Other People's Kids

DR

Chapter One: I Want To Be Sedated

He'd been having the same nightmare for a while. It surfaced when he had an especially rough day at work, or when he and his wife had an argument. It grew out of the frustrations he felt in dealing with the staff at his job, or with his clients, the 1700 member student body at the high school where he worked. In the dream, he was sitting at his desk in his office at school when someone he could never quite recognize, would appear in his doorway, holding a gun, and pointing it directly at him. No words were spoken as the gunman opened fire, and he had to dive to the floor behind the desk in an effort to save himself from a hail of bullets that ricocheted off the walls and shattered the window glass. As had happened before, he woke with a start, sat bolt upright in bed, shook himself awake, and shuddered at the memory of what he had just imagined. He never saw the end of the dream, always waking before he was killed, or wounded. Someone told him that people never saw themselves die in their dreams. He really did not care to know how this story ended, as he was just glad it was over for another night. He tried to make light of it by reminding himself that somewhere out there was a psychiatrist waiting to get rich by analyzing his imaginings.

Fully conscious now, he looked around the bedroom he shared with Sandy, his wife of twenty five years. She was sleeping like a dead person, but he crept out of bed quietly. Given that it was 4:30 AM, if he woke her, she'd say, Why are you up now? Go back to bed. What's the matter with you? Those were certainly legitimate questions, but he did not feel like answering any of them, especially since he didn't have the answers. Better to let her sleep, unaware of the internal conflict he was wrestling with. She had no idea what he dealt with every day, and in fact, didn't want to know about it. He resented it when she made him feel as if he was some kind of oddball. She could sleep in because he got up, went to work, and supported her, as he often told her, in the manner in which she was accustomed. Why didn't she respect the sacrifices he made, and at least support him when he needed it? He had obligations, and they needed to be dealt with. No bad dreams, illnesses or personal issues could deter his dogged pursuit of his daily job as the assistant principal of a large suburban high school. When he wanted to share some of his experiences with his wife, she simply said, You know I don't want to hear about all that stuff. Can't you talk about something else? The truth was, he couldn't. School was about the only thing that interested him any more.

A month ago, at a country club cocktail party, Sandy criticized him for not engaging in conversation with the other guests. He told her, I just didn't think they would be interested in what I have to say. Since all he ever talked about were his school experiences, he was correct. No one at the party was the slightest bit interested in his tales of adolescent misbehavior just as he was disinterested in their chattering about golf, the club, their trips, or their newest automobile. His wife wanted him to extend himself, and to engage people on an emotional level. He regarded that suggestion as a crock of shit, and felt she was watching too much Oprah for her own good. Whenever they went to social events together, he tried to blend into the woodwork and not bother her friends lest he would hear about it later at home. He recalled a charity event at the museum where he became bored, and made some new friends outside on the street. His wife found him there in his tuxedo, talking with two police officers who were assigned to traffic detail. She stared him down, called him over to her, and said in her best dismissive tone, You are supposed to be inside mingling with the other guests. What are you doing out here with them? His answer was, I like hanging out with real people. He went inside, however, and pretended to enjoy the rest of the evening. No wonder it was cold at home.

Other than their daughter, Jenny, a college sophomore, and their son, Jake, a high school freshman, they had little common ground. The kids seemed to be squared away, made good grades, and stayed out of trouble. He had to confess that he was too busy at work to be very active with his own kids and left the task of monitoring them to his wife. Whenever he inquired about how the kids were doing, her reply was normally, They are just fine. I have things under control so you don't have to think about it. Sandy had a circle of friends from several clubs she belonged to, and increasingly spent time with those people whom he called the arts and croissant crowd. This group included several women who had married into real money, belonged to the right clubs, drove the right cars, and took the right vacations. She had been an art history major in college, and seemed to be gravitating back into those circles as the years passed. She didn't bother to talk to him about social planning, and simply went ahead and set up engagements for them whenever she wished. They used to enjoy a movie or a quiet dinner together, but that was never on the agenda now. Other people had to be included, emphasizing that the two of them could not socialize alone any more without some kind of buffer.

