How Long Does It Take?

How long does it take a disgruntled student who is leaving the assistant principal’s office to pull out his cell phone and speed-dial his mother, who forwards the message to the dad, who rings up the assistant superintendent, who kicks it to the director of secondary education, who calls the principal, who summons the afore-mentioned assistant principal into his office? 

o o o o o

The young man stomps into the assistant principal’s office uninvited, slams a weighted brown Alpha Beta bag down on the desk and barks, “That lady in the library says I must pay for my book.” (Only he did not say “lady.”)

Me      “So, what’s the problem”?

Him    “It’s the end of first semester. I went to the library to turn in my government book and check out my econ book for the second semester, and she said I can’t get my new book until I pay for this one.”

Me      “Well, let’s take a look.” 

Opening the bag and peering in, the student’s dilemma — and the librarian’s point — are both immediately apparent; because what used to be a textbook is a total mess, twisted, torn, shredded, nearly unrecognizable.  Do they make a blender for books? 

Me      “Obviously they can’t take it back.  So yes, that is the policy.  You must either return the book in good enough condition for another student, or you must pay for it.”

Him    “It’s not fair.  It’s not my fault.  Why should I have to pay for it?  I need my new book.”

Oh, the whining!

Me      “Yeah, I get that, but if someone borrowed your bike, you would expect it to come back in one piece, right”?

I thought my logic was unassailable; but, more whining!

Me      “So how did this happen”?

What I heard next was the all-time, most lame and pitiful excuse that has worn the patience of teachers from coast to coast for generations.

Him    “My dog ate it.”

Taking another look in the bag, I could believe it; and if true, it was not a Chiweenie or a Peke or a Shih Tzu.  Based on the physical evidence it was the Hound of the Baskervilles.  You could tell that it was one of those dogs who — once he picks up a book – cannot put it down until he is finished.

Me      “So you really don’t think you should have to pay for this book, right”?

Him    “Darn right.” (Only he did not say “darn.”)

Me      “Someone has to pay; so here is a suggestion.  Get your dog to pay for it.  Because until he does, or you do, or your parents do, you are not getting your econ book.”

He grabbed his bag and left the office in a huff, pulling out his cell phone and initiating the phone loop mentioned above.  And in answer to the question above, about how much time it takes?

Not long!

By the time I made a brief pit stop and checked my mailbox and snagged a cup of coffee from the staff lounge, the principal was standing in the hallway, beckoning me with “IN. MY. OFFICE.”   

When I sat down, he growled, “It has been reported to me that you told a student that he must get his dog to buy a book, or he cannot check out anything from the school library.  Tell me you didn’t say that.”

Put like that, it did sound a trifle unprofessional, and a bit snarky.  It conjured up the memory of a popular parlor game called “telephone” where you whisper a message around the table, and by the time it gets back to you, it doesn’t sound quite the same as when it started.

Sitting in the chief’s office, I was thinking that there might be a scalding from on high; but by the time I told him the story of the kid and the bag and the book and the dog and the whining, he was giggling.  Since he had received the call from the district office brass, he said he would make the call to the parent.  Not ten minutes later he was in my office, quoting a familiar refrain, a refrain that I had heard more than once before when I had messed up, and which totally endeared me to this most excellent of bosses: “Once again, Piatt, I have covered your backside.”  (Only he did not say “backside.”)