The Phantom Thief

I would have liked to stay asleep in bed that Autumn morning in 2004 than sit inside Mrs. Rodriguez's fourth grade classroom—going through the motions of a not so typical American schoolboy. I was exhausted from a late-night VHS binge (Indiana Jones marathon), but I needed to stay awake, or Mrs. Rodriguez might embarrass me in front of the class, call my mom, or even give me detention—I wasn't sure what she would do. My eyelids were heavy while I stared at the blank lines in a Mead composition book on my desk. Each morning, Mrs. Rodriguez required her students to free write in a journal. It was a form of self-expression and, as she so elegantly exclaimed, "something we can look back to and read when we are much older, to remember ourselves at a younger age, and to remember our thoughts, troubles, and inspirations at the time."

While I stared at the blank page, listening to other students around me scribble in their journals with speed and purpose, I recalled a dream, and a movie (The Curse of the Black Pearl) and I proceeded to write. I inscribed about my ideal self, far older and far more cutthroat, adventurous, and free. I was Jack Sparrow, standing at the helm of a magnificent pirate ship—one hand on the helm, the other readjusting my tricorn hat.

Suddenly, the crackle of the intercom pulled me out of my reverie, causing me to bite the inside of my bottom lip; I dropped my pencil in my notebook. I looked around the classroom. Several students were now breathing heavier, also caught off guard by the sudden interruption. Mrs. Rodriguez, deskbound, lifted her head and stared off into the classroom, pinching her wrinkled lips together; her long, chandelier earrings swung back and forth like pendulums along her neck. Over the intercom, Mr. Gary Cunningham, the principal of Veneta Elementary School, said, "Sam Figura... please come to my office immediately. Thank you." I heard the hissing click of the intercom through the speaker, signaling the end of his message.

Students in the classroom craned their heads toward me. I felt my jaw drop slightly and my heartbeat climb into my throat.

"Me?" I said, looking at the teacher. "Why me?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Rodriguez. "But you’d better go, or you'll get into trouble."

I closed my journal with my pencil inside of it to save my place and stood from my desk. Many students stared at me, silent, several giving me a once over with pencils in their hands.

One student snickered while I left Mrs. Rodriguez's fourth grade classroom in an awkward rush—I nearly tripped over my twelve-dollar Walmart shoes.

Why am I being called to the office? I thought. Is someone in my family hurt?

It was my first year as a student at Veneta Elementary School. I moved from Springfield, Oregon to the small city of Veneta, Oregon (about forty-five minutes west of Springfield) in the summer of that year. I had no friends, no reputation, nobody except for my small family, and the hope that I would make some friends and build a name for myself.

I was chary and trudged little by little into the front office. The secretary, a woman who looked like she was in her mid-forties with a medium build, thick glasses, and already thin, graying hair, looked away from her Gateway computer monitor to get a more suitable look at me. She didn't say anything but waited for me to speak first. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to be there in the first place.

Then the voice of Mr. Cunningham boomed through his doorway. "Sam." I shuttered and looked to the right and through his doorway. I saw a pale, white wall and nothing else from this angle. "Come into my office, now."

I returned a look of apprehension to the secretary, then I took my eyes off her and, staring to the right again toward Mr. Cunningham's doorway, felt my feet, heavy like sacks of dirt, carried me through his doorway and into his office.

Mr. Cunningham was sitting on his chair behind his large, resin-coated pine desk, his fingers interlocked behind his shiny, bald head, and his legs resting on the corner of his desk. He was leaning back as far as his chair would allow him. He unraveled his fingers and pointed with one hand toward two hard, plastic chairs across from his desk, his other hand behind his head. "Sit down, please," he said, his voice casual, neither deep nor lady-like.

I sat in the chair closest to the door. I didn't like to feel confined in small spaces, and Mr. Cunningham's office was a small space. His desk and his wastebasket took up most of the room's real estate. The only other appliances in the office was a tall bookshelf on the far wall and a filing cabinet next to it. Behind Mr. Cunningham was a large window. I looked outside: the American flag was being raised by three fifth graders and the computer lab teacher, Mr. Otto. I wondered if I would be chosen to be part of that group next year.

It would be an honor to raise the American flag, I thought. A genuine honor.

