"I wish you'd tell me where we're going, Stepdad."
"We're going to the mall. I've told you that two or three times." Steve didn't look up from the wheel of the car.
"Yeah, but you won't say where in the mall."
He still wasn't saying.
"You're acting awfully mysterious about this, Steve. You won't tell me exactly where we're going. You've got that sneaky little smile on your face..."
"Sneaky!"
"Yeah. You're starting to scare me."
"Aw, you know you've got no reason to be scared of me."
That was true. In the six months since he'd been married to my mom, we'd become the best of friends. He never acted like the stereotypical stepdad, and even when he tried to be fatherly, it was as if one older buddy was giving advice to a younger one.
"No," I admitted, "but I wish you'd trust me."
"I wish you would trust me. I'm just having a little fun. Promise." I must have appeared still worried. "Okay, I'll tell you the name of the place we're going. It's called the "Swat Shop".
"'The Swat Shop'? I never heard of it."
"No, you wouldn't have any reason to . You're a good kid."
I mulled over this a minute. "And I've never seen it in the mall."
"It's open only once a year, on Father's Day."
"That's a funny schedule. Well, how come you know about this place and I don't?"
Steve gave me one of his mysterious smiles. "These things have a way of getting around to dads - and stepdads."
"Oh. This is getting weirder and weirder, Steve. How can this business afford to open just one day in a year? What do they sell?"
Steve didn't answer, but pulled into a parking place just outside an entrance to the mall.
"Are you going to tell me what they sell?"
He turned off the motor, paused, then looked over at me. "Paddles," he said, and got out of the car.
I didn't have much choice except to follow him. Then Steve put his arm around my shoulder and more or less guided me inside. "Paddles?" I asked. Surely I must not have heard correctly.
"That's right." He was maddeningly uncommunicative as we walked down one side of the mall.
I had noticed that the parking lot had been unusually crowded. Now I saw several kids, all boys, accompanied by men who I assumed were their dads. Most of the sons seemed unwilling to move, and the fathers were having to push, drag and otherwise prod them along. I began to worry, and looked up at the still-smiling Steve. A terrible thought entered my mind, but, knowing Steve as I did, I promptly dismissed it. Then it reasserted itself. After all, did I really know my new stepdad that well?
I glanced around at a few of the protesting sons. Some I recognized from school, others from our neighborhood. They all were pleading with their very determined dads, each of whom wore a smile similar to Steve's. That did it. I couldn't bear the suspense any longer. I stopped. Steve walked on a few paces before realizing he had left me behind, then turned.
"Stepdad," I walked up to him and whispered. I don't know why I whispered. I guess so the other fathers and sons wouldn't hear us. "Please tell me what this is all about."
"I told you. I'm just having a little fun."
"Well I'm not."
"Okay, pal. I've teased you enough. Let's sit down a minute." He indicated a nearby bench and led me to it.
"Actually, I've told you just about everything. The Swat Shop is open only once a year, on Father's Day. They sell paddles, and nothing but paddles. They 'cater to the special needs of dads with lads' as their slogan goes."
"But why are we going there? What have I done to make you mad?"
"Nothing, pal, nothing. I've got good reason to be happy with you - you didn't buy me a tie as a gift. So calm down. You've got nothing to worry about. Listen. You remember just before I married your mom, I joked that I better not have to start spanking you?"
"Yeah."
"And after that, didn't I promise I wouldn't?"
"Well, that promise is still good. I knew you and felt sure I'd never have to punish you, much less paddle you. I could depend on your good behaviour."
"I still don't understand."
"I want you to better appreciate the results of that good behaviour by seeing the consequences of bad behaviour. This trip is really to help you out. Now let's go." He stood, but I hesitated. "C'mon," he urged me, and we walked on a few more yards to a store entrance. I hadn't noticed this particular store before, or even that there was anything in this location. Steve and I, along with other fathers and sons, made our way in.
A clerk walked up to us just as we entered. He was like a clerk in any department store, but all the Swat Shop's employees were male. "May I help you, sir?" he asked my stepdad.
Steve answered, "Surely there's only one reason for me to be here."
The clerk looked down at me and smiled. "Of course, sir, of course."
I resented the smug look he gave me. "Steve..." I pleaded.
My stepdad helped me out. "Actually we're just looking."
"I understand perfectly, sir." I was pretty sure he didn't. "You'll find the layout of the store very simple. "The over-the-knee models are on the left, and on the right are the school, or grab your ankles, or bend over implements - they go by various names."
"Let's check 'em out, pal!" Steve said enthusiastically, leading me with a gentle but resolute hand on my back to the left of the store.
