The only person not impressed, not harried, truly not caring about the fire drill
procedures was Pete Plimpler (A.P. English). His secretary, Felicity Rudder,
shared with the department his cryptic response to announcements about
clearing the building. "Pete says, it would take something close to Dante's
inferno to get him to vacate the building."
If he was lucky to be tipped off about the drill he placed himself, as the hour
approached, inside his glass cubicle. Felicity Rudder would grab her bag and her
coat, push her head in the door, and say, "I think this one is real. I'm leaving."
And Pete would respond wearily, "If it gets out of hand tell the fire people not
to bother with the ladders. I'll go down with the building in flames." This slice of
humour she also shared with the department which gobbled up every treat of
gossip about its enigmatic supervisor.
Pete Plimpler had his own procedures when these drills started. Once Felicity
had left he waited two minutes, listening to the din of classrooms emptying out.
When it seemed his third floor was clear he'd step outside his door ostensibly to
move along any stragglers. Then he'd return to his cubicle, pour himself a fresh
cup of coffee, turn up the volume of his radio (tuned into the classical music
station).
He'd stand at the window, steam from the coffee cup swirling round his lips and
up his nostrils; and he'd look out on a somber grey world ̶ the bareheaded
shuffling confusion below, the grimy sodden brick and grilled structures of Bronx
dwellings; aging trees, overused roadways. And for as long as the fire drill
lasted he'd experience a strange desire to be transported.
It raised goose bumps on his skin. He waited for something to happen, for some
force to take his soul out of its suitcase of weary flesh; lift it up and away.
Felicity Rudder would return to find him at the window still staring out, his
head at a limp angle. When she spoke to him ̶ "I thought I'd freeze to death out
there!" ̶ she noticed he didn't respond right away. Which prompted her to
remark once to Mrs. Boneskosky, "You know, sometimes I wonder if Pete is all
there."
For his part Bob Meier was unusually sanguine about these drills. Depending on
when the bells rang he was happy to take a break, any break from the classroom.
On the day Principal Wamp kept everyone freezing on the sidewalk, the alarm
went off just as he was settling down in the cafeteria to lunch. Not the cafeteria
lunch of fries and oily chicken and over steamed broccoli, which he paid three
bucks for and shoveled in like coal in his stomach boilers. This time he'd brought
something from home in a Tupperware container.
His department's microwave was broken, so he had to travel to the first floor to
use the Special Ed. department's microwave. The secretary and a teacher in the
office who didn't know him gave him a long cold look and told him he could go
ahead.
He had to borrow (he couldn't find his) a plastic fork from the cafeteria; they
didn't approve of anyone using their cutlery and their paper napkins and not
buying anything. Finally he was able to settle down, shaking his head,
wondering what the world was coming to.
He'd just taken his second mouthful when Bob Darling instructed everyone to
leave the building. Everyone in the cafeteria looked up at each other, wondering
if those instructions applied to teachers on their forty-minute lunch break, who
had taken just two or more sips of their coffee. They decided they weren't
leaving; and Bob Meier was opening the pages of his New York Times when this
burly security officer came in and shouted, "Everybody out of the building";
startling the teachers who were accustomed to shouting, not being shouted at.
They froze and stared at him and seemed to resent his manner of speaking. The
officer looked and sounded intimidating, with his bald head and smooth black
youthful face; and a football player's impassable bulk. He held his ground, but
amended his message: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave the
building." And he stood waiting, thumbs in his belt, for the teachers to do
precisely what he'd said.
The shock of being addressed in that manner lingered in the air. The alarm bells
rang, the strobe lights flickered; and Bob Darling's voice now gave stern
warning ̶ this drill was not to be taken lightly. The teachers got up, gathered
their belongings, and headed for the nearest exits; not happy, grumbling to each
other, food trays abandoned.
Bob Meier was the last to leave. The burly security officer had looked straight at
him when he spoke the second time, as if detecting a potential trouble-maker.
There was no mistaking the frustration and anger on Meier's face. He got up
slowly; he wasn't sure whether to pack away his wife's Tupperware with its
barely touched contents; he decided to leave it on the table. If the drill was over
quickly he might have time to get back to it. As he sauntered off he heard the
footsteps of the security officer marching behind him.
Outside, since he had no class of students to supervise, he hung about near the
entrance. He was rousted again by another security officer and told to move on,
over to the sidewalk across the streets. Enraged, he shuffled off, mumbling an
apology if he stepped on the heels of a student. And during the long wait he
focused his stare back at the doors where the first security officer, his short
sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive biceps, his job done, stood with legs apart
sharing a joke with his pals.
Students standing near Bob Meier tried to engage him in banter but he wasn't in
the mood. His lips were clenched in a strange self-absorption. His eyes were a
beam of controlled fury directed at the burly security officer.
He wanted to catch the man's eye. The man had taken something from him when
he stormed in like a drill sergeant rousting everyone. Bob Meier wanted it back.
For the rest of the term whenever he passed that security fellow he tried to lock
into his eyes. The man did not engage him in the hallway, doing his job of yelling
and directing students; carrying on as if nothing had happened.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 