Mr. Cunningham stood from his chair, walked around his desk, and closed the door. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, office slacks, and a pair of New Balance athletic shoes. He returned to his desk and sat on the edge of his chair. He looked at me without saying anything, so I looked on his desk. I saw a bobblehead—the Oregon duck. Then I looked at his pen holder. He had pencils, pens, and a small Oregon Duck flag sticking out of it. It didn't take me long to realize that his entire office was decked out in Oregon Duck memorabilia. He had an Oregon Duck rug on the floor in front of his desk and, on his bookshelf, a framed picture of himself standing next to the Oregon Duck mascot; and next to the picture, a football signed with many signatures (perceivably Oregon Duck football players). He had multiple Duck flags on all four corners of his wall, and so many other Duck items. It felt like I walked into the Duck Store on the University of Oregon campus.

Mr. Cunningham broke the silence. "Do you know why I called you here?"

"No." I said, shrugging, moving my lips from side to side, returning my eyes back to him.

"I think you do."

"No... I don't."

"What happened in Sophia’s class? You know, Mrs. Reed?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Mr. Cunningham stood again, walked three steps to his bookshelf, and shuffled objects around on his shelf. He pulled off a can that had a strange top on it. Then he turned, looked at me, and held the can in his hand next to his side. I took my eyes off the can and returned my gaze to the principal's large, mud-brown eyes. "I'll ask you again. What happened in Mrs. Reed's class?"

"I don't know."

A loud horn blasted, and my entire body quaked. I quickly covered my ears. My heart pounded in my chest. I looked around the room and had the impulse to sprint out of the office.

"Do you know what this is?" said Mr. Cunningham.

"May I leave? I have no idea."

Mr. Cunningham raised the can in front of his face, then lowered it back to his side.

"This is my lie detector," he said. "It says that you're lying. I'll ask you again. What happened in Mrs. Reed's class?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

He blasted the horn again.

"You're lying."

"I swear,” I said, staring at the door, then to Mr. Cunningham. “I have no idea what you're talking about."

The horn went off again. I wondered how many students in the classrooms and halls heard this. I wondered what all the students in Mrs. Rodriguez's class, while they were writing in their journals in the quiet hum of the classroom, thought of the sudden horn going off every few seconds. Would they think it was the traffic passing by on Territorial Road? Or would they be familiar with Mr. Cunningham's lie detector? And since my classmates knew I left to see him in the office, would they consider me a liar now? Would they write about me in their journals now?

"I'll give you one more chance. What happened in Mrs. Reed's class?"

"I have no clue."

He blew the horn again, then he put the can on the bookshelf and returned to his desk. I had no idea what game he was playing, nor did I know what he was talking about. He sat on the edge of his chair again, propped his elbows on his desk, interlocked his fingers, and looked at me over his knuckles with a sullen look on his face.

"You're telling me," said Mr. Cunningham, taking a break in the middle of his sentence to catch his breath, "that you didn't steal those cougar kudos out of Leah's desk?"

"What? No. Of course not. I sat at her desk when we were doing a class exercise, but I never put my hands inside her desk. I never saw cougar kudos sticking out of her desk or anything. I swear. I didn’t steal anything."

This must’ve happened last Friday, I thought. I had the first half of the school day with Mrs. Rodriguez, then I had the last half of the day after lunch with Mrs. Reed.

"Leah reported to Mrs. Reed that all of her cougar kudos are missing. She’s very shaken up. She told Mrs. Reed that she had a nice stack, and it took her the first couple of weeks of school to earn those kudos. She is the star pupil in Mrs. Reed's class. And Leah planned to spend those at the VES Cougar Store. Do you understand how serious this is? Do you?"

"I never stole anything, I swear."

"If you tell me what happened to them, this won't get any worse for you. Sam, you could be suspended for lying, even expelled."

I felt a weight drop in my lap. I tried to swallow the spit accumulating in my mouth, but it wouldn't go down. There was a heavy lump in my throat; I couldn't even speak.

"Do you understand Sam? You could be expelled for breaking such a tenet. This is severe. We don't allow thieves in our school. I'll give you another chance before I call your mom. Did you steal those cougar kudos?"

"No. I did not."

Mr. Cunningham lifted the phone off the receiver on his desk and, after looking down at a small stack of paper in an open green folder on his desk, dialed a phone number.

"Hello," said Mr. Cunningham, "is this the parent or guardian of Sam Figura?" After a couple of seconds or so, he continued: "We have strong suspicions that your son stole a stack of cougar kudos from a student in one of his classes. We don't allow such behavior in our school, and we must act accordingly. Such behavior can result in suspension, even expulsion. If you find a stack of cougar kudos around his bedroom or anywhere else in your residence, please report to me at once. It would do him much good if you find them. It’s important that they are returned. Thanks."

