The Stack of Unsigned Forms¶
Rule 12: All maintenance requests must be submitted via Form 22-B, available in the staff room cabinet. Do not use the old pink slips.
I never used the 22-B. The pink slips were thinner, easier to slide under doors when the teachers were too busy arguing about lesson plans to notice the boiler’s death rattle. I kept the stack of unsigned forms in the janitor’s closet, next to the broken Pong console that whistled Jingle Bells when you jostled it.
The principal called it a “culture of accountability.” I called it a way to avoid admitting the school’s skeleton was made of wire and duct tape. Every teacher had a quirk I’d cataloged: Ms. Rivera’s habit of unplugging the department’s Kaypro II to charge her electric toothbrush; Coach D’s ritual of kicking the vending machine until it spat out a soda, which I’d then have to unjam.
The forms piled up because I couldn’t bring myself to sign them. Signing meant admitting the south wing’s outlets had been dead for three years, that the “new” security cameras were actually hollow boxes painted to look functional. But mostly, signing meant exposing that I’d rerouted the entire budget for “technology upgrades” to buy a new heart monitor for the nurse’s office.
The lie started small. A fib to the district rep about “compliance delays.” Then another. By year three, I’d built a whole mythology: the forms were “lost in transition,” or “pending historical preservation review” (the Kaypro II was older than some of the students).
When the new IT guy arrived, all sharp ties and sharper questions, I knew I was done. He cornered me in the staff room, holding a pink slip I’d tossed aside. “These aren’t even on the system,” he said. “Why do you keep using them?”
I could’ve told him. Could’ve said the 22-B forms were designed by someone who’d never smelled burnt circuitry at 2 a.m., who’d never had to choose between replacing a door handle or a child’s asthma inhaler. Instead, I said, “Habit. And they’re prettier. Look at the font.”
He squinted. “It’s Comic Sans.”
“Exactly.”
That night, I burned the stack in the maintenance shed. Not because I was afraid of getting caught, but because the IT guy had a point: the lies had grown barbed, tangled around my throat.
I submitted one final 22-B the next morning. Request: New heart monitor for nurse’s office. Reason: The old one sounds like a dying goose.
They approved it.
I quit two weeks later. Left the Pong console whistling its ghostly carol, the pink slips scattered like confetti. The IT guy probably thinks I was a lunatic. But if he’d ever stayed past dusk, he’d have seen the teachers—Ms. Rivera, Coach D, even the principal—leave their rooms at night, press their palms to the cold screens of the dead Kaypros, like they were saying goodbye to something that never really left.
The funny part? The district sent a thank-you note. Typed on a 22-B.
I framed it. It hangs next to the Jingle Bells Pong in my new garage.