Tiki Gets Her Tail Stuck in the Laminator

TIKI GETS HER TAIL STUCK IN THE LAMINATOR

           Tiki, the lead guitarist for Whittier Elementary School and the pips (not really; one needs fingers to play the guitar), was playing around the laminator. Her tail, mostly used for balance, was on the tray that led to the laminator rollers. She was playing army with little plastic army people. She was wondering how to flank grumpy old janitor.
           A duty, overwhelmed by crazy kindergarten stuff that just had to be laminated, didn’t see Tiki or her tail. She set up a first run, then turned to her locker to get some stuff.
           Tiki, studying the army men surrounding a grumpy old janitor, was biting her tongue in the concentration spot. It took her a moment to realize that the plastic army guys and gals were getting smaller. How could that be?
                                                                       ***
           Grumpy old man was about to cross the street to throw the radio, walkie talkie if you’re of a certain age, into the river. The walk sign was on and the cars had almost actually stopped (the grumpy gent growled in his chest), when the damned thing spoke to him. “Grumpy old janitor! Tiki has her tail stuck in the laminator! Help!”
           The device was in his hand. Grumpy old man wondered if he could make the two-hundred-yard throw or not. He sighed. “Be right there,” he said, clicking the thing to his pocket and waving the crossing guard off.
                                                                       ***
           Although Tiki liked being in the young lady’s arms, she was kind of freaking out. “Um,” Tiki said, “I like the attention and stuff, but my rear feels like it’s on fire.”
           “Oh.” The young lady turned the machine off. “I wonder what’s keeping that grumpy old custodian.”
           “He’s probably contemplating life, replacing paper towels, and ignoring the radio.” Tiki considered, putting her finger on her sock chin. “And don’t call him ‘custodian.’ He doesn’t like it. He says it puts too much pressure on him.”
           “What pressure?” The duty asked. Tiki shrugged.
                                                                       ***
           Grumpy old janitor made a pit stop in the restroom. He was sitting there, waxing philosophically. To be, or what? Tiki’s tail was in the laminator, stuck. He sighed heavily. “To be, I suppose.”
           He washed up and headed to the work room. Sigh.
                                                                       ***
           Tiki’s rear was almost room temperature. The poor duty, feeling guilty, was cooing over the sock monkey. Tiki was nearly blushing over the attention.
           The grumpy old janitor came in, radio in hand. He looked at the tail, stuck, laminated, and smirked. He looked at the army figures surrounding a plastic grumpy old man with a mop and grunted. He looked at the guilty girl who had turned on the machine, stroking Tiki’s head, and smirked again. “So,” he said, waving the radio around like a scepter, “is there a problem?”
           “Goodness, grumpy old cust—er, janitor. Tiki’s tail is stuck in the laminator! We need to get it out!” She was stroking Tiki’s ears as she said it.
           Tiki was actually purring.
           Grumpy janitor grunted, giving Tiki a pat on the head, looked closely. “That sounds like an opinion,” he said, squeezing the tail inside of plastic. He put on his glasses, got down to look at the rollers. “Hmm.” He poked the tail tip with the walkie talkie’s antenna. “In my experienced opinion, I think we need to turn it back on and let it play through.”
           “You are,” the girl, scratching Tiki’s head, exclaimed, “a monster!”
           “I’m experienced.”
           The girl frowned sardonically. “Sock monkeys in the laminator? Come on!”
           Grumpy old janitor put on a professional expression. “It’s almost a daily thing here. This is a school, young lady. Sometimes it seems there are nothing but sock monkeys in the laminator some days. I know what I’m talking about.” He stood up and put his folded glasses in his shirt top. “Turn it back on and let me know when the temperature reaches 275.” He waved the radio around. “I’m just a call away.”
                                                                       ***
           Grumpy old janitor was on the roof, changing the dirty filters. He went to the edge to throw the old filters towards the trash bin, still holding the radio. He watched traffic. He looked to the line of trees hiding the river. Could he chuck the radio and make it from here? The answer was obviously no, but one never knew until one tried, right? He walked ten paces back, to give himself a running start. One, two….
           “Grumpy old janitor, the laminator is ready. Repeat; the laminator is ready.”
           The grumpy gent considered pretending he hadn’t heard and saying, “Three!”
           Sigh. “Be right there.”
                                                                       ***
           Tiki was fully laminated. Grumpy old man tore the plastic off around the mouth for dialog purposes, and aerodynamics, he, he, he.
           “Why don’t you just clip the radio to your belt like you always do, grumpy old man?” Tiki asked.
           “Philosophical reasons, whippersnapper.” He was climbing the ladder to the roof holding both the radio and Tiki, laminated and folded in a plastic paper airplane shape. It took some time to reach the summit. On the roof, where he’d thrown the filters down, he walked to the edge, looking at the tree line of the river.
           Calculating.
           “Tiki,” he asked nonchalantly, “have you ever wanted to fly? Free as a bird.”
           “Sure, but…”
           “Good. Take this with you.” He took ten steps back, set the radio on Tiki’s paper/plastic airplane, and ran. At the apex, grumpy old man yelled, “Three!”
                                                                       ***
           Grumpy old man walked into the Whittier building, radio clipped to his belt and unwrapping Tiki, the hapless sock monkey, from plastic. “Well, it was worth a try. You soared like a hawk, for a little while at least, whippersnapper.”
           “Yeah,” Tiki replied. “Thank goodness I fell on a pile of dirty filters!”
           The young lady, the new duty, walked by. Grumpy old gent, holding Tiki by the tail tip, handed her to the young lady.
           Tiki tried to cling to her, but the young lady, looking at the paw prints on her white shirt, said, “Get your hands off of me, you dirty ape!” She carried her to mamma keeper’s room by the tail tip.
           Good girl.