Long before I tricked Ethan into loving me, he was my nemesis. I don’t recall any specific reasons why now, but I could often be found plotting revenge and drafting blueprints for public humiliations. The problem I kept running into was how to humiliate someone who was casual about that time he pooped himself while wearing nylons.

In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen Ethan really get upset by someone’s prank was when he woke up to Arnica hovering over his cowboy boot like a crusty gargoyle while peeing in it. He insisted that it was very difficult for him to find boots in his size, and that everyone knows cowboys have small feet.

One night I had a brilliant idea: I would steal his hat and go graffiti up the downtown area, leaving the hat behind as evidence. I figured anyone would be able to recognize his hat—he always wore it, and it was the kind an old-timey detective would wear while solving crimes. At the time this seemed reasonable, but keep in mind that I was young and usually operating under the influence of a drug-and-alcohol buffet.

Things were going smoothly. After putting the finishing touches on my spray-painted butts and wieners and placing the hat where the cops would be sure to find it, I was crawling over the tall iron fence of a storage unit facility when who should pull up but a police officer. I was literally caught red-handed.

The officer gets out of his car, walks over to me, glances behind me at the freshly painted walls, looks back at me and asks what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I reply.

“You see who did this?” he asks.

“Fat kid in pajamas. He ran that way,” I say, gesturing to the south with my elbow.

The officer leaves.

I have to believe this cop just didn’t feel like dealing with me, and not that he went chasing after the fanciful culprit, though I was ready with more details, should he have asked. 

His pajamas were striped, he walked with an unsteady gait, and his hair was mostly straight, but curled up a bit on the forehead where things got greasier. He was wearing sneakers with two different colored laces, one neon green, one black—I remember because I thought it odd that he’d be wearing sneakers with pajamas. He looked like his name was Aaron, or possibly Matt. His cheeks were red compared to the rest of his pale face. It looked like he didn’t get out much, and his sensitive skin was reacting to the atmosphere.

The fat-kid-in-pajamas explanation has, over the years, become one of my favorites. You can use it with anyone, from roommates and employers to pet shop owners and British royalty. Who ate all the Beefaroni? Fat kid in pajamas. Who spilled coffee on the Mancini file? Fat kid in pajamas. Who mixed the betas? Fat kid in pajamas. How did this horse get in the ballroom? Fat kid in pajamas.

The thing that really tickles me about this memory is the fact that if I had been busted, I’d still be paying the fine—which means that Ethan would be paying, because while I go to school, he’s working. So either way I would have gotten him. That’s almost as funny as the time I swindled him into marrying me and combining our DNA.