I was unpacking in my small fraction of the room, an air mattress slowly inflating beside me. The next day, my father called a cab to take me, my brother, who is 14, and himself to the British Museum.

(Why are cabs in London black? I kept thinking I saw the Batmobile. )

Ever since fourth grade when I finally had real Social Studies classes, I have had a passion for history. Naturally, excitement pervaded through me when I heard the museum was showing an exhibit on American presidents. (We do exhibits on British queens; I guess they wanted to return the favor.) Of course, my brother, Dylan, wanted to see the dinosaurs first. Most boy’s dinosaur obsession ends at eight, but he has gone six years past the standard. Give him a hand, folks.

The wait was excruciating, but finally I was allowed inside the exhibit, and my eyes were opened to a treasure trove of historic bits and bobs. There was a video of Jimmy Carter’s inauguration, and an actor emulating George Washington who gave tours if you paid extra.  The final object was an authentic pair of Chester A. Arthur’s pants! While I was reading the description,Dylan leaned over and whispered to me,"Dare you to stay."  

"What is that supposed to mean?"  I hissed back. 

"You know-stay overnight, like that movie where everything comes to life."  

"What do you think I am, stupid? Of course not."  Dad was beginning to give us a weird look, so I deducted that our whispering must look oddly conspicuous.  I was beginning to ask Dylan to stop when he leaned in closer, making things a little awkward.  

"I'll pay you ten bucks."  

"No." 

"Fifty." 

"No."  

"Seventy-five."
That was enough for me to consider it, at least. So, when Dylan threatened to tell Mom what I did to the cat, I reluctantly agreed. The plan was then set into action. After we returned to the dingy lodging, Dylan paid me in advance and told Mom we were going to visit a pen pal of his.  Using the fake mustache he takes everywhere, Dylan pretended to be my father, hailing a taxi to take us to the British Museum. I hid out in a bathroom in the Egyptian wing while my brother hailed a cab back to our ‘hotel’ (I don’t know if it meets hotel standards, or even motel regulations. Maybe it’s a notel.)

I stood on the toilet seat in order to not be seen for what seemed like hours, until I heard the janitor on the outside of the door, talking about leaving at 8:30. His friend said something about an event, but I only caught a little of it, so I assumed that it was at a janitor hangout or something. At 9:00, I decided to set foot outside the restroom, and found myself in the Egyptian Wing. It was awesome with no crowds, as I used my flashlight app on my phone to see the information. While I was learning about Imhotep, the pharaoh who built the pyramids, I received a text from Dylan:

“TEXT ME A SELFIE OF YOU WEARING CHESTER’S PANTS OR I WILL TELL. >:D”

For a second I didn’t know what he meant, but I soon realized that he meant the pair of trousers that belonged to Chester A. Arthur.

That JERK had only wanted to get me in trouble! Obviously, actually doing my brother’s bidding was a terrible idea. The wrath of Mom was nothing compared to the hot water I was about to be plunged into. But, it was nearly midnight, and my logic was probably not as sharp as I would have perceived. Plus, the pants, for some reason, were not in a glass case or even hung up. They were just folded neatly on a pedestal, their brown tweed stitching just gathering dust. A meager sign that read DO NOT TOUCH stood beside it. So, I stupidly grabbed the pants off the wooden podium, and quickly shoved them on, then took a picture of myself. As soon as I hit SEND, alarm bells went off. In a blind panic, I blew open a maintenance closet’s pockmarked old door (With some choice words carved in describing Jimmy Carter), and slammed the door shut. I found a small notepad and pencil in there, and am now using it to write this. I can hear police yelling and feet running and I’m terrified. So, anyway, that’s my side of the story. Please don’t arrest me.

Signed,

Dakota Bronson Ruprecht