Lesson Three: “Red Monday”

               The vandals had struck again!  Painted haphazardly across three walls on the outside of the school were various slogans obviously written by those with a lower intelligence.  Such things as “School sucks,” and “I hate Mr. Z” in bright red paint contrasted vividly with the light gray exterior.

            During his morning routine of walking around the school, Jon E. Mopp had noticed the vandalism scrawled outside.  Shaking his head and muttering to himself, he mumbled something about how kids were never this destructive and stupid when he was in school.  About the only thing they ever did was sneak a cigarette in the bathroom or get into an occasional fight.  But never were they destructive.  “What a world,” thought Jon as he entered his office. 

            Pondering the situation, Jon’s eyes scanned the shelves of cleaning supplies looking for the perfect paint remover.  Locking onto a can of Graffiti Remover like an enemy’s radar might lock onto a target; he reached up and removed it from the shelf. 

            “This should work” Jon said to himself.  Reading the label he said “Hmmm.  Removes black marks, paint, lipstick, grease, oil and tar.” 

            “Great!  I should be done in no time.” 

            With a happy gait in his step, Jon headed back out to the vandalized areas with cleaner and rags in hand.  The warm, spring sunshine shone down upon him as he breathed in the fresh morning air.  Somewhere close by a Blue Jay sang happily for the world to hear.  Jon smiled, thinking to himself about the day ahead. 

            Upon reaching the first wall, Jon vigorously shook the can of graffiti remover and then generously sprayed it on the vandals’ paint job.  The red paint of the slogan “School Sucks!” began to run down the wall like fresh red blood oozing from a bullet wound.  Jon quickly dabbed it away with his rag.  It lightened slightly, so he sprayed the area again.  As before, the paint ran in rivulets down the wall, but with less bright red consistency than before.  Jon again dabbed the rivers of paint to keep them from staining more of the wall.  Still, it didn’t completely disappear.  Jon thought about it, and then decided on another avenue of approach. 

            Walking back to his office, Jon retrieved a scrub brush and some steel wool.  “This should take it off,” Jon reasoned.  Walking back to the vandals’ art work he began to clean the same area again. 

            Never having liked the implications of the word “suck,” Jon had started his paint removal process with the “s” of that word.  As he had done a few minutes before, Jon again began removing the red paint.  First, he sprayed on the graffiti remover.  Then, he dabbed off the paint that was beginning to run and started scrubbing the area with a brush.  More paint than previously came off, but still, there was a definite outline of the letter “s” left remaining on the wall, somewhat like the outline of some macabre ghostly image from long ago.  Again he sprayed the graffiti remover, this time using some steel wool.  Beginning to scrub, Jon could see more of the “s” disappearing.  His heart beat faster at the prospect of a soon-to-be-completed job.  He sprayed a little more, and again used steel wool.  The rivers of red were definitely becoming clearer, but a light hue still remained.  The “s” was gradually fading away.  As he scrubbed a little more, a sharp pain shot through his index finger.  Looking down, he noticed two small strands of steel wool sticking out of his finger.   

“Dang!” Jon yelled. 

Reaching down, he carefully began to pull the first strand.  Without any trouble, it pulled right out.  A small bead of bright red blood formed on his fingertip.  He picked up the rag and blotted the blood.  It blended well with the red paint.  Now, he began to remove the second strand of steel wool.  This one proved to be a bit more resistant however.  At first, it wouldn’t move.  Then, as he pulled a little harder, the strand broke, leaving such a small amount sticking out of his finger that a flea wouldn’t even trip over it if he were to walk there but enough remained to cause Jon some real discomfort.  Jon, frustrated, hurting, cursing under his breath and beginning to wonder how his day was going to end up, walked back to his office.  On the way, he yelled for the Blue Jay to “shut-up!”  The bird responded with more melancholy music as he burst into another selection all the while fully enjoying the sunny day. 

            Upon arriving in his office, Jon opened the First Aid kit and removed a pair of tweezers.  He fumbled around for about 10 minutes trying to remove the elusive strand when he decided that that wasn’t working.  Looking back into the kit, he found a small razor blade.  Normally, this would be used for cutting tape, or in an extreme case cutting the skin over an area where a poisonous snake might have bitten someone. Today, however, Jon was going to remove steel wool with it. 

            Being careful not to cut too deeply into his finger, Jon carefully and with very light pressure made a small incision in the tip of his finger next to the strand of steel wool.  It was just enough for him to use the tweezers to remove the painful culprit.  A small river of freshly oxygenated bright red blood began to trickle down Jon’s finger, and he carefully wiped it off.  He then took the tweezers, got a hold on the strand of steel wool and pulling gently, he removed it. 

