It was the middle of the period and not a creature was stirring, except for one wiry teenager with unkempt hair, walking with a pimp-limp down the middle of the hall like he owned the place. An over-sized leather jacket billowed around his long frame and his jeans sagged to the middle of his thighs. A worn-out composition book, folded in half, was climbing its way out of his back pocket.
A safety agent and I leaned against the wall and watched him go by. When he saw us out of the corner of his eye the dip in his gait started to drop with more abandon.
“Yeeeeeeah..” he sneered.
I asked the agent if she knew his name.
“Jamel Cooper.” She said, as if the name tasted bad.
Later on I looked for his file in the deans office to make a note of his hall-walking but I couldn’t find it. So I called the attendance office to ask if he was a recent admit.
“Yeah, he just got back from Riker’s Island,” the lady from attendance told me. “So he may not be appearing back on our list yet.”
And we wonder why they don’t do what we tell them to do, I thought. Damn, I may be tall but I ain’t no fucking prison guard.