A Long Strange Twit

A wacko walked into Newmentia today.

No, that's not a joke, like three blonds walking into a bar. It's a fact, Jack. There I was, discussing a new student with the counselor during the last few minutes of my plan time, when a short, bald man appeared at my door.

"Are you the secretary I just talked to?" he asked the counselor.
"No," said C. "I'm the counselor. You want the principal's secretary."
"Where is she? I want to mentor students." Baldy was in a hurry.
"You need to go to the office."
"Where is that?"
"Back the way you came. Right by the door."
"You take me."

C gave me that look that meant, "This is odd." In fact, she said it right out loud. "This is odd." She stepped into the hall to take Baldy to the office. Funny that he had already talked to the secretary there, and needed to be led back.

C returned, we wrapped up our conversation, and she shoved off like a ship in the night to land on some other unsuspecting teacher's shore in the midst of everyday mayhem. C's secretary came cruising down the hall just after the bell. She requested the presence of one of the two custodians who lurk about the hall that time of day. "I don't care which one of you, but you need to come with me." How's that for crushing an ego?

Seems that Baldy had gotten away, and nobody knew where to find him, and it was class change time. I suggested the obvious to the leftover custodian, after filling him in on what I thought was going on. Because nobody had mentioned Baldy by name, only that 'we need to watch the doors.' So I wondered if maybe, just maybe, somebody of the male persuasion should take a peek into the boys' restroom, just in case. Because if I was a bald, male perv on the loose in a school full of tempting, tender adolescent treats, that's where I would make my move. Away from cameras. Before a cry for help could be heard. Not that I'm a perv or anything. But I watch TV.

Next thing I know, my class all accounted for and indoctrinated into the ways of today's lab activity on weathering and erosion, some staff on the first response team went cruising by my window. They looked like they had the situation under control.

After school, I learned that Baldy had been on the run, round and round the building. Newmentia is one LOOOONG building, kind of a T shape, with a parking lot on each side of the T. Law enforcement officials arrived and subdued and questioned Baldy. According to one eye-witness, Baldy swore that Newmentia was a stupid building, and he couldn't find where he'd parked his gosh-darn truck. His gosh-darn truck that had been sitting out front running, with his wife in the passenger seat.

Stranger than fiction, Baldy had already been to Elementia, where he told the principal he was holding his goat for a $3 million ransom. And Baldy had made a stop at Basementia, where he was summarily given the boot, which made him complain to the staff chasing him at Newmentia, "That guy won't give me back my pontoon boat."

By all indications, this Baldy dude is a mental case, not your run-of-the-mill child-molester. But still. Who can be sure? Why can't something be done about his little transgression? I'm thinking along the lines of a restraining order. Must we be on lockdown through perpetuity? Has it come to that, society? Can we not keep our crazies in check? Is the attic not good enough for Uncle Charlie any more? What's with the dude's wife letting him pull this stunt THREE FREAKIN' TIMES? Surely she knows he is unstable.

Our business is children. Do we need armed guards to protect them throughout the day? Do we need to pull a Joe Clark, and chain our doors shut against intruders? Can anybody just walk into a Chrysler plant and say they want to volunteer? Or the Hershey factory? Or a horse-breeding farm? Why do folks think anything goes at a school? Just because this twit, Baldy, was too addled to be dangerous, does that mean his cousin Mullet will be?

Invest in a handbasket factory.