The Sidekick’s Itinerary to Find the City of Gold
by Kasey Moulton
Maybe calling it a heist movie is a bold claim, but come on: it’s got a gala, a computer geek who only vaguely knows how to hold a conversation, intergenerational conflict, broken alliances, and Nicolas Cage. What’s not to love?
Whether or not it counts as a heist movie isn’t really the point. The point is that National Treasure is quite possibly one of the best films ever made, and at some point before I die, I need to embark on my own adventure up and down the eastern seaboard looking for clues in some of America’s earliest and most consistently scrutinized cultural artifacts (all I need are lemons and a hair dryer, and we’re in business!).
The hard reality is that this quest might be impossible. Blowing up ships in the Arctic sounds irresponsible, and I don’t know any treasure hunters with dubious morals who might be able to get me an in. The Silence Dogood letters do not exist anymore. The National Parks Service watches the back staircase very carefully (I know because I thought about jumping the cord and looking for spectacles in the bricks myself just a few weeks ago. My friends were unimpressed).
What makes a heist movie fun is thinking that you could actually do it yourself. I might not be able to outrun the FBI or balance my way across a rickety decaying footbridge, but I can contribute fun facts and charming conversation, all things that are essential for any good heist crew. They don’t find the treasure without the clever sidekick who spends more time in trouble than getting people out of it.
Recommendations, before we get to the trip itself:
- Make a friend with a mysterious family history and a questionable moral code.*
- Spend years acquiring an assortment of random fun facts that serve absolutely no purpose until you need to a) impress someone or b) figure out the time on a dollar bill, unadjusted for daylight savings.
- Become a member of the Freemasons (access to mysterious spaces and a network always helps [or just join a sorority])! If that’s not possible, respond to the Instagram bots asking if you want to become a member of the Illuminati. That should work, right?
(*the aforementioned friend with a mysterious family history and a questionable ethical code should also have an equally mysterious amount of wealth to bail you out when this trip inevitably goes sideways)
Day One: Join an expedition into the Arctic. Why you’re along – who knows. Bundle up and don’t forget to leave your explosives at home.
Days Two-Five: Make it out of the Arctic following an explosion that undoubtedly destroyed shockingly well-preserved historical artifacts and probably escalates the rate at which the permafrost is melting. Recover following a near-death experience.
Day Six: Report your former colleague (the historical artifact destroyer) to the FBI and a charming archivist. Go into the process knowing you won’t be taken seriously. Again, contemplate your role in this little journey – surely your awkwardness in front of authority figures won’t make the interviews more suspect than they already sound.
Day Seven: Complain profusely as the hero gets to dress up and attend a gala at the National Archives with an open bar (seriously, after the week you’ve had, a drink is literally the bare minimum). In less than 8 hours, you’ve got to come up with a plan that’ll keep you from prison or death. Parallel park a very obvious, not at all innocuous, vehicle very poorly. Witness a kidnapping. Recover following a near-death experience. Panic after realizing you’re an accessory to a federal crime (18 U.S. Code § 641)
Day Eight: Road trip! Three hours up the Eastern Seaboard. Commit another federal crime. Decide you’re in too deep but also are so aggressively committed to the bit that continuing is your only option. The sidekick doesn’t get an out.
Day Nine: Wow the hero and their new love interest with wildly important historical fun facts! Bribe a child into breaking an Ottendorf cipher. Skip the end of the Independence Hall tour and watch as the hero finds the next clue, nestled away in a spot so obscure that placing clues seems pointless. Run from your former colleague responsible for your near-death in the Arctic through the streets of Philadelphia. Lose a precious cultural artifact to the aforementioned former colleague. Realize that the real world is catching up really quickly and that the FBI definitely has a warrant out for your arrest. Question every life choice you’ve made up until this point.
Day Ten: The road trip continues! Two hours to yet another museum, this one on the Hudson. Evade arrest again. Break your friends out of FBI custody.
Day Eleven: Jesus Christ, why do clues lead to cemeteries? Maybe one day, they’ll lead to open fields and well-lit public places without dust problems. Watch one of the bad guys fall into a mysteriously deep pit, panic, and do your best to make it out unscathed. Realize that this might actually have been worth something after all and that even though sidekicks don’t get the glory, they get the experience, and maybe that’s the point. Complain the whole time anyways. Cry at the sight of stairs.
Day Twelve: Survive extensive questioning by the Department of Justice. Recover following a near-death experience.
Day Thirty: Confirm with your bank that the large deposit is not fraudulent and that your identity has not been stolen. This time, a risk paid off (literally, not emotionally).
Heist movies never go sideways. Trying to reenact one might.
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