They met in college, a strange pairing if ever there was one. He was a small town boy, from the poor side of town, but one of the big jocks on campus by virtue of his prowess as a basketball player. She was the sophisticated princess of a wealthy family, who painted, wrote poetry, and even rode horses. They met at a frat party, when she was slumming one night with a girlfriend and wanted to see how the jocks lived over at Theta Pi. They started talking at the beer tap in the basement, and the conversation lasted until everyone else had gone back to their dorms or bunks. She was the smartest girl he had ever talked to, and seemed to know about all sort of things that had never interested him. It helped that she was very attractive, tall and slim, brown hair, big eyes, and had an easy laugh that he couldn't get enough of. As for her interest in him, she had never met anyone like him. She had grown up around different kinds of guys, mostly from wealthy families, whose interests more closely mirrored her own. This guy was different and she was probably rebelling against her parents' plans for her by being with him. He was simple and unpretentious, polite, and courteous, and unmistakeably physical and strong. It helped that he was tall, dark and somewhat handsome. They became the campus odd couple; he attended her plays and art openings, and she went to his basketball games. They were married two years after graduation, much to her father's dismay, as he had other plans for his daughter than getting involved with a guy like Dave. The marriage was the beginning of a long run when they worked and played hard, grew up, had kids, but now seemed to be growing apart. Sandy was emotionally moving towards her father, especially after the death of her mother from a long illness. Big Jim Randall, a former bank president, was alone now, and his only daughter was often at his side. She talked to him all the time on the phone, and he had a hunch she confided in her father about things that were occurring in their marriage. Big Jim was not the kind of man who let opportunities go to waste. Dave felt that if given the chance, Jim would do all he could to destroy his marriage, and help his daughter find someone who could really make her happy.

He knew exactly when their relationship had taken a major turn for the worse. She told him he had overreacted to what was, for him, a very unnerving event at school. That day, two boys started throwing punches at one another. He was often in the right place at the wrong time, so Dave was just around the corner when he heard the commotion, and moved in to separate the guys before they damaged one another too much. One of the kids already had a bloody nose that dripped all over the place, including onto Dave's shirt, hands and even splattered his face. According to the school rules, he was supposed to have put on his latex gloves before he handled any blood or bodily fluids. Whoever wrote that regulation meant well, but had never broken up a high school fight. When shit happened, there was no time to glove up. He had to get in there and stop the kids from hurting each other, or some innocent bystander. He remembered that old statement about battle plans, how the best ones survive about one minute after the enemy is engaged. His battle plan this day was to separate them, get them some first aid, send them home for a week to cool off, and clean himself up. He never intended to wind up covered in a kid's blood, but war is hell and assistant principals are occasional casualties.

When the battle group arrived at the health office, the school nurse checked everyone over, and gave Dave the lecture about the gloves just like he knew she would. The boys were alive, if not completely well, and he called their parents to come to school and take their young warriors out of there. Suspension from school was standard procedure for fighting at school, and there were no exceptions. This rule saved a lot of discussion over who started the fight, or whether someone deserved a beating. You fight, you go. That was the rule and he never deviated from it.

He didn't have another dress shirt, so he changed into a tee shirt he kept in his office that said, Property of Wilson High on it, a symbolic statement, if ever there was one. The truth was that Dave Richards did belong to Wilson High, for over the years, he had enmeshed himself in the lives of the students and staff in a way that made the daily happenings at the school very important to him. All that dedication came at a cost, and he was living with that debt on a daily basis.

Back in his office, he was dealing with the paperwork from the fight when Becky Sanderson, one of his senior girls, arrived. She had a worried look on her face, asked if she could come in, and then sat down across from him. I have to tell you something and I am not sure how to say it, she said.

Just blurt it out, Becky. I can handle it.

OK. Kids are talking about the fight near the cafeteria. They say that the kid who bled all over you has AIDS. His girlfriend went for a test last week at the clinic downtown. No one knows how it came out, but she definitely went there. We thought you should know.

He looked at his right hand and saw something that made him shudder. In the middle of his palm was a good sized cut from his latest yard work accident. It seemed like every time he trimmed the hedges or edged the driveway, he came away with some kind of cut or bruise like the one in his hand that had been covered with blood from the fight. He thanked Becky for her concern, told her he appreciated it, and said he would follow up. As she left, she said, Mr. Richards, the kids don't want to see anything bad happen to you. A group of them sent me to tell you in case you need to do anything. We all hope you are going to be fine. He walked her to the door, thanked her again, and told his secretary he did not want to be disturbed for a few minutes. As he closed his door, he felt a shot of fear go up his back. He knew that the odds of his being infected were very small, but thought he better talk to his doctor and find out. That afternoon, he was tested for the AIDS virus and told it would be a while before the results came back.

At home that night, he told his wife about the incident and being tested. He was probably looking for a little sympathy, but he also wanted to make her aware of what had happened. About halfway through the story, his wife interrupted and said, Just get to the point. You always take too long to tell me what you want me to know. When he replied, I don't know if I can get AIDS from my exposure to the blood. I went to the doctor this afternoon and was tested, but I will have to wait a while to find out the results. I thought you should know, just for your own protection. She dismissed the whole thing as a classic example of how he always overreacted to any sort of medical situation. You don't have AIDS, so don't be stupid. You sound like a kid in school who thinks she can get pregnant from sitting on a toilet seat. You won't be able to function until you get that test back. I would appreciate it if you didn't talk about this kind of stuff. It grosses me out. Really, this is no big deal, you just think it is. Get over yourself!

