Where's my B-team?

I stood there bleeding. The first thing I did this morning was cut my pinky finger on the metal door closer on the top of my classroom door. I had been simultaneously starting my class ("Everyone take out your homework") and removing a rolled-up workbook that had propped open the door (somebody stole my beloved big orange rubber door stop). My normally athletic coordination was a bit off. I sliced my pinky across the metal bars that close, but do not open, this door. At first I thought I could ignore it for the ensuing 90-minute block but five minutes into the kids' journal entries I had a pea sized bead of bright red blood on my finger. "Hey Mister we got lunch next!" Jaya said, looking at the gore.
I told the "Book Monitor" to get me a band-aid from the nurse. While he was away I wondered at how I am bound by obligation, law, responsability, proffesionalism, the code of Hammurabi, whatever, to my room. I can't leave the class to make copies, take a leak, or get a band-aid. Stepping out into the hallway to speak to a visiting parent is an abrogation of power almost always followed by an uprising. The "Book Monitor" returned empty handed, "The nurse wasn't there and the guy there told me to leave. Stupid African," he reported.
Great, I'm still bleeding.
I called the main office. Lucky for me the secretary had a few spare band-aids. The "Book Monitor" was grateful for another excuse to walk the halls, and I got my band-aid.
"You using two band-aids!" Jaya said. "You beastin'"

Comments

[yaron]

dude there are no names on the articles are you atempting an economist style objectivism or is it just laziness. Anyway I figured this was your blog because of the word "beastin" Am I wrong? yaron