As a supervisor of principals in a large urban district, my job was simply to ensure middle school students who’d been quashed by institutional racism and smothered by low expectations would realize better learning outcomes.  I had no idea how immense the operational barriers were ‘til I opened a padlock and crawled into the belly of the beast.

One of the new middle schools under my watch was foolishly “incubated” on a high school campus. Turns out that middle schoolers can be unduly influenced by older kids, and during a rough patch in October, the principal up and quit… Thank God that Beverly, a feisty vice principal, barely five feet tall, agreed to take over. I was so grateful I called her every night to see how she was doing.

And I learned both principals on campus were really frustrated… with the Colonel. The Colonel was a beefy man who wore camouflage pants, army boots and had a key ring the size of hula hoop that jangled when he walked. He was a fast talker, “I’m here for you 24-7, Dr. B.  24-7. Whatever you need, I’m for you.”

So I call a site meeting to find out what the problem was.  Jim, the 6’ 4” high school principal, complains he can’t get supplies for the classrooms. Even, he only gets a clipboard, two pads of paper, and a pen.”

“You get what you need, sir. Just like everyone else.”

He’s concerned that when parents come to see their kids play ball, they have to pee on the side of the gym cause the bathroom’s are locked. Of course I suggest the principals should get a set of keys.

“Bad idea, sir. Very bad. They’ll lose ‘em. Look, I’m the Key-master…”

“Thanks for getting them keys, tomorrow. Now let’s talk supplies.  Where are they?”

“They’re in the Crypt, sir.”

“The Crypt. Hmmm.  Never been there. Let’s take a field trip…

So we follow the Colonel down a narrow set of stairs, through a brick tunnel. Principal Jim has to hunch over. The Key-master opens a padlocked gate and snaps on the lights and we’re in a cavernous room filled, not with cases of paper and pens, but pallets filled!  Shelves lined with new textbooks, three new copy machines, 35 unopened computers. The principals looked like Charlie when he walked in the Chocolate Factory.

“Uh, when did we get all these computers?”

“A couple years back, sir. Still waiting on the paperwork. Hurry up and wait. Heh heh!”

And I turn to Beverly and whisper, “You know I’m Jewish, but tomorrow’s Christmas! You bring your teachers down to the Crypt; they get whatever they want.”

After some prodding, The Colonel admits there’s one more “space” with “supplies.”

So, we follow the jangling Colonel back through the tunnel, up the stairs, to an abandoned wing of classrooms.  He opens the padlock of the first room. It’s cluttered with computer cables, keyboards, and these barrels overflowing with… army boots. 

“You think we might want to get rid of these old boots?”

“Can’t do that, sir. Government property.  Part of the ROTC Program closed three years ago.”

“But we need the space… for students.”

“I’ll work on it tomorrow, sir.” And then the Colonel sees me eyeballing a stack of 1947 yearbooks, tall as me.

“Oh you can thank me for that, sir.  Fished them out of the dumpster.  Perfectly good.  I was gonna bring them to the library.  For the students, sir.” The Colonel was a very well intended hoarder. And we meander into the neighboring classroom. We see a mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag, a mini-fridge, a TV.

“Told you I was here for you 24-7, sir. Heh heh.”

Then, my eyes dart to a rifle leaning in the corner of the room, beside a table with bullets scattered on it. 

“Uh, I don’t think we’re supposed to have guns and live ammunition on a school campus.”

“We need protection, sir. Not a safe neighborhood.” 

“By tomorrow, there’ll be no guns or bullets on campus.”

“Sounds like an order, sir.”

“It is.”

So the next day, I call HR. I want to know The Colonel’s official title, how he’s paid. 

They call me back a couple of hours later with breaking news: The Colonel hasn’t worked for the District in three years.  And I ask, very politely,

“How the fuck am I supposed to fire a man who’s not an employee of the district who’s the only person on campus with a set of keys and a gun?”  Crickets.

Turns out the Colonel was “the building manager,” making more money than the most senior principal in the District.  He was paid with Gates money, funneled through a non-profit, in support of the small schools movement.

I was very nervous when I told the Colonel that, after New Year’s, we’d no longer be needing a manager.

“I knew this day was coming, sir.  Just didn’t know when.”

“Well, thank you for your service.”

“More than I got after serving 20 years in the military…”

And that night, I forgot to give Beverly a call.  She rang me at 9:00 pm, asking if I still loved her.

I remind her that I that got her keys and school supplies. She said something about deserving an award, a medal of honor, or maybe just … cases and cases of wine.

We did manage to close the middle school at the end of the year, and…

Beverly is now leading wine tours in the Napa Valley. She seems very, very happy.”