During my first week of training for the new job, my supervisor, Dena, showed me to my office, where I would be taking kids in groups to provide them with instructional support in math.

“I think you’ll find this is a pretty nice working space,” she said. “Here you’ll find all the unit and resource guides for our Investigations series—err…ummm…what are you looking for?”

“The closet,” I said. “I’ll need a place to lock up the math tiles, dice, fake coin money, geo shapes, base ten blocks, fractals, Legos, eraser heads and counters. These things are made to be airborne. They’ll disappear after the first two classes, and then we’ll find them all over the cafeteria floor.”

She laughed. “We’ve always kept them on these shelves, and it’s never been a problem. Now over here you’ll find all the important phone numbers…what are you doing?”

“Hiding the yardsticks, rulers, compasses, stapler, manual pencil sharpeners and fine-point markers. Weapons, you know.”

She stared for a few seconds and blinked. “I really don’t think it will be an issue. Now on this bulletin are our fire drill and Code Red procedures. In case of an emergency…is there another problem?”

“Yes. I’ve run out hiding places, and there’s nowhere to put the whiteout, glue sticks permanent and dry erase markers. It’s like an open display case for makeshift narcotics.”

“Look, if you’re really concerned about this, you can lock your room every time you leave it,” she said. “The key is here in the doorway.”

“YOU HANG THE KEY RIGHT IN THE DOORWAY? How do you know someone won’t take off with it and break in after school? There’s a Smart Board in here. An electric pencil sharpener. For God’s sake, I’ve got scientific calculators!”

An excerpt from an inner city teacher’s transition into the suburbs…it’s good to be home.

Friday, 4:00 p.m.  The school building was silent, the ghosts of children’s jubilant voices echoing down the empty corridors. I watched the last teacher exit her classroom, keys jangling, heels clicking out the door.  Glancing over my shoulder, I stole off to the dark and empty copy room, where the hibernating machines quietly hummed.  Ever so carefully, I pulled the secret document from under my arm, placed it facedown on the scanner, took a breath, and hit start.

As I write this, stacked before me is a pile of Connecticut Mastery Test practice worksheets.  On the bottom of each copy, it clearly states: “Duplication of these materials is strictly prohibited under penalty of law.”

And you people say I don’t know how to party.

Dropping Tyler off at school today, a woman accosted me with an air of importance as we piled out of the van. “Please, you need to slow down in the parking lot,” she said.  “There could be kids around.”

I was dumbstruck. In my mind, I drive so slowly in parking lots that it feels like the parked cars are passing me out.  I stared at her in disbelief.

“Really, now?” I scoffed.  “Kids, potentially in a school parking lot?  Much like the three strapped in car seats in my minivan?  Thanks for the tip.  Next time I’ll slow it down to 80!”  (In reality, what I probably said was more along the lines of “Nuh ugh!”  Same concept.)

I rolled my eyes at the crossing guard, who’d heard the whole thing.  “Who was that?” I asked.  “A teacher?  An administrator?  The superintendent of schools?”

“Oh, that’s Florence,” she said.  “She’s the copy gal.  She makes copies, collates their papers, and runs errands.  Sort of like a girl Friday for all the teachers.  Nice lady.”

The copy gal?

Here’s the question that begs to be asked.  What did the Simsbury teachers do to get one of those?  How many weekends did I spend at the copy machine at Staples because every single machine was either broken or out of paper at my school of employment in Hartford?

That’s it.  I’m applying for a teaching job in Simsbury.  And I’m using Florence as a reference.