Jamie was doing what young boys typically do. Absolutely nothing. He'd been banging about the neighborhood for most of the day, in search of something to do. It was a week away from Labor Day, and the glorious three day weekend before the dreaded beginning of the new school year.
The town would be filled with backyard picnickers, baseball games, carnivals, and other such extravagences. He and all his best buddies, would make an attempt to destroy themselves before the school year and all it's torments began. Baltimore was a great place to live in, exciting and growing. The beginning of the decade was coming. What would the seventies be like he often wondered.
Though he had all this to look forward to, the here and now was resting firmly in the boring zone. The neighborhood was devoid of almost every kid his age, any others being far to young to hang with. This was the week when families snuck in that late vacation, and although they could easily afford one, his Dad had been called away on a last minute business trip, Jamie was cruising the block totally alone.
He'd gone to the rec center, hoping that something would be up, but for three older teenagers, who didn't want to know him, there was only girl's gymnastics. This was good for an hour of unfulfilled fantasies, his friends having decided last year that girls were not just an blight upon the earth.
Now he was hanging about his room, ennui setting in at a colossal pace. He glanced about the room. All the various items, which, were his friends here, would keep them occupied, now seemed to dully mock him with their absence. It was if they could only come to life when his truest companions were near. The gentle sunlight which played throughout the room, casting long and varied shadows, beckoned him to rejoin nature, promising a dismissal to his doldrums. He slid from his bed, wandering down to the back door in the kitchen, walking out to the comforting copse of trees that framed his backyard.
He glanced about, taking in everything the way only boys can do in a frantic gorge of input. His eyes came to rest upon his catcher's mitt, a baseball snugly fitted inside. Without true resolve, he gently removed it, no interest in playing a game that easily needed two. As his gaze came upward, it took in the outline of his neighbor Mr. Denner's roof, poking out of the treeline like a silent denizen of the forest. He knew that if he walked twenty five feet or so, he could bounce the ball on this side of the roof. At the bottom, the roof no longer slanted, but became perpendicular, so that the ball would use the speed from the fall, but would launch itself outward, so that Jamie didn't need to stand directly below it, violating his neighbors privacy.
That tame voice that cries ever so quietly, the one that tries to warn a small boy that the activity he will soon engage in is wrong, sang pitifully low to the back of his mind. Jamie had been warned about doing this, but the inactivity of his body, had crowded out the logical brain that looks ahead, and forewarns of the direst of consequences.
The voice of a baseball announcer filled his head, announcing to the world in this boy's imagination, that the great pitcher for the Oriole's, Jamie Peters was on the mound, preparing to go against the Yankees. The first pitch, a high outside curve. The commentator inside his head, continued to advise the audience on his great skill, as the balls bounced from the house that adjoined his backyard.
Jamie looked to the runners who were only there in his mind's eye, glanced to the catcher to coordinate the signals for a pitch. Ah, yes, a knuckle ball. As he surveyed the ghostly opponents, nervously awaiting the outcome of his decision, he surreptitiously changed the grip upon the ball. Again his cerebral functions, that would warn him that this was the type of pitch, that he had never truly mastered, were drowned out by the roar of the crowd. He _c_o_c_k_ed back, and let fly. The ball sailed beautifully, catching the batter completely unaware. Jamie threw up his glove in triumph, as the sport's announcer confirmed that a perfect no-hitter had been thrown that day. He was brought back to his senses, by a sound that was totally incongruous with the art of baseball. That of shattering glass.
Jamie swung his head from side to side, determined to deduce from what source the sound had issued from. It didn't announce itself with any clarity, but one thing he understood, was that his baseball was no where to be seen. Where had it been last? It was heading towards the top of the roof, but he was sure it had landed and begun it's descent back to him. Well, there was nothing to it, but to investigate.
He snuck through the trees, cautious as any army commando in enemy territory might have been. No sign of the dreaded enemy, Mr. Denner. Of course they weren't all he feared. There was Mrs. Denner, not mean by half as much, but even more frightening in her perpetual silence. Growing up with these two freaks, Jamie mused, his daughters must be equally as weird. Jamie reached the side of the house, glancing with great timidity around the corner. A baseball sized hole, was punched into the windshield of the terrible Denner's car. Oh man, thought Jaime, his ass was in the sling for sure. The only points he might score, would be to get to his mother first and confess his crime.
His parents had told him that nothing he did, was a bad as trying to hide it. Standing up for your mistakes was the way men acted his father had explained. They never wanted him to be afraid to come to them, even if he knew it meant a punishment. His folks were fair, never harsh, meeting out only what they felt he deserved. Jamie just couldn't help the feeling that his butt was going to pay the price of his indiscretion. He bolted for home, praying that Mr. Denner would need time to figure out who'd been responsible.
