Here is an excerpt from a satirical short story, still in-progress, that follows an inexperienced janitor as he attempts to sabotage the impressive charter school where he works.
The bell strains itself hoarse so everyone is aware that it’s exactly 2:55PM, not 2:50, not 3:00, and the duckling style conga line of single parents in eight-seater SUV’s knows it’s time for them to trudge past the front door of the school and that it’s officially okay for them to honk and scream when their kid isn’t there for them the instant they’re ready.
These parents, all of them in suits the same dark shade of fabric as their car’s seats, they can’t make up their minds. Their fingers twist the volume knob for the satellite radio, Left…Right…Left…Right. Their elbows, stuck crooked in the mouths of their steering wheels, keep them precisely a foot, 12 inches, from the curb while their other hands are stuck up to their ears, their trimmed, buffed nails tap-tap-tapping their blu-tooths on and off.
Call after call.
This is the quality time they fight for with their divorce attorneys.