Above the aisle hung a banner that proclaimed "Keep Junior in His Place - Over Your Knee!", and below it, on shelves and racks, lay a large selection of paddles designed for use in that position. There was little variation: in size and shape, they all resembled ping-pong paddles. Some were constructed of heavy plastiic rather than light-colored wood.
Steve picked up one and (what else?) smacked it against his palm. "Aw, aren't they cute?"
"Yeah, real cute."
"But you're too old for this kind of thing, kiddo. Although..." He pointed up to the other side of the over-the-knee banner which announced "Remember Dads - Even Big Boys Fit There!"
I frowned with disapproval at this cheering notion.
Steve tried to comfort me. "Big boys, not young men." Then as I turned around, Pop! He smacked the paddle against the seat of my pants.
"Hey!" I was more annoyed than sore.
"I'm sorry, sport, I'm just playing around. You aren't going to tell me that really hurt, are you?"
"No, I was surprised, that's all."
Steve replaced the little stinger, and we walked to the other side of the Swat Shop's showroom. This area, with the "serious" paddles, was much larger, as the selection was considerably more extensive. While the shape of every paddle was practically the same - a blade at least a foot long, rectangular wiith rounded corners - there was still a wide range of choices. There were paddles of pine, mahogany, and oak. Some were perforated with holes. A few sported extra long handles for, as a sign suggested, "that all-important two-handed grip".
We had to walk slowly down these aisles, for they were lined with fathers admiring the craftsmanship of the paddles while their nervous sons looked helplessly on. I noticed that a number of the blades were engraved with captions, such as "board of education", "for the cute little deer with the bear behind (or more bluntly, butt), "applied psychology" or "the heck with psychology!", and "use in case of teenager". Some were named: Butt-Buster or -Duster, Sizzler, Scorcher, or Big Red( and it was). A few were decorated with crude cartoons, generally depicting boys being punished with that very implement. Most of the boys had their butts bared, and practically all those butts were red. Very tasteless.
But Steve didn't find them so, and was chuckling along with the other fathers. I saw that he had picked up a fairly large paddle and was handling it fondly. I trusted him, yes, but I was still afraid he might succumb to the atmosphere of this place, especially since all the other dads seemed to be having such a good time.
A clerk, noticing my stepdad's apparent admiration of the woodwork, stepped up and asked, "Would you like to try it out, sir?"
Steve looked over at me, then answered the clerk for my benefit, "We're just looking."
The clerk replied "Oh," puzzled by this unusual attitude.
"But if I did want to try it out?"
The clerk brigtened. "Right over there, sir." He pointed to the back of the Swat Shop. Apparently their "testing" rooms were found there, like the fitting rooms in a clothing store.
"Do you think anyone will mind if we just go have a look-see?"
"Oh, the fathers won't mind. And the sons won't object. I promise."
"Then let's go where the action is, pal!"
I followed him reluctantly, embarrassed by the clerk's smirking gaze.
A torrent of sounds poured from the hallway. The smacks and cracks of striking paddles predominated, intermingled with the sobbing and howling of the boys on the receiving end. The sons who were able to speak wailed "Please, Dad!" or yelled promises to be a good boy. The penetrating voices of the fathers shouted "Bend over!", "Grab your ankles!" or "Stay still, I'm not half finished with your butt!"
Also emerging from the opening were groups of tearful sons and content dads. One beaming father placed his freshly-used paddle in the hands of an awaiting clerk. "We'll take it!" he announced, to the horror of his two sons. Obviously a satisfied customer.
"Steve," I asked, "Do you really think we should watch this sort of thing? Isn't it an invasion of privacy?"
"What privacy?"
He was right. There were doorways in the hall, but no doors. On each side, they opened into a single large room. In the one on the left, the otk paddles were being tested. Chairs had thoughtfully been provided for those fathers who had smaller sons. Each of those sons was now held securely over his father's lap. Pants and underpants had invariably been lowered, and the dads walloped away at the upturned bottoms, which ranged in color from watermelon pink to strawberry red.
The loudest noises came from across the hall. As Steve and I entered the room on the right, we first caught sight of the many recently-punished teenagers, pants and underpants around their ankles, hoping around rubbing their well-paddled butts. They obviously didn't know what a spectacle they made as their manly parts bounced wildly for all to see. Their thoughts were all concentrated on another part of their anatomy.
Throughout the room were fathers, stationed by the side of their bent over sons. Butt after butt was turned up toward me, some jean-clad, some underwear-covered, most bare. The sound of wood striking boy backside was continuous.
I noticed the quandry of dads who had two or more sons. Should he buy just one paddle, or one for each boy? And should the paddles be different or all the same, so dad couldn't be accused of favoritism?
