Epi-Pen Training is one of my favorite days of the
year. It's always the first faculty
meeting of the fall, usually mid-September.
Our school nurse gives us a lecture about the dangers of allergens, and
we sign off on the paperwork confirming that we understand the appropriate
steps to take in case of an emergency.
Then she hands us all pretend-Epi-Pens, and the fun begins.
We practice on ourselves, and we practice on each
other. Once we have perfected our
snap-bash-and-hold techniques, we get to stand in line and stab a
facilitator. Our targets: the nurse, the principal, and the vice
principal.
I don't want to stab the nurse, even if it's just a fake
stab. I like her a lot, and she's just
an itty-bit of a thing, a wisp of a woman, who probably bears the bruises of
this meeting for weeks to come.
I don't want to stab the principal because she has enough
evidence already to see me strung up on Plato's cave wall with no hope of
escape. Better to maintain tenuous
complacency.
Instead I line up to stab the vice principal. He was one of my closest colleagues before he
turned evil and joined the administration.
As a matter of fact, I used to cover for him when he'd slip out the
computer room back door, run to Dunkins, and quietly slip back in again, all
done without permission or proper procedure.
I don't know why, but for some reason the thought of stabbing him
(albeit with a fake Epi-Pen) seems ridiculously appealing at the moment.
I am fourth in line, and the wimps in front of me, men and
women alike, hesitate to attack with the force necessary to trip the injection
delivery system. They have to keep
trying, afraid of either hurting the man or perhaps of getting a surprise
addition to their dossier.
I have no such fears.
I know my file is a shit-show.
There is no mercy to be delivered here on my part.
I edge up the line until I am face to face with the VP. Well, to be fair, I am face to about lower
rib cage. He is a tall and foreboding
administrator, and I am but a lowly, shrunken, waif of a teacher. I carefully uncap my practice pen, arc my arm
out with extreme force, and bring the Epi-Pen to the vice principal's outer
thigh with the velocity and ferocity of a madwoman.
The practice pen explodes with a loud and resounding click,
and I grind the spring-loaded end of it into his leg while sweetly smiling and
chirping, "I'm supposed to count to ten, right?" I whistle a little bit, a melodious tune,
while averting my eyes lest he catch even a hint of the devious enjoyment I am
getting out of this. After all the times
administration (this one and the ones before it) has shit all over me and my
teammates, I really am getting a satisfying sense of payback knowing I will be
largely responsible for the bruise an administrator will sport for the next few
days. I reset the pen and hand it off
down the line of colleagues for subsequent practitioners to take their best
shots.
It may not be as exciting as the training session when one
of the social studies teachers accidentally grabbed a live Epi-Pen during the
self-practice round and shot herself full of Epinephrine, but I personally
believe it's damn close.
(Disclaimer: In all
fairness, I really hold no personal animosity toward my vice principal. In truth, his Epi-Pen training line was the
shortest. But he really did used to
sneak to Dunkins, and I really do have a personnel file that could apply for
its own zip code.)
(Disclaimer to the
Disclaimer: Never mind the
disclaimer. It's all true, damnit.)
