Originally published in the Grand Rapids Business Journal, April 4, 2005.

Right. So I'm back after a week in Florida, and this story doesn't have anything to do with the attached comics, but I don't remember too much pre-vacation stuff, so bear with me.

We drove, and we take two days to do it. The total drive time is about 20 hours from here to Tampa Bay, and a lot of folks go straight through. That seems to be needlessly stressful, and as I am the only long-haul driver, we do the hotel scene. (Monotonous highway driving tends to put Jane asleep, and to ignore a slight touch of narcolepsy on I-75 with spring beak traffic is something like pish-poshing a slight case of vertigo when rock climbing the Grand Canyon: not safe.)

So we left my in-laws at 5:00 Friday morning, grabbed breakfast at McDonalds, and hit the road. As was the case with every other fast-food experience we had during the trip, they got the order wrong. We went inside, made eye-contact, quickly checked the bags, and they still managed to slip one by us. I got a McSausage something or other sandwich instead of the more benign version with Canadian bacon. No time to go back -- we had to get through Atlanta before evening rush hour -- we pressed on.

Twelve hours later we pulled into our hotel in Kentucky and decided upon dinner at a Cracker Barrel because we could walk there and play Frisbee on their front lawn. (People always seem disturbed when you play on the landscaping. It should be against some sort of law; in Florida I’m sure it is against the law.) So after dinner, which included a free dessert because they screwed up the order (like we needed a free dessert after mindlessly scarfing whatever was within reach in the van for most of the day), we trotted back over to the hotel.

Well, for me it was more like a waddle; that McSausage simply had to go. I warned my dear family and called dibs on the bathroom. Lena pleaded to go first, and I assented. Ellie and Jane stopped off at the lobby facilities. And Atticus, poor Atticus, ignored it all. By the time he acknowledged his own call of nature I had warped the walls of that sad Comfort Suite bathroom, the sad bathroom that had no fan or any other obvious ventilation -- a cost savings measure, no doubt, which now had gone horribly, horribly wrong. As he danced at the door pleading urgency, I finished up explaining what he was in for, and how he could have avoided it if he had only listened.

I opened the door, and he scooted in. I will never forget the look on his face. It was equal measures of despair and disgust. He stopped, physically shuttered (I am *not* adding this for comedic effect) and let out a low, barely audible, "Uhhhhggghh." He knew he had no grounds to complain, but it was so hopelessly offensive he had to make some sort of noise. I left smiling, but sympathetic. It's certainly not easy being a kid, and having to follow your father after he melted the plumbing into a Superfund site, well, that's beyond an indignity. That's just harsh.

The comic is about the superintendent of Grand Rapids Public School, Bert Bleke. With the economy, unfunded mandates, and posturing politicians, it is really a lousy time to be in charge of any school, let alone a large, central-city public school system. Mr. Bleke has done an admirable job for the past three years and recently announced that he intends to step down soon. I'm not applying for the job.