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My school is located in a low-income neighborhood. Because of that, many students do not have internet access at home. It blows me away how anybody can not have internet in today’s world. My goodness—everything is done online. But you know that already. The internet should be a priority. Cancel the cable TV. Don’t give every member in your household a cell phone. Skip a meal once a week. Anything to come up with the $15 or so need for basic DSL. Hell, even Time Warner advertises “This is not a promotional price.” It’s inexcusable that these kids don’t have internet at home.
Because they don’t have internet I open up my classroom before school so they can play games and watch YouTube videos (school-appropriate, of course). Some of the kids who come in like to watch YouTube videos of the latest stars, which is fine by me–as long as it’s school appropriate (hmmm…maybe these kids do have internet at home and their parents won’t let them watch rap videos–kids don’t lie, do they?).
One day a group of fifth grade boys gathered around the computer to jam to the latest crap the RIAA passes off as music. “Mr. Nerd, . . . . .
The Wife calls me a sports snob. It’s a term I have come to embrace because it’s true: I don’t like talking sports with most people because most people are idiots. Well, maybe idiots is too harsh of a term–they’re not as knowledgably as me (probably because they have families and lives and all that stuff). Remember that time when I went to the Angel game and I was appalled because the “fans” next to me had no idea who Mark Teixeira was (or how to say his name)? Yeah, stuff like that.
My snobbery is only part of my problem. I work at an elementary school that literally has three male employees (the AP, custodian, and me). Sure, it’s nice knowing I pretty much have a private bathroom (although messy situations become harder to deny), but it also leaves with me a sports void because I have no one to talk to. Being a sports snob and trying to discuss the read option with a pregnant fourth grade teacher isn’t exactly fulfilling. Even if I tried to dumb myself down just for the sake of talking to another human being it wouldn’t be possibly.
I’ve tried keeping an open . . . . .
I went into work like any ordinary day–at least as any ordinary day could feel at a job you’ve been working at for four days–when I was greeted by a blonde woman I had never seen before.
“My name is Libby,” she said, “and I am the new director of this YMCA branch.” We had been going without a director for since the day I started. The woman who interviewed me, hired me, coordinated all my prejob screening (background check and drug testing) had mysteriously vanished the day prior to my first day of work. Well, mysteriously vanished to me. No one at the Y seemed concerned with her disappearance. Last time I spoke to her she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow to schedule your first day.” Two days later, I got a call from someone else informing me that Penny was no longer with the Y and could I come in to start that afternoon (yes, one sentence like that). I think Penny got fired, because she gave no indication that she was going to quit, but that’s not relevant to this story. Or maybe it is.
Libby and I exchanged short pleasantries before she got to the heart . . . . .
One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.
(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. . . . . .
The after-school tutoring program I work for is entirely voluntary (for the students–not for me: I wouldn’t be doing this without a paycheck–momma didn’t raise no fool). The school identifies students who will benefit from the service, and sends them an application. The parents fill it out and return it to the school, which determines who will be my students. Because the program is voluntary, there is little accountability. Students who were healthy enough to go to school occasionally miss tutoring because they’re sick. Sometimes the tutoring/babysitting conflicts with the parents’ schedule, so the students don’t attend. And sometimes kids just don’t want to go (I can’t really blame them: if they liked school at all they would be able to learn the material during school hours instead of having to give up their afternoons to do it all again).
Attendance was low the first few sessions, but we’ve grown to the point where I’ve met every student. Well, every student but one. But since he’s on my roster, I make sure I call his name every day. “Ausente, Chico? Is Chico Ausente here? Does anyone know Chico Ausente?” It’s become a bit of a running joke betweem me and . . . . .
So it turns out I’m no hero. Apparently my marrow just isn’t good enough. That’s a shame. I do hope that 13-year old girl does find a match–it just looks like it’s not going to be mine. Does this mean I have to give back my cape?
My job is a colossal waste of time and taxpayer dollars. There–I said it. It feels good to get it off my chest. Then again, it also feels good to get a paycheck, so perhaps I won’t say it too loudly or to the people who pay me.
