The acoustics are great, too. When the kids tinkle, it sounds like a storm in the rain forest. Don't even stand within earshot if someone farts -- it's like an atomic explosion echoing through the hallway. The hand dryers sound like jumbo jets taking off at Logan. Sometimes we direct make-believe airplanes with our arms, trying to communicate with our in-class students but accomplishing nothing short of being on the runway with dual flashlights while waiting for the blasting noise to cease.
How do I know this? My classroom is directly across the hall from the student restrooms in my corridor. This is how I know.
Usually for lunch I wander down the hall to the teachers' planning room and eat lunch with my grade-level team. Today, though, I have so very much to do, so I sit at my desk trying to work. I say "trying to work" because all I can hear is a low level whooooooooshing sound. I figure it must be a hand dryer and dismiss it as mildly annoying.
Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh.
Son of a ... I look at the clock. The seventh graders are all at lunch. It's either an eighth grader, or it's one of the kids with sensory issues who perhaps likes the warm air from the dryers. Yup, I've been known to step into the girls' room and warm my chilly hands there, as well.
Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh.
Okay, now I'm getting pissed off. The sound has been going continuously for about three minutes. The whole reason I am eating at my desk is to have some peace and get some quiet work done. I shove my chair away from my desk and march over to the bathrooms. Since I can easily see the dryers in both the boys' and girls' rooms from the hallway, I will yell to the student to cut that bad shit out right this damn second. Not in those exact words, of course.
TSUNAMI!
Holy shit, it's a damn tidal wave of water. There's so much water that the floor drain cannot keep up with it. Considering that the contractors clogged this drain 90% of the way with cement, this fact doesn't surprise me. What does surprise me, however, is that within a few short seconds, the tsunami will be in the hall, and, if it reaches the hall, it will come across into my room.
I madly dial the office. Thank goodness it's not a real emergency because nobody answers the phone. I hang up after about twenty-five rings and try the alternate number. In the meantime, I hear the office paging the custodial staff. Finally, when someone answers, I am told the problem has been reported and help is on the way.
Without warning, I hear the sound stop all on its own. It is strangely quiet except for the gurgling of the water creeping toward me over the tile flooring. Help does indeed arrive and asks me which toilet overflowed. "Girls' room," I say. No. Which TOILET?
Toilet? Dude, I am not going in there. It's a fucking TSUNAMI!
Minutes later, the flood is mopped up and one stall is marked off with forensic yellow tape. Soon after that, my students arrive for the next class. I have not eaten my (eighteen-minute) lunch, but disaster seems to have been averted. I go back to minding my own business when one of the boys runs up to my desk.
I doubt it, I respond.
He thinks for a moment then tries again. "MAY I go to the bathroom?"
I don't know, kid. Can you swim?
Just another day in middle school when a whooshing tsunami is the norm. Gotta love it.