He fairly flew into the kitchen, calling out to his mother. The first movement that caught his attention was the telephone cord. Following it back to the receiver, he realized with gut wrenchibg horror, that the phone was not in it's cradle. His mother stepped from behind the wall that seperated the kitchen from the dining room. Her countenece was enough for Jamie to acknowledge that he'd arrived far to late.
"Yes Mr. Denner, we've told him time and again not to bounce the ball from your roof. I know............yes it was a _d_a_m_n_ed stupid thing to do. Of course he'll be punished. Why a good solid spanking of course. What? Look Mr. Denner, I don't appreciate that kind of thing. Yes I'm perfectly capable of monitoring my son in my husband's absence. I can certainly administer a sound punishment. Yes, well, thank you for your opinion." His mother strode forward, only with the most maximum of effort, kept from slamming the phone down. He didn't know what Denner had said, but he was convinced his Mom was madder than he'd ever seen.
"Can you believe that man. Questioning my fitness to look after you while your father is away. What kind of hooligan are you raising? Why can't you look after him properly? What sort of woman lets her son run amok? Who uses that word anymore?"
For the next two minutes, Jamie's mother spouted verbatim, all that evil old man Denner had said to her. From Jamie's point of view, it was not venting her ire, but building it up. He wanted to let her know she was a swell mother, and that it was only his own inattentiveness to the house rules that had caused this. A declaration of culpability always lessened his fathers administration of punishments, but somehow the voice of survival, bid Jamie be silent. Finally, it appeared his mother had run out of steam. Perhaps, he'd not get the paddling he'd come to expect. She turned to him, a frightening glare in her eyes.
"Well, you know what, I'll show him just how decisive and level headed I can be. He said that he hoped your punishment would be firm enough, well it will." Jamie was liking the sound of this not one little bit. Before he could conjecture, or bring up the backbone to question his mother's thoughts, she announced the most horrible of pronouncements.
"You go over there, and you tell that man, that he will administer your spanking!"
Jamie felt as if he'd been sucker punched by his friend Mikey, who had a despicable talent, and blinding speed for this sort of undertaking. "But Mom, he'll announce it to every kid on the block. He'll say, you see what happens when you do something wrong, you get your butt spanked like that Peters kid." Jamie couldn't help that his voice was raised to a degree that had once earned him the worst whipping of his life, but the sheer terror of what his mother was suggesting, was too horrible to contemplate.
In a voice that was eerily quiet, and devoid of anger his mother said, "Too bad young man, perhaps you should have thought of that before you did something this foolish. You have been warned, and your father and I try to give you all the chances that are reasonable. Now go over there, and take your beating."
Tears began to flow from his sky blue eyes, trailing down his cheeks, then dripping from his quivering chin to find a home in his flannel shirt. He knew it was of no use arguing, but perhaps he could at least broker a limit to his impending torment.
"What shall I tell him,' Jamie sniffled. His Mom looked into those eyes, at that face that she loved more than life itself. For a brief moment it appeared as is her resolve would waver. She glanced away, and in a voice that tremored ever so slightly, "Say it's up to him." Once again Mikey's fist, found it's way to his guts. He prayed he wouldn't wet himself in terror, for his mind conjured the most horrendous of scenarios. He could see himself lashed to a wall in the basement, heavy chains holding him still while the awful Denner beat him with special implements, sent for from the corners of the world, from countries where people were beaten to death daily by the thousands. The walk over seemed to take an eternity, not that Jamie was in any way aggrieved of the time that stretched forward and away.
Before his mind had taken it in fully, he found himself staring into the sour face of evil. "Well, what do you want now? I suppose you think I should give you back the ball so you can devil your other neighbor's you naughty little swine." Jamie sniffed back then tears that were washing against his will. "No sir, my mother sent me over to tell you.........." An evil grin lit upon the evil ones face, as if somehow he knew, but would not let on. He was enjoying making Jamie say it all aloud. "To tell you that you should give me a.........spanking." The last word was a whisper of a dragonfly in the middle of a hurricane.
"What's that, she said what," the old man roared.
"You are supposed to give me my spanking," Jamie cried aloud, wiping at his nose for the tears that were winning the fight over his pride.
"Don't cry yet boy," Denner exclaimed with a ferocious grin, "there will be plenty of reason later, I assure you." He guided the frightened twelve year old inside, with a surprisingly gentle manner. The two males entered the living room, a spacious if somewhat plainly decorated room. Sitting there, with that perpetual scowl that was her face, was Mrs. Denner. Their two daughters, glanced up with surprise. Probably no one ever came over to this spook show Jamie thought.