Not that I’m the problem. I’m actually quite good at my job–the problem is the position itself. I work for an after-school tutoring company. The program is designed to help students who possess below-grade level math or reading skills and are struggling to keep up. The school identifies students who might benefit from the service and offers it–at absolutely no expense to the parents at all. The theory behind this free program is to help bring those students up to grade-level skills. Students work with tutors in order to boost their skills and (hopefully) catch them up to their peers. My job is to oversee . . . . .
Thanks to an odd scheduling quirk, I was able to enjoy three consecutive days off from URS. That’s not really important to the story, but you’ll be happy to I enjoyed spending time with The Wife and fixing my dead server. Or not.
My return to work was easygoing because I was refreshed. I joked with my colleagues and conversed with customers. Even something as minute as a roll of quarters provided interesting fodder.
“What do you need,” Maude1 asked me.
I opened my cash drawer. “The big thing is quarters. I could probably use some fives and ones, but quarters right now.”
“You made me come up here to get you quarters? You could have just called.”
“Yeah, but you would have had to come up here to get this,” I said as I handed her a $10 bill.
What might strike you as mindless dribble or a poor attempt at an interesting open is actually more significant than that. But give me a few minutes of your time before you rush to judgment.
A couple of old ladies walked in the door. I charmed them with a wisecrack about how much it was raining outside. Another customer walked . . . . .
A few weeks ago, I popped by URS on my day off. I needed some milk. It was close. Look, I don’t hafta justify myself to you. I needed stuff and they had it (man, I’m awful at writing intros). Even though it was my day off, a minor crisis was ensuing that caught my attention. One of the freezers had stopped working leaving about $300-worth of ice cream in perilous danger. The manager on duty and two crew member huddled around the freezer, trying to assess what to do. As they poked their heads around the appliance, I gave it a quick look. Not because I wanted to help URS, but I do enjoy fixing things. To me, it looked like the freezer wasn’t getting any power. The lights were all off. It made no sounds at all. And it was a balmy 58 degrees inside (while I am not an expert in the specifics of turning milk into ice cream, I’m fairly certain keeping it at a temperature under 58 degrees is involved).
“Did you check the circuit breakers,” I asked the manager. I’m pretty sure he heard me, but he seemed too focused on the state of . . . . .
Last week I was stocking canned goods when I heard a commotion near the entrance to the store. I would have gotten up to see what it was, but I was quite comfortable and, frankly, didn’t care. I only abandoned my task when the manager on duty, Maude, 1 found me: “Cindy said we just got robbed.”
That got my attention. “Huh?”
“Three or four people ran out of the store with baskets of alcohol and diapers.”
“Seems like an odd mix to me.” Even in crisis I can still maintain my sense of humor.
I followed the manager into the office. URS is equipped with cameras everywhere within the store. It’s something Loss Prevention does to prevent losses (lotta good it did in this case). Since I’m not management, this was this first time I had access to the surveillance eqipment. Maude didn’t know how to use the system because she wasn’t trained at it. Luckily I’m good with a computer and in ten minutes2 we were able to see video of the theft. It was a team of four. They came in and loaded hand baskets full of merchandise (mainly booze and diapers, but they also threw in . . . . .
I haven’t had much to be proud of lately. I work at a job that suits the financial needs of a teenager. I haven’t had a good haircut since 2008. I’m a burden on society and take more in government aid than I pay in taxes. But I can proudly proclaim I had a gas-free October. I filled up my gas tank on November 2nd. The last time I bought gas before that was September 23rd–meaning I did not buy gas for the entire month of October. Driving a highly fuel-efficient Honda played a big part in that, but I’ve had the car for almost four years and I’ve been getting 35 miles per gallon from the beginning. I was able to go six weeks in between fill-ups thanks to a perfect storm of events that left my car at home more often than not (no, it didn’t break down–it’s a Honda). Since I’m only taken one class, I only go to school once a week. October was filled with rainouts and byes, so I had only a couple softball games all month. And since work is a mere four-minute walk, it’d be wasteful to drive there. I typically go . . . . .
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