Well, I guess she told me!, he thought. He was pretty disappointed in her response, but he was a hypochondriac. All his small ailments lately were weighing on her ability to be supportive. He probably was overreacting to this whole mess and should just forget about it. When they went up to bed that night, he had forgotten her words and was feeling a little frisky. He reached for her, but she rolled away from him and said, No sex for you until that test comes back. He rolled over, thinking, Sandy, your middle name should be Hypocrite. It took almost a month for the test results to arrive confirming that he was fine and she kept her word about the sex. Communication between them was not very good, so it seemed prudent not to tell her about his recurrent dream. She'd just minimize it, focus on what a crazy man he was, and tell him to get over it. He could get more support from the man in the bathroom mirror.

Chapter Two: I'm Not As Good As I Once Was

He was only fifty, but his hair was graying prematurely, and he had owl-like circles under his eyes from a lack of quality sleep. In college, he could sleep for hours, once famously managing to sleep through an entire day, waking up on Wednesday morning after a Monday night drinking fest. He never drank any more because he had a medical scare a few years ago. His doctor had told him to give up any and all booze if he wanted to be sure and not have the issue surface again. When he heard that, he just quit drinking alcohol. Sandy told him he wasn't as much fun now that he didn't drink, and he responded by telling her that she drank enough for both of them. Those kind of exchanges did nothing to solidify their marriage. He had started snoring, sometimes so loudly it could be heard downstairs in their neat, three bedroom home. Sandy had tried earplugs, and then moved to Jenny's empty bedroom to escape the noise. When he went to a sleep clinic about this, he was diagnosed with sleep apnea, something he had never heard of until then. They wanted him to wear a mask to sleep in, but when he tried it, he felt imprisoned by the straps, and irritated by the noise from the machine itself. He tried to avoid simple behaviors that could cause him trouble at night so he never drank coffee after five, and prayed a lot for a good night's sleep which seldom occurred. Sandy kept nagging him to lose some weight as she had read in one of her magazines that this was the chief cause of apnea. At six foot three, 225, he was still a reasonable facsimile of his younger self. A big guy, he was soft around the middle, but still looked pretty good. He knew a lot of guys who said they looked pretty good, but that was just their way of making excuses for not being able to hold back the clock. He gave himself about a six on the appearance scale; he was no male model, but he was at least trying to maintain his manly figure. There never seemed to be enough time for exercise, and his love of the doughnuts and soft drinks at school insured he would have trouble with his weight.

He was a regular at the doctor's office these days, beset with a litany of small ailments from hemorrhoids and skin rash, to back and neck pain. Some weeks, he felt that he saw Dr. Mike more than he saw his family. Lots of ailments seemed to be related to stress, and he had tried a variety of methods to deal with them. First, it was exercise and massage therapy, followed by yoga, and finally he had been given some medication to help him maintain a level disposition. He went along with these suggestions because he trusted his doctor, even though he was not convinced they would do him any good. He regularly suggested these things for his students, but in his thinking, he had to be above that stuff. How could he be a role model for the students if he was a basket case? In the past two years, he had seen a neurologist, a rheumatologist, a dermatologist, a podiatrist a cardiologist, a gastroenterologist, an opthalmologist, a radiologist and a urologist for various ailments, all of which were diagnosed as stress related. When he went to see that last one, the urologist, he was happy to find out that his peter could still tweeter, but it didn't make much difference because Sandy was having none of that at the moment and had totally lost interest in that part of their relationship. The burden of all these small ills, combined with the work load and family issues assured that when he hit the bed at night, he was spent from the efforts of the day. He fell asleep immediately, but couldn't stay that way. His mind worked over the issues of the previous day, and the one to come. More pleasant thoughts were crowded out by to do lists, so most mornings were like this one. He was up, and moving forward before dawn. None of these little irritations would get in the way of his work. If occasionally Sandy slept in one of the kids' rooms, that was the price that had to be paid. It was only one more disappointment for her. He figured they would be getting twin beds pretty soon or maybe even separate rooms.

He showered, shaved, looked in the mirror and felt better about what he saw. He tried to erase the images of the dream from his mind. He could still hear the gun shots echoing in the small space of the office, that looked exactly like the place he went to every workday. Even though he couldn't see the shooter, he could see that gun firing those bullets. It was way too real, and scared the shit out of him. Why am I having this dream, and why now?, he wondered. Trying to answer that question took too much effort, so he shut down that part of his mind and went to the kitchen.