He set the phone back on the receiver without giving my mom a chance to reply. Then he looked at me, pinched his eyes together, and he rested his back against the chair and relaxed his face. He said, "Your mom sounded very disappointed in you. Tell me again: Did you steal the cougar kudos?"

Disappointed? I thought. You didn’t give her a chance to reply. Now who’s the liar?

"No, I did not steal anything."

And that was the truth. I didn’t steal anything.

"I sentence you to a week of detention. That should get the truth out of you. I know you’re new here, so here’s the idea: after you get your lunch from the cafeteria, return to the office. You will eat your food here, and once you're done, you'll wait until the bell rings to return to your class. When you're ready to tell the truth, come into my office, and I'll commute your sentence. I know it was you. Nobody else sat at that desk. I don't like liars, so I don't like you. You're dismissed."

I left Mr. Cunningham's office in a rush. Before I returned to Mrs. Rodriguez's classroom, I stopped in the hall and felt that lump return to my throat. I went to a water fountain and washed it down, then I returned to my classroom and finished my journal entry for the day. I had something to write about that wasn't about myself as a pirate sailing the seven seas (although I felt like I'd rather do that than be in school).

After the final bell rang at the end of the school day, I rode my bike home (four blocks away) and went inside my mom's manufactured home.

Mom was sitting on her recliner, leaning forward toward her large, square, Panasonic TV, ignoring me as I walked inside. She was blind and deaf, so she had to lean close to the television to see or hear anything, and her hearing aides were always turned to the max when she watched her soap operas.

"I'm home."

"I know," she said, her voice soft with a tone of disappointment in her voice.

"I suppose you have a lot on your mind."

"Well, of course I do," she said, raising her voice, slapping her knee, then looking at me with a look of fire in her eyes. "Your principal called today. He said you stole something—a stack of kudos. How could you do that? He said you could be expelled. We can't afford to move. You'd be sent to Pico—the military school off Central. Do you really want to be sent to Pico?"

"Mom... I didn't steal anything. I swear."

"Unbelievable." She shook her head. "You won't even tell me the truth."

"Mom... I am telling the truth. Nobody believes me. I didn't steal anything."

"Well, the principal sure thinks you did. Who am I supposed to believe?"

"Your son, of course."

"Whatever. Just go to bed. I'm done with you."

"Okay. Good night, Mom."

She returned her focus toward her Panasonic TV without wishing me a good night.

I went to the cafeteria the following day for lunch and found myself with less food than usual. Typically, they gave everyone the same amount of food, but when I held my tray out, the lunch lady gave me only three tater tots, half a scoop of corn, and half a scoop of potatoes (no turkey). I even wanted gravy on my potatoes, but the staff refused to give me any, motioning for me to move forward along the line and not hold anyone up. The students ahead of me and behind me received more than quadruple what I was given on their trays (including turkey). Once I had all the food the staff would provide, I picked up a carton of 1% milk and proceeded to detention.

I went into the front office and said to the secretary, "I'm here for detention."

"Sit over there," she said, pointing her long, pearly white index fingernail toward one of three empty desks in the corner.

How could someone with such long fingernails type on keyboards all day? I thought.

I carried my food over and sat my food on the desk. I took off my backpack and propped it against the desk on the floor. Then I pulled out the chair from under the desk and sat on it.

I ate my food slowly, sipping from my milk carton, trying to make this fifty-minute detention less drab than it already was. Once I finished my food, I pushed my tray to the far side of the desk. Then I unzipped my backpack, and before I had the chance to put my hand inside, the secretary said, "Mr. Cunningham requests that you mustn’t do your homework, read, or anything while you're in detention. He wants you to sit here and brood over your thoughts."

"But that's awfully boring. How can I just sit here and do nothing?"

"You'll get used to it. Trust me."

It wasn't long until my head rested on the desk, and I closed my eyes.

I was startled awake by the sound of Mr. Cunningham’s horn, blasting into my ears from less than a foot away. I turned around in my chair and stared at him, feeling my eyebrows pinch together, and giving him the most irritated look I could muster on my face.

"No sleeping during detention," said Mr. Cunningham. I looked past him at the secretary. Her eyes were focused on her Gateway computer monitor. Then I looked back at the principal. He said, "Are you ready to make your confession?"

"I told you already. I didn't steal anything."