Steve called, "There's Don. Hey, Don!" We walked across the room to where Mr Hall, holding an especially wicked-looking paddle, was presiding over his son Rick, the neighborhood pest. At least, I assumed it was Rick - the only part of him I really saw was a naked butt. And no one could have identified him by that, since I was sure that butt had never been this red before. I looked between his legs and saw the upside-down, crying face. Yep, it was Rick.
"Hey, Rick," I greeted him.
"Heeey!" he said through his tears. I don't guess there's a whole lot you can say when you're in his position.
Mr Hall asked, "What are you two doing here?"
"We're just looking," Steve replied.
"Lucky you. I wish that was all I was doing." He smacked the paddle hard across Rick's butt to prove he was doing more than looking.
"Yeow!" cried Rick.
"Are you buying?" Steve asked.
"I dunno. Look at this thing." He held up the paddle. It was thick and drilled full of holes. "A maximum-strength Butt-Buster. 'Guaranteed to catch junior's attention' it says on the label. But I don't seem to be making the impression I want."
I looked at Riick's butt and wondered what kind of impression Mr Hall thought he wasn't making.
"Maybe you just aren't using it right," Steve suggested.
"Maybe so. I've been trying to get waited on." He nodded toward other parts of the room. Some of the burlier clerks, suit jackets off and shirt sleeves rolled up, were on duty, demonstrating to the fathers (and sons) the effectiveness of the store's merchandise.
Steve suddenly perked up. "You know, seeing that red little butt reminds me. I found out who trampled my prize rose bushes the other night!" He pointed to the paddle in Mr Hall's hand. "May I?"
"Be my guest."
Steve accepted it gratefully. "Here's what you want to do. Grab it with both hands" - it was a long-handled model - "and pull it way back." He diid so. "Now you've got to remember to crack your wrist just before you make contact. That's what makes the sting. Like this."
Smack! Steve struck.
"Got it?" Steve questioned.
Well, we knew Rick got it, and Mr Hall seemed to get it too. "Lemme try, lemme try!" Steve handed the paddle back to him, and said to me, "See, pal, I can hit hard when I need to." Mr Hall addressed Rick, "So now you're tearing up rose bushes, huh? Well this is gonna hurt worse than any thorns!"
We had already turned away before the paddle fell, but of course we heard its piercing crack, and Rick's vocal proof that his dad had profited from the instruction. I wondered where my stepdad had acquired such expert paddling skills.
"Can't we get out of here now, Steve?" I begged.
"Allright. But you see what happens to naughty boys?"
"Yeah, yeah..."
"And I don't want you to feel sorry for them. I'm sure that for every whipping they get, they have at least one more coming."
"Right." I tugged at his sleeve. "This way, Stepdad."
"And don't be hard on these dads. They get only one day a year to show their stuff."
By now we had reached the main part of the Swat Shop. I headed for the door, but Steve went over and picked up the paddle he had examined earlier. He handed it to a clerk, saying "This is the one I want."
"You aren't buying!" I gasped, but he was already at the crowded checkout counter.( Apparently the store did so much business this one day, they could easily manage to be closed the rest of the year.) Steve was telling the clerk, "I don't plan to use this, you understand?"
"Of course, sir, of course. You'll just hang it on your den wall, as a warning, perhaps." This all-too-knowing clerk looked down at me with a smile.
"That's an idea!" Steve said brightly. "Let's go, kiddo!"
They didn't put the paddle in a bag, and I had to walk through the mall alongside Steve, cheerfully swinging the _d_a_m_n_ thing. Other fathers and sons were also leaving, the dads similarly equipped. My face must have been as red from embarrassment as the sons' were from crying, and although it didn't show any tears, I was alarmed at the conclusions everyone else would undoubtedly draw from Steve's possession of the paddle.
I didn't want to say anything and attract more attention, so I kept silent until we reached the car.
"You aren't really going to hang that on your den wall, are you, Stepdad?"
"Well - I'll bet that would keep you in line, wouldn't it?"
"Steve..."
"Or I could have you hang it on your bedroom wall."
"Steve, please! You're acting like a stepfather!"
"I"m teasing, I'm teasing. Here." He handed me the paddle and raised both his hands in surrender. "See? I promise not to use it. Now. What say we go to Baskin-Robbins?" He started the car.
I looked down at the paddle, and noticed for the first time what was engraved on it. It said "To Son, From Dad, With Love".
Steve smiled at me. "This is a twist. I'm giving you a present for Father's Day! But seriously, sport. You can do what you want with it. Put it in your closet. Just as long as it's where you can get it if I need it."
"You're doing it again!" "Of course it'll probably just gather dust there."
"C'mon, Steve!"
"Don't get all excited. I promised I wouldn't use it on you, didn't I?"
I sat back, somewhat reassured.
"Except maybe on your birthday..."