For most of his life, he had followed the advice given to him by his high school football coach of how to deal with injury or discomfort … Shake it off. In one of his high school football games, he had been blindsided by a blocker, flipped upside down, and came down on his head. He woke up seeing stars, wondering what had happened. He saw his coach's face, and remembered him saying, Get a drink, and get back in there. You'll be fine. That is what he did that night, and that is what he would do next time he had a setback. During his time as an athlete, he had a reputation as a player who never quit, never missed a game, and never gave in to an injury. He played football games with a broken nose, twisted knees, torn groin muscles, and probably suffered several concussions that were never diagnosed. Basketball was more of the same as he played with many sprains, and even a broken finger. His floor burns had floor burns as he played with a reckless abandon and disregard for his body that made him look like he had been beaten up. Showing weakness was something that would get you beaten by your opponent, and benched by the coach. Hanging in there, enduring, suffering through were qualities that were encouraged and admired on all the sports teams he played on. There was a plaque on the wall in the high school team room that said, WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING. That philosophy left no room for players who let problems stop them from competing. He didn't understand what was happening to him right now, but whatever it was, he wasn't stopping. He had a lot to do and not much time to do it. He had recently seen a film about the American military in Iraq, and adopted as his own, one of the soldiers' special mottoes, Embrace the suck, which seemed to embody what he needed to do today and every day. Lots of what he did sucked, but doing it was his obligation. He made coffee, ate some oatmeal and went out the door at 5:15 AM.

Chapter Three: Let's Get It Started

He loved the ride to school in the morning. No one asked questions, or wanted him to make a decision there in the dark and quiet of his truck. It was nice to have a chance to listen to some music, clear his head, and think. This morning, an ad came on the radio for a program called The Total Transformation. A woman could be heard saying that when her son slammed the door in her face and told her he hated her, she decided to buy a program called The Total Transformation. Dave could think of several of his students he wanted to transform so he listened intently as the announcer said this program would work to alter the behavior of even the most difficult young people or your money back, something Dave never promised when he made suggestions to parents. One mom had called him with a story just like the one in the ad. Her son, Patrick, was constantly locking his door, refusing to get up when called, and one day told his mother to Stay the hell out of my room, as he slammed the door in her face. Patrick needed some transformation, so Dave asked the mom if she was willing to try something and see if it worked. Desperate as she was, she agreed because she had tried everything she could think of, with no results, and had nothing to lose. Dave's philosophy was to anticipate the worst that could happen from his suggestions. In this case, the worst would be the kid made no compromises with his mom and went on being the same asshole he had been before. With that choice, why not try something a little unusual? He came up with suggestions by just using some common sense. If the kid wants to slam the door, why not take away the door?

That night when her son came home, the door to his room was gone, taken off the hinges and hidden in the top of the garage. Mom had also taken the mattress off the bed leaving only a pillow and the box spring. When Patrick started to holler and question what had happened to his stuff, she calmly told him, You won't be slamming the door in my face or locking me out any more because you don't have a door to do that with. If you don't get up tomorrow morning, you'll lose the rest of your bed and you can sleep on the floor. Every time you abuse me, you will lose something you value. You have your car, tennis equipment and computer all just waiting to be confiscated. After that, we could start on your clothes. All you really need is one shirt and a pair of pants. I could give the rest of your things to charity. Oh, by the way, I'm not doing your laundry or tidying up your room any more. You can handle that. Let's see how it goes from here and maybe you can have your door back someday. By the way, Mr. Richards wants to see you tomorrow morning, first thing. Good night.

Patrick showed up in Dave's office next morning and was mad as hell. Why did you tell my mother to take my door off?, he screamed. My bed is gone too. I got no place to sleep. You have really screwed things up for me. She might even take my car and I have to do my own laundry. What are you going to do about it? Dave took a sip of his coffee, looked up from his desk and very calmly stated, What am I going to do? Absolutely nothing. What are you going to do? I have no clue. Guys who abuse their mothers don't deserve any privacy or a good night's sleep. You had a good thing going at home with a mom who loves you and cares about you and you blew it. If you want to get back what you lost, you better make some changes. If not, that box spring of yours will be next and you'll be sleeping on the floor. Now get out of my office and get to your class! You have some thinking to do before you get home today. He suspected that The Total Transformation worked on somewhat similar principles of loss and reward. If a kid did the right thing, he was rewarded, and if he did the wrong thing, he was not, so it was not exactly brain surgery. The hard part was actually having parents follow through and do what had to be done to have an impact on behavior. This was difficult because it was human nature to get tired and eventually give in when the kid resisted. Since the kids know that, their plan is to try and wear the parent out, thereby winning the battle. A lot of Dave's job was supporting and encouraging parents as they sparred with their children. Parenting is, after all, the hardest job most people will ever have, and the one they receive the least training for. It gets lonely out there on the front lines for a parent, and Dave took great pleasure in helping out people who were willing to fight, but were not sure how to do it. Only time would tell if Patrick would be transformed into something resembling a cooperative kid, but in the meantime, his mother felt a lot better about what she was doing with him. There was nothing worse than feeling powerless, so all Dave was really trying to do was help the mom. She was the one who was hurting, not the kid, who was doing his best to be a pain in the ass to someone who was trying to help her son behave responsibly. Dave liked their chances with Patrick because this mother was hard nosed and fed up, a very good combination when consistency was needed. On the radio, the D.J. played Here's a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, which Dave regarded as his parental theme song. It always amazed him that so many people called him for guidance about their children. How did he get to be an expert on that subject? If people knew what a mess he really was, they would never call for advice.

