Duke looked at me, "So, Did they end up giving you even more grounding time? You already got a month, plus, you know...." referring to my experience with the peachtree switches.
"No, I still have the rest of the grounding, but....well, I'm gonna have to get the belt tonight--boy they were mad.....and all because I just asked if I could go to the store TODAY. It is just so UNFAIR!" I of course didn't bother to mention my minitantrum of that morning.
"Will he make you bend over? When I get it, my father makes me hold my ankles like Coach Charles--except he uses a belt."
"Yeah, I'll have to bend over, AND I get it with my pants down....all because of something stupid I once said---I'm the only kid in my family who has to pull down my pants when I get it...even my UNDERpants! It is just SO UNFAIR!"
The bell rang and we went back to class, where I couldn't concentrate much on what the teachers were saying about our upcoming exams--It was time for me to be excited about upcoming Summer vacation, and all that I could think about was a waiting bench and belt that I would have to be facing in a few short hours.
When I got home, my mother had to remind me. "Jonathan, You'd better go straight up--change out of your school clothes and do your homework--You know what is going to happen when your father gets home."
"DAMMIT, I KNOW! I KNOW!"
"It would be a good idea if you didn't make it worse for you than it is already going to be...Now March Up To Your Room!"
I went up the stairs slowly, stomach hurting and feeling like the weight of the world was on my fourteen year old shoulders. I didn't want to think about what was going to happen, but that was all that I could think about. I changed into my cut off jeans and Keds and T Shirt--and tried to concentrate on my homework--but instead, all I could think about was getting punished. The alarm clock beside my bed ticked off the seconds so slowly, as I kept thinking about the questions that just made me more and more nervous. My bottom squirmed in the chair and I noticed that I could still feel some pain from the switches of a week earlier. How hard will he hit me? How many lashes will I get? Will it be even worse on top of the switching?...................I just wanted to puke. I spent some time crying and some time trying to accept and resign myself to my approaching butt burning. It was awful. It is SO MUCH EASIER when the parents get mad and immediately execute a sentence of corporal punishment...when there isn't much time to think about it until after it is over...and of course then, it is over--not something that will happen soon. This is torture!
Surprisingly, I did get some semblance of homework done and closed my book just as I heard a car turn into the driveway. My heartbeat and breathing immediately picked up and my mouth became dry as my butt started to uncontrollably squirm. I heard the door open and close...some talking and then the dreaded footsteps on the stairs. He's coming to get me, I stood up from my deskchair and waited. My door opened.
"Jonathan, It's time to go to the basement." I couldn't believe it, Dad already even had his belt off and doubled over in his hand--ready to deal with a smart mouthed teenager's butt--my butt.
"O....K.....but pppleeeaaaasee, I wish we could do this another way?" I whined, tears beginning to run down my cheeks as he let me take the lead for the walk to the basement.
It was a slow walk---four steps to the top of the stairs, then down the fourteen stairs to the first floor, five steps through the hall and into the den--I moved slowly--my younger brother, 12, and sister, 7 looked at me as I walked past whining, "Please, I feel SO SICK. I don't WANT this to happen, Please." Only four steps from the den to the kitchen where my mother was fixing dinner and my older brother, 17 was setting the table--for five--I would not be joining the family for dinner that night--nine steps to the basement door which I slowly opened and began to descend eleven steps--my father still solemnly right behind me--and then I took the six steps to the old picnic bench and stopped.
There was already a towel draped over the end of the bench--there to prevent splinters from going into the insides of my shins knees and lower thighs which would be pressed against the edges. I realized the irony and wished that I could also have a towel to protect my bottom at the same time. By now, I realized that there would be no out, and I began to whimper louder.
"Jonathan, Straddle the bench." I did as I was told, putting my right leg over the bench and to the other side. Now I was standing with legs spread apart and the bench between them.