It promised to be a festive evening in St. Louis. The people attending the annual Chorale Concert of my small Midwestern college were dressed in semi-formal attire. Women wore black evening dresses and fine jewelry, and men wore attire that suggested that although black tie was preferred, it wasn't mandatory. Except for the orchestra tuning their instruments, there was a hushed silence as the choir took their seats on the stage.

After everyone was settled, the Director walked to the front of the auditorium. Standing in front of the orchestra on the main floor level, he turned his back to the audience and tapped for attention. The Director was also the President of the college and was known for his anal approach to life. He insisted everything be perfect. The robes were pressed; men wore mandatory white shirts and black ties, and women wore white blouses under their robes.

This was an important evening for the school and for himself. It was rumored that executives from a foundation had been invited.

The concert began. For the first half of the program, everything went perfectly. A few minutes into the second half of the program, the President's squirming six year-old son who happened to be sitting in the front row on the center aisle became violently ill. He disgorged the remains of his dinner into the middle of the aisle directly behind the President.

It became impossible to ignore the mess as the vile odor of undigested food spread throughout the auditorium. The choir continued as if nothing had happened although the President appeared annoyed. Ushers discreetly tried to open the side windows unopened for years. That's where I came in.

I was a poor student, ungainly, and at the end of an awkward adolescence. Earning money as a part-time usher, I was standing at the back of the auditorium when the incident happened. The head usher ordered me to get a bucket and mop from the supply closet and clean up the mess.

Unfortunately, the bucket had a problem. One of the wheels was flattened and thumped like a supermarket cart wheel with a worn wheel. The rusty bucket squeaked and pitched back and forth on its unsteady trip. The bucket's handle rested on the edge and rattled as the bucket jolted.

Just as I swung open the doors at the back of the room, the choir broke out into a rendition of Handel's "Lift Up Your Heads, O Ye Gates And Be Ye Lifted Up, Ye Everlasting Doors." As I pulled the bucket through the doors, the doors swung into the bucket. The clatter pulled everyone's attention to me. Mortified, I started down the aisle pushing the mop and bucket with the broken wheel.

"Thump, Thump; Rattle, Rattle!" went the bucket.

"The King Of Glory shall come in," went the choir.

"Thump, Thump; Rattle, Rattle!" repeated the bucket.

"The King Of Glory," repeated the choir.

I wasn't used to all the attention, and my adolescent shyness made me uncomfortable and nervous. Completing the mopping, I hurried up the aisle. In my nervousness, I hung the mop under my arm like a lance the mop head held high. As the head swayed back and forth, debris slung to the sides.

Like a knight in a jousting tournament, I charged up the aisle with the swinging mop. I couldn't have moved faster if I were on a white horse. People on the ends of the aisle ducked and tried to shield themselves from the flying debris.

As I reached the top of the aisle, I realized with horror I had left the bucket behind the President at the front of the room. I leaned the mop against the back door and walked forward to retrieve the bucket at the same moment as the President backed into the bucket. The President caught himself and smiles appeared on the faces of the choir.

I pushed the overflowing bucket back up the aisle with the handle of the mop squeeze, as the choir broke out into another score. The bucket spilled some water in my rush to get to the back of the room.

"Let the seas roar!" went the choir.

"Thump, Thump; Clang, Clang, Splish, Splash!" went the bucket.

Reaching the top of the aisle, I turned to the mop I left at the door intending to place it in the bucket. Unfortunately due to the slope of the aisle and the flattened wheel, the bucket was pitched at a perilous angle. The mop was the final absurdity. The bucket fell over and water ran down the aisle and settled in a puddle at the Presidents feet.

"Let the floods clap their hands together!" sang the choir.

The President stepped backward into the water. His face flushed red and as he turned and glared at me, his smooth polished shoes slipped from under him and he fell into the puddle. He regained his feet, his tails dripping.

Until this point, the Chorale remained fairly composed. Seeing the discomfort of the President, however, was too much. Someone in the bass section snickered. Someone in the alto section laughed. Then, the choir completely lost it. Laughter spread through the loft and the audience.

There was only one thing left to do to salvage the situation, and I did it. I refilled the bucket and started all over.