Chapter Four: The House That Built Me

Forty years ago, the school district built Wilson High School in the middle of an old apple orchard, and, at the time, the facility was supposed to accommodate the needs of the district for a long time. Housing tracts grew up around the school, row after row of the single family variety that housed the diverse student body of the district. People bought these homes thinking that it would be an advantage to be close to the high school. Real estate salesmen often said, Your kid can walk to school for four years. That will be great. You will love living so close to the school. The reality was that being near a high school was not a great real estate decision. The streets near the school were often the scene of parking jams caused by students who could not park on campus, or who had lost their parking privileges through disciplinary infractions. During the day, kids tried to leave by going out the back doors into the housing tracts. There were occasional accidents as the young people drove their cars around in the tract after school. When the sports teams played at night, the neighbors had to deal with the noise and the disruption that comes with large gatherings. Whenever someone would ask him about living close to a school, Dave liked to tell his story about a kid he called Johnny the Greek. The son of Greek immigrants who ran a local restaurant, Johnny received a car for his sixteenth birthday and was determined to drive it to school. Johnny was infected with what Dave called Car Craziness, which made a kid care only about his car and driving it as much as possible.

That year, Dave had to restrict driving by the underclassmen since he did not have any place in the campus parking area to put the sophomores and juniors like Johnny who wanted to drive. Several of them, including Johnny, parked on the street behind the school so that they would not be without their cars for longer than a few minutes. One very snowy day, the district dismissed school early over concerns about the weather. The students were given their freedom at noontime, so Johnny and his buddy, Mark, ran out the back door, hopped into John's small, fast, sporty vehicle, and jetted off filled with that feeling of freedom that only a short school day can bring. Instead of going home, Johnny decided to do some doughnuts in the road in the cul de sac behind the school. Kids gathered to watch, so Johnny tried hard to impress them, especially the young ladies. He floored it, went fishtailing across the street and left the road. There was no way to stop as the car actually went airborne and embedded itself in the wall of a very large two story colonial. The homeowner, a nice guy named Conklin, who had a couple of kids at the school, was upstairs sitting on the toilet when he felt the crash that knocked him onto the floor. He went downstairs to see what had happened and found Johnny and his friend, hanging from their seat belts inside the car, which was stuck inside the living room. Mr. Conklin called Dave and the police and soon, there was quite a crowd. When Dave got over there, he could see the ass end of a car sticking out of the front wall of the house. It was quite a serious situation, but he found it impossible not to laugh at the predicament of his students. Mr. Conklin invited him to come inside to see the damage up close. Dave went into the living room, saw that the car doors were wedged into the walls, and the kids could not exit the vehicle. They probably wanted to run away, but were caged like rats in a trap. He went over to the car window, spoke to young John and said, You know that parking permit you wanted? I doubt you will be approved after this. You may want to contact your insurance agent as soon as you get out of there. I'll call your dad and get him down here. He won't want to miss this. The fire rescue guys had to cut Johnny out of the car, and the local utility had to turn off the gas lines because of the threat of an explosion. Johnny's car was totaled, and the bill for damage to the Conklin home was over forty thousand dollars. The picture of the accident was on the front page of the local paper and the film report made it onto the evening news. Johnny the Greek became famous if only for a day or two, but he would be forever famous in Dave's mind. No one was hurt, but what a mess! Dave loved to tell that story to illustrate why you never want to live near a high school. He saw Johnny every week as he was running his dad's restaurant up in the village. Johnny had several kids, and none of them was allowed to drive to school. No surprise there!

The battle of the neighborhood was ongoing, and for the residents, Dave was the first and often only source of help to defend their property from incursions by students. He received frequent calls from several people who kept him informed of arrivals and departures, accidents and incidents on the streets adjoining the school. This was all part of the informal communication system he had developed over many years by introducing himself to the homeowners on the street, and trying his best to be helpful to them. Dave frequently left the building, walked over into the neighborhood, and made an effort to support these people. He smiled as he recalled one of his operations in the neighborhood, which had burnished his reputation as an unusual school administrator.

Carolyn Santelli was a seventy five year old widow, who lived alone in a beautiful house just off the back of the school property. The house had a large deck which was the pride and joy of her late husband. The deck had several levels, and an area underneath that was quite private. Carolyn called Dave at school to report that she had found cigarette butts, beer cans, and some assorted food packaging under her deck. It was her theory that the students were sneaking off campus, and using the hidden area as a smoking lounge during the day. She was normally not at home in the morning, so she guessed that this was when the intruders were over there. She was quite troubled because she felt the kids might try and enter the house, or cause some other type of vandalism and said, I want it to stop. Dave had a good idea who the trespassers might be, so he made an appointment with Carolyn to meet at her house for coffee the next morning at 10 AM, the end of his third period, and just before the early lunch. That time of day was when some of his young wanderers would disappear for a while, and he had been wondering where they were going. Next morning, he left early, walked over to the Santelli house, and entered the kitchen where a hot cup of coffee was waiting for him. Mrs. Santelli welcomed the company, and asked him, How is this going to help catch the kids who are coming onto my property?

