Hell

Monday, June 5, 1995

Get me the hell out of here.

This was the collective weekend from Hades.

Saturday we had planned to head down to L.A. to visit Lisa’s ailing Grandpa. A few hours down there would follow our purchase of Kyle’s first birthday gift, a LittleTykes sprinkler pool (ready for use at his Birthday Party next Sunday), and would include a trip to some local record stores to purchase music for 4/4H’s reading of God’s Country (since the script calls for specific pieces of music). That would leave Sunday completely open for me to grade the Electronic Portfolios, "print" the EP’s to video and "print" the recently created GC stack (of lyrics for the musical selections) down to video, as well as teacher-edit the English 9 Expository Paragraphs.

That was the plan.

Now, what was it that Robert Burns wrote?

Lisa and I go out to breakfast with Kyle on Saturday; on our way back, now with groceries, we pass by the folks’ house (only a block away). They’re in the yard and waving us down. Something is wrong.

Grandpa had passed away in the night.

And a truly long weekend begins.

We dump off the groceries and head down to L.A.. A long day there (that grew longer after the extended family arrived and had no clue when to leave). Sunday’s jaunt to ToysRUs turned into an added side-trip to HomeDepot for a screen door (to keep flies out and kids in during Kyle's b-day party), only it wasn't that easy. ToysRUs in Ventura became ToysRUs in Thousand Oaks--30 miles away--since Ventura had sold out of the pool; and the anticipated hour's worth of errands stretched to nearly ten (since when we attempted to put up the screen door, we found it damaged); it was seven-thirty when I sat down to do what I had anticipated would be a six-hour computer job, "printing" the HyperStudio stack for GC to VHS. It didn't take that long... because I couldn't do it--missing cable. The papers didn’t get edited, either.

And that was the Reader’s Digest version.

Lisa’s adjusting well. I don’t think Grandpa's death has set in yet. At least not for real. The memorial service will probably do that (if there is one; Grandpa wanted no funeral, only cremation). That should be sometime this week... which is shaping up to be another nightmare. I’ve begged off the District standard English curriculum meeting (to attend to grading and this and Lisa and the "printing" of EP’s), the yearbook distribution is tomorrow, Wednesday is Academic Detention and Jane and David’s night at Chez Walters, Thursday is computer day, and Friday is the last with the seniors (not to mention the end-of-year staff luncheon [for which Harold and I have created "The Top Ten Ways You Can Tell Your WASC Self-Study is Going to Suck"... including Number One: You see Bonds and Kurtzmann on campus, and they give you Two Thumbs Up!]).

A long week, and not off to a good start.

Today, the morning maintenance crew was busy painting over the graffiti that the cross-town gang had scrawled on our walls over the weekend. The classes were slow, probably feeding off my melancholy and lethargy. Knight announced to Mary that the rumor was true... he’s gone at the end of the year, leaving Joan the senior administrator on campus (with only two years here). I’m having problems tracking down the missing cable for the computer. The lo-tech solution to the God’s Country music problem (a cassette) died, with my old tape player eating the tape in class. And even leaving campus was a hassle.

As I exited the gate with my bike during fourth period, a student off-campus tried to brush past me as I was locking up the gate. I told him he would have to go the extra fifty yards to the front office gate to get in... standard operating procedure. He told me that I just didn't want to help him. Well--lock--that might just be right, but he had to go the front office regardless, as that was school policy.

"Well, fuck you then." And he turned and walked off.

Wrong day, wrong move, fuckhead.

"Real easy to say that walkin' away."

He turned and looked over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you. Say it to my face if you've got something to say. If you've got the guts."

"Fuck you." And off he went again.

We choose our battles well when we are well-rested and not stressed. We pick 'em stupidly when we're tired and stressed. I ended up chasing down the kid, who tried to dog me and stare me down, and taking him down to the office, into BubbaDumber's office, where I deposited the little punk, stating:

"I was attempting to leave campus because I needed to take care of some personal matters; when I did not let this student through the gate that I was locking up, because this is school policy, I was then told, and I quote, 'FUCK YOU.' I really don't need to take this. Not today."

I didn't even wait for a response, though I think I heard, "I'll take care of it" behind me as I left down the hall.

Right.

Of course, in doing all this--in making this attempt to get home to get stuff done to get rid of some stress--I dropped my keys while bringing in the miscreant. Did I notice? No.

Not until Jack Green, Maintenance Guy of the Gods, called me at home, telling me he had found my keys. Thank God.