Superintendent Sandman

*Names changed to protect descendants.

Mr. Sandman ruled my public school with an iron fist and a mushy brain. His faulty logic led to situations that would have embarrassed a more intelligent man.

My introduction to Mr. Sandman came in fifth grade. Even though he was superintendent, he pulled double duty to teach us history. During class, he often stopped to snivel about our poor behavior. The thirty-six students in my class created a challenge for the best of teachers, and Mr. Sandman did not fall into that category. Our favorite classroom pastime involved humming "Mr. Sandman" whenever he turned his back to write on the board. He earned this nickname due to the large allergy bags under his squinty little eyes. To our amusement, our humming often sent him into a tizzy.

As the years passed, Mr. Sandman failed to endear himself to me. He enjoyed yelling at students in the hallway and often called us into his office to address our bad behavior. I found myself sitting in front of his desk on more than a few occasions.

In eighth grade, I was playing baseball outside during recess. The ball flew over my head in the outfield and a younger kid grabbed the ball and ran away with it. I yelled something like, "Bring it back you little shit or I'll pound ya!" The on-duty teacher heard me, so she dragged me into Mr. Sandman's office for a chat.

I glared sullenly at the Sandman while he rifled through his desk and pulled out a calculator.

"Let's see if I can figure this out," growled the Superintendent, "you swore at a little kid on the playground."

"He kept stealing our baseball and I was sick of it!" I exclaimed.

"You were sick of it?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes!" I replied.

He brought up the calculator and announced, "You are twenty-five percent evil now," punch, punch, punch. "By the time you are an adult," more punching of numbers on the calculator, "you will be 100 percent evil."

Silence filled the space between us before I broke down in a fit of giggles.

"Do you think being evil is funny!?" he demanded.

"No!" I chortled, "but you can't use a calculator to determine how evil I am. That's just plain stupid!"

I was briskly led from his office and returned to class with a warning not to swear on the playground. The threat did little to improve my language.

By my senior year of high school, my dislike of Superintendent Sandman grew to mild hatred. I am certain the feeling was mutual. One evening my friends and I cruised the streets of a nearby town. We came upon a construction site containing a great number of sandbags. A devious plan was soon formed and we took action.

Several heavy bags were tossed into the back of Donny's pickup before we raced toward Mr. Sandman's humble abode. Silently, we stacked the bags up against his garage door. After a few more trips, the bags stretched across the entire garage door and reached six bags high. It was beautiful to behold.

Superintendent Sandman arrived several hours late to school the next day. His first duty involved calling a high school assembly in the gymnasium. The four of us filed into the meeting without anyone else knowing about the previous night's activity. This was going to be good!

Steam rolled off the Sandman as he screeched, "One of you better tell me who stacked sandbags in front of my garage door last night!"

Students silently glanced around trying to determine what he was screaming about.

The level of our fearless leader's ranting kicked up a few decibels, "I mean it! You better tell me right now! I spent most of the morning moving sandbags and I am in no mood for your high jinks!"

Snickering rose throughout the gymnasium once students realized what had angered the man. Mr. Sandman's composure melted into a toddler tantrum. Pride welled up in my evil heart. (I'm sure it was at least ninety percent evil by this time.) Best prank ever!!

As an adult educator, I must admit I learned a great deal from Mr. Sandman's example. Allow me to list these lessons for everyone's benefit:

1. Ignore nicknames.

2. Calculators can't determine a person's percentage of evil.

3. Never throw a tantrum in front of an assembly of students.