Good question, Mrs. Santelli. I just want to sit here quietly and see if we hear any activity coming from the deck area in the next few minutes. If we do, can I go out the door under the deck without being seen?, he said.

You are a sneaky devil, aren't you, Mr. Richards? Do you think they will show up today? She was clearly enjoying being part of the intrigue.

Maybe. These guys usually don't give much thought to being caught. They think the adults are too stupid to catch them, or that we will not be willing to put ourselves out for something as trivial as this. There is nothing trivial about your property or privacy. We may come up empty today, but tomorrow is another day, and tomorrow after that. You may need to make more coffee than usual if it takes a while.

She laughed, and they sat quietly and sipped from the mugs. He looked at his watch and waited. Soon, he heard some noise that was not loud, but it was distinctive. The echo of young voices and laughing filled his assistant principal ears. He knew he was going to find some of his rats under the deck. He asked Carolyn to stay in the kitchen while he went downstairs, opened the door to the outside and stepped through into a dark area behind a wall. He could hear several students talking, and smelled cigarette smoke, so he just stood there and listened. Pretty soon, the pipe came out, was lit and passed among the group. The aroma of marijuana was in the air and Dave was getting ready to show himself when one of the kids said, I need to take a piss. Think I will go in the corner back there, and started walking in Dave's direction. Dave walked out of the darkened space, looked at the group and said, You will not be pissing on anyone's property any more. What the hell are you doing out of school, under this deck, on private property and smoking dope? Anybody got any answers for me? Shock is too nice a word for the reaction of the kids. They froze in place and looked at him as he moved among them taking the pipe, packs of cigarettes, and a can of Michelob from their hands. The boys did not have much to say, other than Where the hell did you come from? The rest of the incident went by the book as they all marched back to school, for arrests and suspensions. From his office, he called Carolyn to tell her he doubted she would have more visitors. She had to ask him, How did you know they would show up? He responded, Carolyn, kids are creatures of habit. They showed up because they have been doing it and getting away with it. They never thought anyone was going to make an effort to catch them under there. I try to be unpredictable and I find it helps me in my work.

Several days and a court date later, the boys returned to school and spent time cleaning up around the deck under Mrs. Santelli's watchful eye. Dave told her, If they give you any difficulty, give me a call and I will be right over. The guys are done working when you say they are, so if you have other stuff you want done, they can do it for you. She kept them for the entire day, had them do all sorts of work around the house, and fed them lunch on the deck. She even paid them twenty dollars each for the extra work they did for her. The word went around school quickly that Santelli's house was off limits for a quick smoke break. You never knew where Richards might be waiting, and he had busted three guys at the house. Mrs. Santelli, however, was perceived as a nice lady who fed the guys and shouldn't be bothered by anyone again.

Dave loved the live action of trying to solve these types of problems. Essential to his activities was the rep he had cultivated for showing up when it was least expected. He could never forget the look on the faces of students when he would appear without warning in the middle of their business. He did this for a simple reason: if he wanted to see what the kids were up to, he went where they were. He knew he would not get much information about his students by watching from his office chair. He needed to go to their natural habitat, such as the cafeteria, the hall, the lavatory, the parking lot, or under Carolyn Santelli's deck.

Chapter Five: The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Round

As Dave drove into the school lot, he was reminded of one of his now retired colleagues who told him, The ideal high school campus would be built in the middle of nowhere and not have a parking lot. Considering how many issues he dealt with daily involving students and their cars, this was a wonderful idea. Typical of the car related insanity was the day a parent called the school switchboard and asked if she could speak to Mr. Parking. She was connected to his office and when he answered, she stated, Mr. Parking, I'd like to buy a parking spot for my son. Name your price! Although the sale of spaces could provide the school with some needed funds, he had to inform the parent that parking spots were provided to seniors in good standing and could not be purchased. Why not?, came the reply. Everything else has a price. Why not you? Staff members heard about this call, and he received a variety of responses. His favorite was that of the school nurse, who ever afterward, called him Davey Parking. The issues in the parking lot, the behavior of student drivers, and related issues could have been a full time job for someone. For Dave, he had to fit it in among a variety of other tasks, and he spent a lot of time praying that the systems he put in place would work well enough to avoid some kind of serious accident outside.

