It was the last day of school. We were all eager to hear that last bell of the year and break free from the shackles of academic enrichment for the next three months or so. After lunch, the time seemed to move even slower, and it seemed three o'clock would never come.
Some kind of scuffle happened after lunch, in which I got shoved by Gary, I shoved back, and tempers were lost, but there wasn't an actual fight. Unfortunately, our teacher, Mr. Edwards walked in at the psychological moment and caught the two of us in a kind of wrestler's clench. He didn't say a word, just walked over to the window sill and picked up the stout plywood paddle that always reposed there. It was almost half an inch thick, four inches wide, and the blade was about a foot and a half long. It had been broken in the course of duty, and was mended expertly with nylon-reinforced packaging tape. It would never break again.
"Let's go, boys," he said, leading the way out into the hall. Gary and I followed, very dejected indeed. My heart was pounding furiously. All year long I had feared this man; day after day he had escorted various criminals into the hall with his paddle, and our ears were filled with cracking swats, yelps, and sometimes screams and sobs as justice was meted out, Mr. Edwards Style. There weren't any particular guidelines about paddlings in our school, so we were at the mercy of Mr. Edwards.
To my acute embarassment, the teacher selected as witness was one who had taught me in the third grade. She looked at me with disgust and disappointment, but I hardly noticed. I had other things on my mind.
Gary was to be first. He grabbed his ankles as he was told and I saw his knuckles go white with the force of his grip. Mr. Edwards stepped back and began administering the swats. Gary held up pretty well until about the fourth one, when he began sniffling loudly. By number eleven, he was crying out loud. Sixteen and seventeen were accompanied with shrill screams. Then Mr. Edwards turned to me, his eyes cold and unemotional, his jaw set.
"Assume the position," he said quietly. I felt like I was stepping off the deck of the Titanic as I bent down and thrust my behind into the air. It was too bad it was hot weather and I had dressed so lightly; the thinnest of Bermuda shorts and no underwear...I hadn't taken the laundry to the utility room that week. Sad mistake.
I wasn't nearly as "brave" as Gary. The first swat stung so badly that I yelled out "Ouch!" at the top of my lungs, and the yell turned immediately into sobbing. It hurt so much! It felt like I was being paddled on bare skin, or that the fabric of my pants was melting into my pores. By the time he was halfway through, I was begging for him to stop, but Mr. Edwards wasn't listening. When it was finally over, my butt felt like it had been burned to blisters and was bleeding. Of course it wasn't, but it sure was red as I found out later in the bathroom. I had pale purple bruises on it for a couple of weeks into the summer, and a little trouble sitting down, too.
It was a hell of a way to start a summer vacation.