The Giggle Loop, or: How I Almost Got Fired Over a Hot Pocket

My friend, Chris, mooned me at school. It was lunch time. I’m sure I deserved it. I don’t remember what I said to him on the bleachers to make him get up abruptly and walk halfway across the football field before revealing two fluorescent white ass cheeks, then calmly walk to French class, but I do remember that I somehow ended up in the principal’s office for the incident, not him.

Perhaps it’s this memory, or my longstanding disdain for authority, that made my biggest fear about teaching high school that I wouldn’t be able to maintain a straight face in the middle of an absurd disciplinary situation.

Today, that fear was realized.

11th grade – we were all waiting for the guidance counselor to come in to talk about scheduling classes for next year. A raised her hand.

A: Can I go see Mrs. H and get a Hot Pocket?
Me: What?
A: A Hot Pocket. You know, with the dough, and they have that pizza filling inside.
C: Yeah, those joints are good!
Me: Yeah, I know what they are, and I still don’t understand the question.
J: Mrs. H sells Hot Pockets for $1.
Me: What?
C: And sandwiches, and cookies.
A: And sometimes, chips.
J: You should do it too. You could make a lot of money.

The enormously high percentage of students at my school who qualify for free lunch comes to mind. This is the only way I can make sense of what I’m hearing. We’re still a couple hours away from lunch, and I wonder whether A has eaten yet today.

Me: Ok, fine.
R: Can I get one, too?
Me: Sure. Why not?
A: You want one?
Me: No, thanks.

Less than five minutes later, one of the assistant principals – the one who’s seven feet tall – is at my door with A and R, livid. A is eating a Hot Pocket that smells like old broccoli. The AP is holding a clipboard and wearing a houndstooth blazer that I could wrap around my body three times. R is looking at me, expectantly.

AP: Have A and R been in your class at all today?
Me: Yes.
AP: Did you tell them they could leave to get a Hot Pocket?
Me: I did.
AP: Well, A is on a no-pass policy.
Me: I didn’t know that.
AP: Can I speak with you alone for a second?
Me: Sure.

I open the door for A and R and, from deep inside room 108, someone sings, “Hoooot Poocket,” and it begins: the Giggle Loop. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch slightly upward.

AP: Why would you do that? If this was some other class, maybe. But this is English. Come on.

And – there. There’s where it all went wrong. Because I don’t know how to talk to authority figures, I couldn’t decide whether there was any use trying to explain that I was concerned about whether A and R’s parents feed them. I assessed AP’s level of fury and concluded that I was going to get browbeaten either way, and any attempt to explain why I might have felt like it was ok for two students to leave class for a few minutes and buy contraband Hot Pockets in the middle of English class would be regarded as a flimsy excuse for my perceived negligence. And, of course, the absurdity of having to stand in the hallway defending my pedagogy over a black market Hot Pocket made the whole thing ludicrously funny. Eventually, I spoke again.

Me: Well, is there an official Hot Pocket policy?
AP: Pardon?
Me: I mean, would it have been ok for A and R to get a Hot Pocket from Mrs. H during lunch, or would R have to go get both of them because A is on a no-pass policy? Can you only buy Hot Pockets during elective classes?
AP: Look. We’re trying to help you, and we’re doing the best we can. We have a hard enough time keeping kids in class without you sending them out for Hot Pockets.

Hoooot Poocket.

Me: Ok.
AP: They need this class.
Me: I know. But I can turn my classroom into a concession stand, and you’ll look the other way?

Hoooot Poocket.

AP: No, I’m not telling you to do that.
Me: Right.
AP: I should write you up for this. But, I’m not going to.
Me: Thanks.

But now I wish he had written me up for this. I would highlight every mention of Hot Pockets, frame it, and put it on my wall.