This restaurant was prepared for us as always, a salad, drink, and a nice entree. Anytime we had an activity here, call ahead, done deal. This time it was FBLA, we did well and were ready to eat.
The bus emptied, but some commotion in back attracted my attention.
“She says she can’t eat here.”, my sponsor relayed to me.
“Why can’t you eat here?”. I asked. ” Our teams always eat here.”
“It’s a bar.”
Having been here many times, it took a long glance to find what she was seeing. Next to the alley was another entrance with an obscure ‘bar’ sign. I realized this was a parent/church thing. The sponsor volunteered to eat with the girl on the bus, so we relayed two salads, two drinks, and two nice entrees. It was the best we could do.
About a month later, the father of this girl was on the phone. The voice was crisp and hard. “Be in your office at four this afternoon.”
“What’s this all about?” I don’t believe anyone had ever spoken to me in that manner. “Maybe we can get it fixed over phone.”
“Just be there.” , the voice rendered a demonic bit of nastiness.
Four o’clock, my office. Cowboy boots and a dated blue suit was his wardrobe, his straight, small frame carried angry body language. I would have offered him a seat, but his forceful approach with a notebook precluded that nicety.
“what is going on at this school!?”.
Usually I use kindness allowing the parent a chance to release the speech that they had been practicing at home, in the car, and walking up the stairs.
“The band instructor is teaching this?”, his pinched face alive and uncontrolled . At least now we have narrowed it down to band. “This is a devil’s song and my daughter won’t play it!”.
“Which song are you talking about?”. Our band man would not step over any bounds, a good guy. The music sheet in my face read, ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog’.
Game on,”I know this song and there is nothing wrong with it.”
“What about this?” he pointed to the top right corner. “Rock and roll tempo”, now almost in a lather. “You know what that means?”
Not a musician but had the general idea.
“It’s negro talk for the act of sex!”. Rock and roll, the things you learn in the principal’s office.
“I’m going to the board about this.”
It was a nice enjoyable spring day until our custodian charged into the office. Not often ruffled, but ruffled was the best adjective for the moment.
“I need you to see this!” We made way to the boy’s restroom. In the corner was the largest turd I had ever seen. If caught, the custodian wanted to pull the lever at the hanging.
A few days later, it happened again, same restroom, same corner, and same result.
My detective skills gave me several clues, First, I eliminated half the students right away. It was after all in the boy’s restroom. Then , I eliminated all the boys who, in my opinion, couldn’t lay that size of egg.
There was a senior bus student that had the last two hours off and studied near the restroom. I paid him $10 to check the restroom after each student left for graffiti or anything unusual.
Several days later, “You are not going to believe this,” said our senior walking me down to the restroom. He pointed to a new egg. “You know who did it?”. Oh, I was all ears.
“Mike!” , it was the girl’s brother, Boot’s son. My mind speculated all the different ways to play this hand. I did know how the game would start..
“I want you down here in my office at four o’clock exactly”