Part 1 You Have To Whistle

Once upon a time I shared a cubicle with the detention supervisor. Mr. Hell was swift and severe detention. I was lavish and immediate positive attention. We got along great, Mr. Hell and I, as I did not say anything to him, And He felt equally compelled to share stories with me. One day when I entered the school late, after the district wasted my morning On a mandatory counseling meeting which was a complete and utter waste of my time, And took me away from the children, which put me in a bad mood to boot The secretary said, “Oh, it’s BAD in the detention room right now. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” So of course I ran right in, with all my usual reserve and finesse. Three grown men were standing along the walls. Each one of them had their arms crossed and frowning faces. An eight-year-old-boy who was regularly beaten with a belt by an angry severe father A particular favorite of mine actually, being able to relate well to this side of him, Was in the middle yelling, screaming, and SHRiEKING at the top of his lungs. I said, “Tray, do you want to go with me?” To his credit he glared, stuck out his tongue and threw a vase at my head. Having swift reflexes, I caught it and carefully handed it back to him, which I could see almost made him smile. The arm-folded men could not see this from their vantage points, being in back and at his sides. “What would it take to get you to come with me?” I asked Tray after he threw the vase at a now-angry-looking six foot three two-hundred and ten pound DARE officer, which means a police man, and how dare an 8 year-old bully one of them, right? Tray thought for a long time. I was SO hoping the men would stay out of it. One started to talk and I gave him the HATE look, so he stopped. He was the vice principal.