His duties also included supervising two buses that delivered the Wilson students to the vocational center, a separate campus about five miles away. It was from this experience that he learned one of his most valuable lessons about young people and motivation. When he first arrived at Wilson, he would go out to the two buses as they were loading, but did nothing special to check student attendance. The school tradition was to get these kids on the bus, send them off campus, and they became someone else's problem for three hours. After all, these kids were the non-academic ones, and the problem children, so the vocational center was a great place to get rid of them for three hours every afternoon. He continued this style of management, making sure the buses arrived and left on time, but little else. One day, he went to the vocational center for a meeting. A bus from a neighboring school district pulled up at the front door. The driver opened the bus door, waited about five seconds, closed the door, and drove away. He had arrived with an empty bus, and went through the motions as if he was delivering a full busload of students. Dave wondered where the passengers had gone and how often this occurred. He went back to Wilson for two hours, then drove over to the tech center for dismissal. He saw the same bus, with the same driver, pull up, open its doors, but no one got on, and the driver left with an empty bus. This driver was taking a trip twice a day, with not a single student along for the ride. Someone in that district was supposed to be in charge of that, and clearly no one was. The whole charade made Dave question how he was supervising his own students in this program which carried a price tag of two thousand dollars per student per year. If the school was paying for an education, it also had an obligation to follow up with the students who were receiving it.

Next day, he asked several of his vocational students to come down to his office to talk about their programs. At this stage, these kids didn't know him very well, and figured he was just like the rest of the people who had ignored them for years. They were willing to provide him with stories of how they drove to the center, left school early, and were disdainful of the instruction they received. One of them went so far as to tell Dave, Hey, Mr. Richards, nobody here gives a shit what we do over there as long as we leave here to do it. They really should have known better, because the change that occurred was both sudden and severe. These kids found out that you never told Richards that no one gave a shit about what they did. He started taking daily attendance on the bus, and cross checking with the office at the center to make sure all of the Wilson students were accounted for. He did a complete review of every student enrolled in the vocational program, and dropped anyone who had not maintained at least a 75 percent attendance rate. That lead to several students coming to him to beg for readmission to the program which he did not grant them. The next year, he increased the mandatory attendance rate to 95 percent. He monitored student grades and performance, visited their classrooms, talked with their teachers, showed up in the parking lot at the center, and generally made the lives of his vocational students miserable until they either quit the program or shaped up. Not surprisingly, Wilson students had been tops in overall attendance in this program ever since, and usually won the best student award in the individual subject areas. The lesson was obvious, but teachers and administrators often forgot it. If you don't expect much, you don't get much. If you don't value something, you don't take care of it. His students were taking their vocational programs lightly, thinking that no one at Wilson High gave a damn what they did once they were off campus. When his students were shown that he cared about how they did, and would put in the time and energy to make sure they followed his rules, most of them responded in a good way. Those that didn't, were ejected. Whenever someone was thrown out or quit, he told them, There is no such thing as a free lunch. Come back and see me when you understand that. Most of the great lessons he had learned had been taught to him by his students, but his students learned from him that they may have been out of his sight, but they were seldom off his mind.

His title as the traffic and parking czar provided him with many opportunities to interact with members of the community. Each school day, he directed traffic as the mass of parents came to pick up their kids and drive them home, to work, or to their activities. He asked a student once, Why don't kids take the bus home? He never forgot the answer, which was Only the jerks ride the bus. Cool kids go by car. Since being cool is very important in high school, the traffic at the school was ridiculous. Why there were not more fender benders he could never figure out because the kids and their parents were terrible behind the wheel. The advent of cell phones and texting had not helped. Everyone seemed preoccupied, and he was sure that some day there would be a serious accident in the lot. Two weeks ago, he was trying to stop traffic in the main road when a mom, reading a text on her cell phone, drove right at him. He avoided her by jumping up on the hood of her car with his little STOP sign in his hand. From his place on the hood, he had held up that sign for her to examine. She quit reading long enough to apologize then went right back to her phone. Near misses like that one were only one of the daily issues because the students used their cars as a smoking lounge, or for liaisons between boyfriend and girlfriend. They were always trying to sneak away for lunch off campus, or for a round of what one of his counselors called a game of push, push in the bush. On a few occasions, he had broken up these sessions in progress, necessitating calls to parents that were agonizing. Mrs. Jones, Bill and Amanda were skipping school for a close encounter in the pickup, was a common theme. Parents always wanted details, but he was hesitant to provide them. I am sure that Bill and Amanda can tell you what they were doing if you ask them, he would say.

The complaints and misuse of automobiles by teachers caused Dave to lose his cool a lot worse than he ever did with the students. Adults, especially teachers, were supposed to know better, and represent a greater level of discipline and sanity than the students. Some of the staff, however, felt entitled to special privileges, and parked their cars wherever they found a vacant spot. Last month, he had a car removed from a handicapped spot in front of the school where it was parked without having the appropriate permit. Tow that piece of shit out of there, was his direct quote followed by, Maybe next time the asshole will read the signs. The police came down, ticketed the car, and away it went. Later in the day, he was informed that the car belonged to an asshole, the Asst. Superintendent for Instruction, who had been visiting the building that morning and Just could not find any place to park. The shit ran downhill and all of it ended up in his office that day. He learned some valuable lessons during this incident such as that the fine for being towed out of a handicapped spot was one hundred dollars, and that it is a good idea not to make decisions when you are pissed off. Well put, those lessons! He was down a hundred and on the central office shit list to boot.

