Summer Days 7/5/2003
Well I got home on June 27th without too much fanfare. I took my final, packed my stuff and then headed off to the bus station with time to spare. The bus got there late because apparently small sparks were shooting out of the dashboard. When the bus driver got into the bus station he leaped off the bus yelling and complaining. Binghamton bus workers' solution? Cover the dash board with electrical tape. The bus driver, after twenty minutes, finally agreed to get back on the bus but grumbled the whole time, "This just aint right. It just aint right..." We sped down the highway so we could get to our connecting bus on time...
The other bus, however, was late as well but for totally different reasons. Apparently this other bus driver had never driven a bus before and today was, of course, his first day on the job. We kind of figured it out when he started asking for directions almost immediately into the trip. He also didn't speak very good English. Now, I have no issues with Indians, but if you can't speak the language, then you shouldn't be working for a mass transport system. People were asking him questions and he couldn't answer because he couldn't understand them. It's horribly frustrating to spend $50-80 on a bus ticket and not be able to ask the bus driver questions.
Anyway. so other than the whole communication problem, the trip went smoothly until we got to White Plains, NY, where a woman asked him "What parts of NY does this bus go to?" I've taken this bus since I was sixteen, and I know for a fact that it goes to NYC via Long Island. So the bus driver replies, "No no, we don't go to New York, we just go to Long Island." Long Island, IS in New York...Then she asks, "Does this bus go to Islip?" (which is my bus stop) and he says, "No no we don't go to Islip." I practically had a heart attack since he had checked my ticket, which clearly said Islip...Luckily, two very big black guys heard this and proceeded to shout the bus driver down until he checked his list of stops, and said, "Oh OK, we do go to Islip...i thought you said Hempstead." This started to really make me nervous, since A) 'Islip' sounds nothing like 'Hempstead' and B) Hempstead was also a stop in the route.
He ended up driving past several stops on the way and getting thoroughly lost on the way to Islip, but I only arrived home forty minutes late, which wasn't too bad. I spent the weekend hanging out doing nothing and went to work on Monday.
Camp sucks works than last year. At least last year, all of the preschool counselors hung out together. In upper camp, none of the counselors really talk to each other and my group leader, Brendan, definitely doesn't talk to me. I think he doesn't like me too much...But whatever, instead of sitting by myself feeling like an ass, I hang out in the bathroom until our morning meeting with the camp directors.
Upper camp is actually kind of easier than taking care of the two and three year olds. At least almost all of my children speak English, with the exception of Rahul, and no one is autistic. It's funny, you have to take a test to drive a car, but any asshole can have a child.
My kids are basically OK. The five girls in my group adore me and are really pretty good at listening. There's three boys in my group who are the biggest asshole...if this is what they're like at nine, I'd hate to see what they're like at my age. They're the perfect model of spoiled, rude, rich kids. These boys don't listen to me no matter what I do, and if I tell them no, they just either go and ask Brendan, or do it anyway. If you yell at the kids, they'll inevitably tell their parents, and I'll lose my tip, which I desperately need. One of them, Daniel, has serious issues. At nie years old he constantly talks about alcohol, and once mentioned in art class that his father lets him try beer.
There's a kid named Vinny who Brendan accurately described, "Talks like someone has him by the nuts." As much as I hate to say it, this kid is going to get his ass kicked in school if it hasn't happened already. We were playing soccer this week the soccer ball literally glanced Vinny's elbow. He started hysterically crying...actually he really wasn't crying. it was kind of like that fake dry heaving and no tears were coming out. I knew he was faking it because I offered to take him out of the game and he immediately stopped. A few minutes later. the ball once again glanced his ear (keep in mid these are like, Nerf soccer balls) and he threw the biggest temper tantrum. "Get me a tissue! get me something!" he screamed while dry heaving. The other boys kind of make fun of him now because Vinny cries at the slightest thing. He reminds me of a white Steve Urkel. He's just a really odd kid...
It's funny, but when I used to work in the child psychiatric ward at Stonybrook Hospital, the kids in the ward were much more adjusted and and 'normal' than the kids at Laurel Hill. That never ceased to amaze me since the kids in the ward usually came from broken families or seriously fucked up backgrounds, whereas the Laurel Hill kids are some of the richest and most privileged I've ever encountered. For my application essay to PA school I'm seriously considering making that my topic.
For the fourth of July I watched movies..nothing big, but relaxing.
Until next time
Artist
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