            Reaching back into the First Aid kit, Jon picked up a Band-Aid, washed his hands and wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger.  It was throbbing slightly, but the pain was bearable.  He was ready to go finish his project.

            Pondering his success or lack of it to this point, Jon had an idea.  If the graffiti remover and brush and steel wool wouldn’t remove the paint, maybe a stronger mixture of something else would.  Looking around the room, Jon noticed a jug of ammonia.  “Perfect!” he thought.  He picked it up, opened the container and poured some into a bucket.  Then, as he was about to leave, he noticed some bleach sitting on the shelf.  “Wonderful,” he exclaimed, I can mix that with the ammonia and I’ll have a powerful cleaning solution that will take that paint right off.  Smiling, Jon took down the jug of bleach.

            Carefully opening the container so as not to spill any on his clothes, Jon began to pour the bleach into the bucket.  Immediately, a gaseous cloud began to roil up into the air.  A chemical blast hit Jon square in the face and he dropped the bleach jug on the floor while attempting to back away from his new concoction.  When the bottle hit the floor, it landed upright, but a spray of chemical splashed into the air covering Jon’s new blue jeans.  Unaware of this, and trying to gasp for breath, Jon stumbled backwards into the wall.  A clock hanging overhead fell off the wall bouncing off the top of Jon’s head causing him to crumble to his knees.  As he was crumbling, the clock was falling too so that by the time Jon was on the ground, the clock was on Jon’s back.  With a loud “crack,” Jon’s spine took the brunt of the clock’s force.  Gravity smiled wickedly as its’ many-faceted abilities were once again put to use. 

            Jon struggled to sit up, and in so doing, knocked the bleach bottle completely over.  A large clear pool of liquid quickly surrounded Jon where he was sitting.  The strong chlorine odor made Jon think he was in a swimming pool.  His head swimming from the chemical fumes, Jon sat half-dazed and bewildered as to his predicament.  It was then that the burning started.

            An unusual sensation, starting warm and quickly climbing to hot began to settle on Jon’s behind and the back of his legs.  Jumping up, Jon’s head disappeared into a cloud of swirling chlorine gas.  Again gasping for breath, Jon dropped to his knees in search of fresh air.  Subconsciously remembering he was close to the door, he haphazardly crawled and stumbled to it.  Reaching up he was able to open the door and get outside where he collapsed on the pavement gasping for breath.  After just a few seconds in the fresh air, Jon’s brain forgot about his lungs and began reminding him of his hot back-side.  Panic-stricken, Jon undid his belt and literally ripped his pants off.  Running to a nearby faucet in his bleach-stained, ammonia-seasoned, chlorine-wreaking, extremely-white Fruit-of-the-Looms, he turned the water on full-blast and stood directly in the stream where he could rinse off the deadly mixture.  Fortunately, he had removed his pants quickly enough so that the burns he sustained were minor.  After a thorough rinsing, he grabbed his pants and gave them a bath as well.  Having rinsed them out sufficiently, Jon struggled to put them back on; about as easy as putting on a pair of peanut-butter filled gunny sacks.  Once he had wriggled himself into them, Jon took some more deep breaths to clear his head. 

            Looking back at the door, Jon noticed a thick cloud of smoke slowly drifting out of the doorway like some ethereal wraith casually making its’ way into the sky above.  Jon knew there was nothing he could do for the moment, so, leaving the door open to air out the room, he painfully walked back out to the vandal’s domain. 

            Upon arriving at the wall where he had been conscientiously removing the graffiti, Jon’s heart stopped in his chest.  With wide eyes and clenched teeth, Jon stood staring, his body rigid with anger and his hands clenched into balls of flesh and bone.  On the wall, the vandals’ message, “School sucks” now read “School ucks.”  Not only was Jon’s anger directed now at the word “uck,” which in Jon’s mind was just as bad as or worse than “suck,” but the paint behind the now defunct “s” was also gone.  Instead of the emblazoned words adhering to a light gray exterior, they now hung upon a multi-colored background of light gray which slowly faded to a cream, then white and finally to just plain cinder block.  Jon’s work, as usual, had taken a turn for the worse.  Instead of just cleaning off the graffiti, now Jon also had to re-paint, and that with a sore butt and uncomfortably warm legs. 

            Just when Jon thought things couldn’t get worse, the fire alarm went off.  Throwing his hands in the air, Jon headed for the enunciator panel in the main office to see what had set it off.  Walking as if he were a baby with a full diaper, Jon “quickly” made his way to the front office.  Upon arriving, he read the panel.  It said “Custodial supply room – Smoke detector.” 