This time of day, it was blessedly quiet as hardly anyone but the custodians had arrived. It was calm before the storm time, and he treasured the hour before the kids showed up. When Wilson High was built, it was intended to accommodate the needs of a population between 1200 and 1500 students. Over time, the school had held up well, been carefully maintained and added to, but the current student load put a strain on the facility and the people who worked there. Many of the things Dave dealt with every day involved the pressures that scarce space, or time, placed on people in his organization. Sometimes he had no solution to a problem, but he tried to listen when people expressed their concerns. That had to be enough because he was only one man, and try as he might, he consistently ran into trouble dealing with so many issues every day. The kids were more needy than ever, the state was increasing expectations for performance, the parents wanted more for the higher taxes they were paying, and the school day was still only about seven hours long. Everyone at school was feeling the pinch. Teachers were looking at early retirement, some district level administrators had left, and Dave was convinced that most of his student problems came from a lack of attention at home, or in school. He felt like the little Dutch boy, but he only had so many fingers to plug up all those holes.

Chapter Six: My Town

The town of Wilson was a bedroom community for the larger city twenty miles to the east. Although predominately white and blue collar, Wilson had an enclave of high end homes, part of an earlier building boom encouraged by cheap land prices. The young people from those homes often attended private schools, but many of the rich kids came to Wilson High because of the fine AP programs, electives, and above average athletic teams. The number of apartment complexes was increasing in the town, and parents anxious to escape the city were moving out to Wilson in search of a better education for their kids. As a result, the number of single parent and minority young people was on the rise. Most of the town was made up of single family homes, set in tracts with names like Harmony Court, Calm Lake Circle, or Dave's personal favorite, Inspiration Cove, where there was no cove, and not much inspiration. The home developers were trying for an image of tranquility and order, but in reality, the town was in a state of great turmoil. The population was increasing, businesses were closing, and the gap between the old timers and the newcomers existed on the school board, in local politics, and in the halls of the high school. Against this backdrop, school taxes were rising, leading to a conflict between the proponents of more growth, and the advocates of limited development. It was an exciting time to work at Wilson High, but only if one found energy in the daily chaos created by the needs of an increasingly complex student body. Dave found dealing with this to be a real challenge. He tried to work hard with the kids as individuals, keep in touch with parents, and be open to suggestion in solving the problems the kids presented. For over twenty years, he had been responsible for resolving conflicts, disciplining students, and being the guy who got the call whenever there was a mess to clean up. He had been in many tough situations, but realized that school life was changing. His small world was hard to recognize some days as a lot of the old ways of doing things didn't seem to be effective any more. A good example of this situation was the amount of violence that took place at the school. The confrontations with kids had taken on a more hostile tone. When he first started as an AP, he would step in to break up a fight, and the kids would actually stop. When he showed up and there was some problem brewing, all he had to do was say, Calm down, or Knock it off, and a semblance of order was restored. These days, however, the emotional control of the students seemed to be hanging by a thread. They were not nearly as willing or able to shut down their emotions when they were upset. He couldn't depend on the kids to have self-control any more. Being the problem solver these days could be bad for a guy's health as recent events had demonstrated.

Earlier in the week, he had broken up a fight between two of the school's football players, two big boys squabbling over a girl. While he held onto one, the other put a knee into Dave's back. Dave had a clear recollection of one of them yelling at him to, Get your fucking hands off of me! Ignoring that statement, Dave told the kid , Put your ass in that chair over there and shut up. What the hell is wrong with you? I told you to stop, and you didn't. Then you, with his finger pointing right into the chest of one of them, put a knee in my back trying to get at your pal here. You're up to your neck in crap and you still think everyone else has a problem. Neither of the boys said anything in return, just looked at the floor like they knew it was about to open up and swallow them whole. After the school nurse made her visit, the parent calls were made, and the suspension forms were completed, Dave very calmly stated to the two fighters, I am in a lot of pain right now. I am going to the hospital after you leave for home. If you are very lucky, I will be fine. You should be thinking about that for a while because it will determine how this story ends for you. He believed strongly that when kids lost control, he needed to give them something to worry about. Hopefully, his last statement would provide that.

On his way out of the building that day, he encountered the school's new football coach, a young guy named Sal Parisi, who ran up to him and said, What did you do with my two players who were in that fight. As Sal matured, he would understand how bad a question that was to be asking a guy on his way to the ER. Right now, all Sal cared about was whether he was going to have his two studs for the game Friday night, and