A few days later Hammermeister got a note from the district custodial coordinator stating that because of activities scheduling, Duffy’s shift would revert back to the original 5:00 P.M. to 1:30 A.M. semi-graveyard shift. Hammermeister got on the phone and talked to the man, one Bob Graham, who told him Sean Duffy was one of the better custodians in the district and that he was not going to stand still for any aggravation. Furthermore, Graham characterized Duffy as one of the nicest, most easygoing people he knew. Right! White was black, and black was white! What perfect logic!

Whenever Harold needed time to “think,” or to let his various headache medicines kick in, he would take a stroll over in the area of the gym and look at Duffy’s work. It was hard to fault, but Hammermeister was quick to jot down “dings” with a retractable ballpoint—especially if he found them two or three days in a row. He would leave notes to Duffy. Pin them on the custodians’ bulletin board for all of the classified staff to see. “To S. Duffy from H. Hammermeister: Black mark on benches, boys locker room. Why?”

When basketball season started, Hammermeister grabbed Duffy by the arm and pointed out a spilled Pepsi under the bleachers. It was the first thing you saw when you walked into the gym, and he told Duffy to go get a mop and clean it up. It was an eyesore. “Hurry up, there, chop-chop!” Hammermeister said, with heat in his voice.

Later that night, at halftime, when Duffy was giving the basketball court a quick sweep, the drill team came out, and Hammermeister made a theatrical throat-slashing gesture for Duffy to get off the court. Duffy waited at the opposite end of the gym, his face blazing scarlet with bilious fury, and after the drill team finished its routine, Hammermeister noted with satisfaction Duffy’s embarrassment as he finished the job. Duffy was an aneurysm waiting to blow.

Well, there were the teachers, too, who were slackers—a good number of them. Hammermeister made note. They were easy to spot. They liked to show films or assign book reports and theme papers blocking out days at a time in the library. They followed the same curriculum year in and year out. Playing one clique off the other, Hammermeister ascertained who the lazy ones were and, if they were not coaches, he gave them heat, too.

Woodland, down in the portables, for instance. He dressed like some kind of Salvation Army bum. Beard right off a pack of Smith Brothers’ Cough Drops. When Hammermeister caught Woodland smoking one day after school, he reminded the man that he was a master teacher and wondered out loud what his future goals were.

“I used to be gung ho and all thangs, but now I’m getting short. Have you got a problem with that, Hammermeister?”