Now all the horns are going. The regular citizens are cursing at the RES vehicles. The RES drivers are screeching insults at the frantic volunteers. The volunteers are infighting out of sheer frustration.
It's like when the Titanic crew realized they were a few dozen life boats short.
And then someone gets the bright idea that if each car takes three giant steps forward and Mother-May-I's its way a few feet closer to the building and (gasp!) a few inches closer to the bumper in front of it covered in stickers pleading for your organs to be donated and for you to break for some unfortunate species, we might just be able to squeeze in the last few remaining overheating cars.
Of course, the volume problem would be solved entirely if they'd just unlock the gates to the damn Pit.
But rules are rules.
I park my car where I'm told, slam the door impressively, glare at the spineless volunteer until he turns away, and march into the gym to take my place among the other seething parents. And the parents who have been there for hours and have the blood pressure and heart rate of the Dalai Lama.
It's 8:02 pm and the children have not yet returned to the gym.
In fact, Madame Church Lady has just opened the mike to the ancient PA system and is just now crackling to her charges about a closing prayer.
Which we are encouraged to recite along with them - and which will be completed before the children are dismissed.
Dismissed to be walked in obedient single-file lines into the gym where they will be seated in the same lines in front of the little pieces of paper bearing their classroom numbers, and wait to be dismissed again.
While a string of obscenities takes shape in the boiling head of Pissy Patty Potty Mouth.
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