I continued to attend detention each day of the week, and at the end—or near the end—of each hour-long session, Mr. Cunningham approached me and asked, "Are you ready to make your confession?"

And each time I replied, "I told you. I didn't steal anything."

After I answered his question the same way each time, he would release me to class. However, on the last day of detention on Friday of that week, Mr. Cunningham, after asking me the same question, and I answered the same way, invited me into his office. I wanted to say no, but I felt like I had no other choice but to go inside and listen to what he had to say.

Am I going to be suspended? I thought. Expelled?

Mr. Cunningham opened the door for me. I walked inside, then I sat in the same chair as before. The principal went around his desk, pulled out his cushioned, swiveling chair, and sat on it. He scootched closer to his desk, took out a pen from his Oregon Duck pencil holder, and started tapping it on his desk.

"You're a tough cookie to break. You know, Sam, I really thought you did it. Many people said you did it… that you stole those cougar kudos. Who do I believe? You have one last chance. Tell me the truth: did you steal them?"

"How many times do I need to say it. No. I did not steal those cougar kudos."

"Well, I still don't believe you. I really don't. You seem like a liar to me, and a damn good liar. But I got the picture now. You won't confess. Even if I give you detention all year, you won't confess."

"Why would I confess to a crime I never committed?"

"Hold up, Sam. You can't say that because you did steal those cougar kudos. I feel it in my gut that you did, and my gut is always right. So, are you calling me a liar now?"

I stayed silent.

"I see. You do. Well, if you made a confession at all this week, I would have suspended you for a week. Easy peasy. It wouldn’t have been so bad. However, since you won’t tell me the truth, here's what I'll do."

Mr. Cunningham picked up his office phone from the receiver, held it against his ear, and as he looked down at my folder on his desk, punched some numbers on the dial pad. Then he spoke on the phone, saying, "Are you the parent or guardian of Sam Figura?" After a moment, he continued, saying, "You son still hasn't confessed to stealing those cougar kudos, nor have you called me to say that you found them. I don't have enough evidence to suspend him. Instead, I would like your permission to keep him here after school tonight to do some hard cleaning. After that, his punishment for stealing will be paid in full, and we can all move past this. I understand he rides his bike home. It will be late, perhaps past dark, but he should be fine with all the streetlights and all. Will this be okay?" After another pause, the principal continued, saying, "Thank you. Have a nice evening."

Then he slammed the phone onto the receiver. He rested his elbow on the desk, then he grabbed his chin and shook his head at me. "Okay, Sam, here's the deal: meet me in the gym after class tonight, and I'll go over your cleaning project. We’ll consider it quid pro quo. Okay?"

"I never stole anything."

He took his hand away from his chin and waved it once in front of his face, then he pointed toward his door. I stood from the chair and left his office in a hurry.

After the final bell rang, and all the students rushed out of Mrs. Reed's classroom and headed toward their cubbies, I moseyed my way to the gym, deciding to collect my jacket and other belongings after Mr. Cunningham's cleaning project.

When I arrived at the gym, technically a basketball court, I noticed that all the lights—except for the hallway—were turned off, and an eerie hum buzzed throughout the empty space. I searched for Mr. Cunningham in the dark, echoey gym, but I couldn't find him. I thought I saw shadows moving in the dark space, and I felt my heart race slightly, but I decided those shadows were created only by my imagination, or perhaps a few spots of dust floating in front of my eyes.

Suddenly the lights came on one at a time, many flickering, and I looked toward the hallway where I entered and saw Mr. Cunningham, standing with the light panel open and his index and middle fingers of his left hand pressing on a switch.

"You're a man of your word," said Mr. Cunningham. "Well... boy. You have a few more years to go, and a real man would never lie. Anyway, life'll all go by fast, trust me. Are you ready to pay back your reparations?"

"I didn't steal anything."

"You sound like a broken record."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"Sam, let's cut the turkey. I can see right through you. Should I fetch my lie detector?"

"Please don't."

"You and I both know you are full of it. However, since I don't have any proof for the superintendent, we'll meet in the middle and settle this score once and for all."

"I'm listening."

Mr. Cunningham reached into his tan pants and pulled out a small rag, slightly larger than a toilet paper square. He tossed it toward me, but he didn't toss it hard enough, so it landed on the gym floor in front of me.

"Pick it up," said Mr. Cunningham. “Go ahead. I don’t have all day.”

I walked several steps forward, keeping my eyes on Mr. Cunningham, and picked it up (my eyes still locked on him). It was a thin, muslin cloth; it felt light in my hands.

