And It Wasn't Nelly

I had ticket duty this afternoon at Basementia. And by 'ticket duty,' I mean, slow torture in an unairconditioned echo chamber full of screeching banshees.

Basementia is not...how you say...modern. It is from the 1920s originally, though parts have been cobbled on as other parts burnt up. Not due to a lack of air conditioning, but due to fire. Basementia's facade has been retooled for energy efficiency, but it is still a shiny concrete block kind of tomb that does not cotton to central air and heat. First day of autumn, indeed. The high today was 82. So I baked in my westward-facing hallway, taking money from strangers, and letting old folks in free. Note to future spectators at middle school volleyball contests: if admission is $1 for adults, and $.50 for students, it is not a good idea to plan on paying with a $20 bill. Because that's always what happens. Two of the first five customers shoved a twenty in my face. The twenty-wielding kid after that got in free, because I could not make $19.50 in change.

Somewhere down the line, the coach has decided that a good warm-up requires rap crap music played at full volume. Forty minutes of rap crap at full volume does not a happy HM make. I could not hear the people asking where the bathroom was located, or if we sold snacks and what kind and where. The players shouted at each other traipsing about the hall, because otherwise they could not hear, what with that rap crap being pumped at full volume. Nothing is worse than rap crap being pumped at full volume unless it is the screech of middle school girls screeching over rap crap being pumped at full volume in a shiny concrete block tomb.

There is a sign on the wall that says, "If you leave, you have to pay to get back in." Who gives a crap? I let them come and go at will. Who gives a crap if they're going out to shoot up some meth or swig from a jug of moonshine? M-O-O-N. That spells NOT MRS. HILLBILLY MOM. Because that's the only thing that would make attending such an event bearable. Besides, they were probably just going out so they could hear on their cell phones to call and schedule cochlear implant surgery due to impending deafness from that rap crap pumping at full volume.

Some of those poor people asked me for a program. I had to explain that I was only shuffling the student papers I had brought to grade. No programs here. Move along. Basementia is a no-frill kind of operation. Ask the person sitting next to you who number 23 is. If that doesn't work, ask the person on the other side. I guarantee that one of them will be number 23's cousin.

The #1 son and some cronies left the building to play basketball by the bus barn. When LegHairPuller returned (and I did not make him pay to get back in), he reported that Channel 2 News had been filming their little pick-up game on the basketball court. We are not regularly covered by Channel 2 News. Especially for a pick-up basketball game of 8th and 9th graders on a concrete court with no nets by the bus barn. At first I thought maybe they had heard that booming rap crap all the way up in St. Louis. But then I remembered that Erin Brockovitch was coming to town tonight. Some people were all hopped up about it. You would think that Julia Roberts herself was making an appearance. But no. Only Erin. Seems we're some kind of SuperFund nightmare. Channel 2 was probably hoping to capture some kids with two heads.

As the perfect ending to a perfect torture, as I was trying to count the money in the lockbox, the coach's daughter popped up. I don't know where they had housed her for the rest of the game, but she obviously got loose. She looks to be about four or five years old. She's a cute little thing, but I am not much for gooshing over other people's kids. She came up to the wheely cart ticket-selling stand, and proceeded to reach over the side and finger my phone and #1's Googley thingy. Then she grabbed up a pencil that I had made The Pony go sharpen in the art room so I could put some scores in my old red gradebook. She jabbered away, but I told her I was leaving. She asked where all the names went that used to be on that cart. She asked if I wanted to see her write her name. I told her that I didn't want to know anything about her writing her name on that cart. Because, you see, it looked freshly whitewashed. Probably to cover up all the names. My duty was over. It was not my day to watch the coach's daughter. And if there's one thing I've learned in all my years of teaching, it's that you don't go telling on the coach's daughter for a wrong-doing, any time, at any school. But somebody really needs to keep a closer eye on her. There are nogoodniks all over the place these days.

One duty down, one more to go in December. I might try to sell that one off. People like cash around Christmas time.