            “Dog-Gone it anyway!” Jon muttered to himself.  He knew what it was.  The chlorine gas had penetrated the smoke detector with enough tiny smoke particles to effectively close the contacts on the unit causing it to send an electrical signal to the alarm circuit and in turn call the Fire Department.  Now he’d have to wait for them, as if he didn’t already have enough to do today.

            Knowing better than to turn off the alarm until they arrived, Jon slowly made his way out front.  In the distance, he could hear the approaching fire engines.  The metal-shrieking sound of their sirens mixed with the ear-splitting sound of the fire claxons mounted throughout the building made Jon cringe.  He knew they wouldn’t be happy with his inept stunt, and not only that, they would probably want to check him out for any serious injuries he may have sustained from this mishap.  Jon hated humiliation. 

            With a low rumble and high-pitched squeal of the sirens, the bright, shiny-red fire engine rolled to a stop in front of Jon.  A loud “hissss” of air brakes met Jon’s ears, and the smell of burning diesel filled his nose.  The side door opened on the truck, and a large, burly fireman climbed down the ladder to meet Jon.  The sirens died, and the only tell-tale signs of trouble were to be found in the flashing lights of the engine. 

            “So what’s the trouble?” the fireman asked.  Jon noticed the name on his uniform.  It said “Red.” 

            “Well, let me explain.” 

            Jon quickly glazed over the details of his incident with the bleach and ammonia while walking with Red to the supply room where they’d meet the fire engine.  When they arrived, Red carefully looked inside.  Most of the smoke had dissipated by now, and the chemical reaction from the bleach and ammonia was, for the most part, complete.  A few wisps drifted here and there from the floor giving it the appearance of some hot underground thermal activity in Yellowstone National Park. 

            Once the fire engine arrived at the supply room, the firemen set up a large exhaust fan by the door.  Turning it on, they began to remove the rest of the gas from the room and at the same time, blew Jon over with a gust of wind from the spinning fan blades.  Tumbling over backward onto the pavement, Jon thumped his head when he hit the ground.  Dazed, but not confused, Jon groggily sat up.  A small red trickle dribbled down Jon’s left ear. 

            “You okay?” Red asked.

            “Ya, fine,” Jon said, absent-mindedly wiping off the blood. 

            “Let’s check you out just to be sure.”

            “Whatever,” Jon said half-heartedly.  He really didn’t want to deal with the medical end of his predicament, but he had no choice.  So, instead of arguing, he just gave in to their medically professional persuasiveness. 

            About then, an ambulance pulled in, lights only, to Jon’s relief.  Getting out of the ambulance, two paramedics approached Jon, medical bags in hand, and asked him a few questions.  After ascertaining his injuries, they put Jon on a gurney and slid him into the back of the ambulance as if they were loading pizza into an oven.  Then, it was off to the hospital. 

            Leaving the school in the capable hands of the Fire Department, Jon watched out the back window of the ambulance as his office and supply room disappeared from sight.  As the ambulance rounded the corner and was leaving the parking lot, one of the paramedics burst out in laughter. 

            “What’s so funny?” Jon asked.

            Not knowing what Jon had been working on before this accident had occurred, he said, “Kids nowadays can’t even spell.  They wrote ‘School ucks’ on the wall over there.”

Pointing with his finger, the paramedic indicated what he was looking at.  “What a bunch of idiots our society is raising these days,” he said between chuckles. 

            Jon didn’t have the courage or desire to tell him what had happened.  It just wasn’t worth the effort.  Jon lay back on his pillow and shut his eyes. 

            “Humiliation.  I hate humiliation!” Jon thought. 

            About then, the other paramedic said, “So, what’s with the pants?” 

            A mottled blue and white pair of jeans lay crumpled on the floor of the ambulance next to the gurney. 

            “Just trying to keep in vogue with the kids these days,” Jon lied.  “It’s easier to groove on their level if you act and dress like them.”

            The paramedics snickered.  For one, they knew that wasn’t true.  Secondly, kids nowadays didn’t use the word “groove” to describe being in vogue.  Jon was unknowingly dating himself.

Ignoring the snickers and hidden smiles emanating from the paramedics jolly faces, Jon shut his eyes hoping it was all a bad dream.  As the ambulance left the parking lot, Jon could hear the happy songs of the Blue Jay through the open windows.  As if hearing the infamous sound of fingernails slowing being raked down a chalkboard, Jon’s face grimaced with anger and annoyance.  The ambulance hit a bump, and the paramedic’s sphygmomanometer fell off the shelf hitting Jon in the forehead leaving a welt between his eyes. 

“Sorry,” the paramedic said. 

Jon gave him a weak smile while trying to suppress the throbbing between his eyes. 

Another work week had begun.