"Mother, will you please go and get the brush, the one we use for extremely naughty children."
Oh God Jamie's mind cried, now the two creepiest girls in the neighborhood knew what was going to happen. "Where are we going to do this sir," Jamie questioned, trying his best to sound conciliatory, hoping against hope that it might save a few inches of skin off his backside.
"Oh, right here boy. You see this is going to help as an example to my own dear little girls. They'll know better than to pursue actions that serve no purpose, other than to cause a parent to discipline a bad, bad, bad, naughty little boy." This cruel monster stretched out the word boy, making it seem like the longest word ever created This could not possibly be any more mortifying than it had become thus far. The parameters of bad, took a giant leap, as the hated wife returned with the brush. It was a dark wooden horror, with a round head larger than a hairbrush could possibly need be. She handed it to her spouse, as if it were some holy relic. Mr. Denner slapped it into his open palm, the sound making all the children in the room jolt in dismay. Jamie couldn't imagine why the girls were nervous, they weren't about to be beaten by the leading sadist of Baltimore. Mr. and Mrs. sat down opposite each other, she guiding the children to sit next to her upon the couch. Mr. Denner laid the dreaded paddle next to him, while he began to undo the boy's jeans.
"Excuse me sir, but I don't think......"
"It has to be bare boy, that's the only way a spanking will take," the old man interrupted, pulling the Levi's down around Jamie's ankles. " Oh yes, you see this here brush is made of good old English oak. It's a long way since being able to function as a brush, but it's worked perfectly for eight generations as a reminder to naughty children, when they misbehave."
Jamie was wishing he'd stop using that word, as he turned full on towards the man, as his underwear joined his pants around his ankles. Fortunately he was able to keep his privates from view. Denner then guided him, over his lap, taking his time in positioning Jamie, wanting to get the maximum exposure of this young man's bottom. Jamie contemplated the lecture that would surely come as he laid there, his face inches from the ground, his young tender buttocks out for all to see. His face began to color, as the girls began to giggle nervously at the spectacle before them. Mr. Denner hushed them, as he raised the dreaded paddle even with his head. Jamie could see none of this, but he was used to the movement caused by the impending blow, his backside clenching in anticipation of the first blow. He did not wait long, and his imagination was not disappointed.
The pain flowed through his left cheek, milliseconds behind the sound of the brush impacting. Even as his mind separated the two, the second blow caught him on the opposite side. His voice came out in reply, despite the fact that his ribcage was crushed against the old man's leg, and the difficulty in drawing a breath whilst hanging upside down. Somehow despite physics, his body provided enough oxygen to enable a cry of piercing intensity, in reply to each strike. They were coming fast and furious, sometimes two would land before his tortured howl could reach the surface. His throat began to pain him, and he simply went limp, a grunt of quiet agony now the only thing he could muster. He knew that blood must be pouring out of his abused fanny, as the blows continued striking first left, then right. Despite her efforts to control them, those hideous girls continued their hellish giggling. Now Jamie no longer cared, at their witnessing, or the reports that would soon be spread about the neighborhood, he only prayed for this beating to end. It was nearly a minute before he realized that the blows were no longer coming. Denner once again in uncharacteristic gentleness, raised the sobbing boy off of his lap, stranding him face to face with him. The man pulled his underwear up over his stinging buttocks, eliciting another cry from the poor boy. Soon his jeans were comforting his abused backside, holding the warmth that radiated from them.
"Ok, now there it is. You tell your parents that you had a right and proper hiding, and that I'll expect you here again if they can't do for you at home." With that, he handed Jamie's ball back, and walked him to the kitchen door.
Without fear of redress, the walk home most assuredly took the young man longer than the walk over. Each step reminded him of the torment he had just faced. As he came through the door of his own kitchen, his mother sat there, looking somewhat older, and definitely sad. She reached over, and slowly removed his jeans and underclothes, placed him over her knee, and spread hand lotion over the boy's glowing rump. She hissed in sympathy, each time her son's cheek's contracted in pain, or a small gasp escaped him. Once she was done, she pulled him into her lap, making sure that his toasty posterior rested between her legs, and held the boy to her. Jamie didn't care about his partial nudity, even in front of his mother. He was a lttile boy once again, who needed to feel loved. She held him, and whispered things that comforted him, making him laugh between sniffles.
When his father returned that week, there was a ten minute conversation, a hug full of love, and a simple recrimination that some little boy's allowance was going to be somewhat shorter for a few months. And the great pitcher Jamie Peters retired from the manly art of imaginary baseball.