Week Twelve Journal Two

12:34 read the old analog clock in the superintendent’s office. Right in the middle of lunch, Dale could be eating a steaming hot whopper with cheese right now, or a plate of dorito’s with cheese on them. It annoyed Dale that whatever he did wrong, it had to be addressed during his lunch hour.

The big fake wooden door opened and superintendent Beesley walked in, carrying a full manila file under his arm. He had a very stern and serious look on his face, but when did he not? Beesley walked past Dale without saying a word, and plopped down at his desk, opposite Dale. It wasn’t until he adjusted in his seat and carefully pushed aside a stack of pink papers that he spoke.

“Mr. Kesler, do you have any idea why I called you in here today?”

Dale was pretty sure that it was because he bought some pot from that kid on his bus, as that was the only law he broke in the past seven years, much less the only school rule he had broken. Dale felt as though he was back in high school, in the principal’s office, getting interrogated for smoking pot in the bathroom.

“Uh, no I was surprised when I got the phone call. I’ve been really curious, but at least I can put that to rest now, huh?”

“That is our goal, Mr. Kesler. We have a few more questions for you.”

“What do you know about John Simpson?”

“Nothing. I mean, I think he rides on one of my routes, but I don’t know him, like, on a first name basis or anything.”

“Mmmk, mmmk,” mumbled Beesley as he filed through the manila folder of papers he had walked in with.

“Am I in trouble or something? What is with this interrogation?” inquired Dale, starting to sweat a little bit since he knew he was guilty of something. He gazed out the window directly behind Beesley, and saw the saw continuing to fall. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for an answer.

“No, you’re not in trouble…yet. That’s what I’m here to determine.”

“Well, unless you have something specific to talk to me about I’m going to kindly see myself to the door.” Dale started to get up from his seat.

“But we’re not done here.”

“Well, all you’re doing is asking me vague questions, and not even telling me why I am here. I’m just a bus driver, but I can tell you that you are not that adequate of a superintendent.” Dale moved towards the door, sliding his jacket on.

“You leave here and you’re fired!”

“Not exactly for you to decide, we’ll let the head of our district’s transportation decide that. Call me when, or if, you decide to talk straight and tell me what’s up. We’ll set something up on my schedule,” Dale chuckled. He knew now that his little outburst would cause some trouble, but ultimately he had the upper hand.