Yesterday, while waiting alone in a classroom for a seminar to start, I overheard a male student in the hall yelling at someone. I walked to the door and saw a scrawny pizza-faced kid yelling at Mary, an extremely sweet-hearted teacher of ours. “I’m going to the dean on Friday, and you’ll never work here again. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Each time he yelled “I hate you,” his voice rose and he swatted at his face. The guy was obviously cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
It was one of those moments where I should have leapt into action and made sure everything was OK, but as the adrenaline kicked in, I found myself stepping behind the door jam. I peeked around the corner and hoped the little freak would finish his tantrum and leave. But he didn’t. He just kept yelling while spit dangled from his mouth.
I’m terrified of crazy people. I could ride comfortably on a bus full of grouchy gang members, but if I see a slipper-footed old lady get on the bus, talking to herself and caressing a shoe, I start looking for the exit. I don’t do crazy.
As I hunkered behind the door, I had a quick vision of Elliott from Law and Order asking me where I was when the crime occurred, and why I didn’t intervene (I know, he’s special victims, but still…).
“This wasn’t in the job description,” I muttered and grabbed a pen off the table. I stepped into the hall, trying to look casual, not knowing what my plan was. Maybe I was hoping he’d see the pen and think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my objectives here.”
But just then a male professor stepped around the corner and asked if everything was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, in my manliest voice. “Everything OK?”
The kid yelled one last “I hate you,” and ran to the exit. The three of us stood and watched him try to slam the old wooden door, but he couldn’t get enough weight behind it. He opened and closed the door three times, and each time it only made a gentle fwump. From the stairwell, we heard, “I hate all of you.”
Mary just waved it off. “I’m fine,” she said and went back in her office.
“That was weird,” I said to the professor. I punched the palm of my hand. “I thought I was going to have to bust some skulls.”
He didn’t respond. He just walked off, and there I stood, my hands shaking, feeling like I needed to puke.
6 comments:
If we ever encounter any crazy people, I will be sure to jump in front of you to protect you :).
How did you ever survive Dispatch all those years? Working with and talking to crazies all the live long day??? We even had a crazy roladex!
Remember when we encountered the homeless crazy's in Seattle? You and Matt were behind me before I could even put my arm out to protect you. Good times. Well apparently not for you.
I know how hard that can be. They never tell about that in the course description, do they. I've been lucky as my overall size has stopped most confrontations but I'm with you I'd rather be some place else.
In today's world you can't be too careful about crazy people. You never know what they will do. It sounds like the lady professor has developed the thick skin of a well seasoned professor that you are aspiring to rise too or not. However we congratulate your honesty and cantor and look forward to more of these zanny stories.
Dude, you grew up with Jeff. How can you not handle crazy? Just kidding Jeff, really, I'm just kidding. It was Mike's idea, really, it was. I a-speak-a no-a engrish.
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