"You see the gym floor, Sam? Do you see all those scuffle marks? I would like you to take that rag and wipe this floor until it’s spotless. I’ll come back in a couple of hours. If I see any spots missing, you will be here for another hour, and if that doesn’t do it, another hour after that until it's spotless. I’ll keep you here all night until you have it done right. You got it?"

This is impossible, I thought. This floor is much too large for such a little rag.

I didn't want to show him any weakness, so I said, in a tone of bravado, "No problem at all."

"Good, good."

He walked away through the same hallway.

I stared at the basketball court. It would be considered a regular-sized court with hoops on each end. However, there were no bleachers, no tables, nothing except for the basketball court and a row of lockers on one side. The opposite wall had a mural of a cougar on it, and under the mural was written: Veneta Elementary. Under that was: Home of the Cougars.

Should I go on my knees to scrub the floor? I thought. Or should I find an easier method?

I decided to drop the muslin cloth on the floor and step on it, using my foot to push it along. I worked in rows slowly from one side to the other, scrubbing as I went, hoping not to miss any spots. Once I made it to the end of the row, I looked back to see if I did well or not. Some places were easier than others to scrub off. At one point, I found a chewed piece of gun stuck on the floor. I knew Mr. Cunningham would have beef with me if I left it there, but I had nothing to scrape it off. I resorted to using the fingernail of my thumb to remove it, and once I scraped it off, I hid it on top of a locker.

He'll never think to check there, I thought.

When I made it to the half-court line, I looked at the clock and realized that I was an hour and ten minutes into it, and I was drenched in sweat. I wanted to finish before Mr. Cunningham returned, so I hurried along, focusing on applying more pressure to each motion, moving quickly as if it was gym class. It was dreadfully boring, and exhausting, so I entertained myself by whistling the tune from the Harry Potter films as loudly as I could, enjoying the echo all around me. And once I was bored with that tune, I whistled the tune from The Curse of the Black Pearl.

Once I finished scrubbing the entire basketball court, and I thought my work was a veritable success, I picked up the muslin rag by pinching it. Then I unfolded it in my hand. There was a half-dollar sized hole in the middle of it, and the entire rag was so dark, it looked like it was spotted with oil stains.

I looked at the clock. It was now five minutes before Mr. Cunningham said he would return. It was late, but I knew it wasn’t so late that there would be no sunlight left outside.

I walked into the hallway and waited for Mr. Cunningham under the electric panel. Five minutes had passed, then ten minutes, then fifteen minutes, but he never appeared. I was sitting there against the wall, resting my forehead against my knees—the rag next to me. It was my hope that Mr. Cunningham would see the filthy rag next to me and know that I successfully finished my task.

It was an hour after I finished the job that Mr. Cunningham walked into the hallway, saying, "All done?"

His voice frightened me, causing me to shutter all over and lift my head so quickly it almost slammed against the wall behind me.

"Yeah," I said, blinking rapidly, "I finished a while ago. Rag's all black and got a big hole in it—not much left to it."

"I see that," said Mr. Cunningham, walking onto the basketball court. "I didn't expect to see it so clean. You did better than our janitor. I don't even know where he went."

"Thank you."

"I hope this teaches you to never steal, Sam. You paid back your dues. You're dismissed."

"If I may, sir, I swear, and I'm telling you the truth, fingers crossed: I did not steal those cougar kudos."

"Right. It doesn’t matter anymore. You may go home now. Tell your mom that I said it's all sorted out now. I'll give her a call on Monday to report on your good service."

"I’ll see you Monday then."

"And hopefully not in my office."

Mr. Cunningham turned around, put both hands in his pockets, and continued down the long, dim hallway toward his office. I stood from the floor, stretched my sore back, and popped my knuckles. I walked to my cubby and picked up my jacket and my backpack, and I walked home in the dark.

Many years later, when I transferred to Elmira High School, I discovered that Mr. Cunningham was promoted to be their principal. He even decorated the entire office and many other places around the school in Oregon Duck memorabilia, and most of the teachers who were Oregon State Beaver fans often fought with him about which team would be better for that season. I kept my distance from him as much as I could, but whenever he saw me, he gave me a furtive look that told me somewhere, inside his conscious mind or even inside his subconscious mind, he knew that I never stole those cougar kudos, but he didn't want to admit it.

Image above: picture of myself from 2004

Note: Several names were changed in order to protect myself and the privacy of those involved in this story. This is a work of creative non-fiction.