Snickers Sneakers
I suppose I could have tried to get out of it. After all, I had done nothing. Trouble was, an excellent indictment could be handed down on circumstantial evidence that I had done too much of nothing: I had stood idly by as my three little brothers tried to apply a five-finger discount to a Snickers bar apiece by shoving them up the sleeves of their windbreakers. The jacket sleeves were equipped with an elastic band at the wrists that wrapped the sleeve tight to the arm to keep out the wind (or to keep in a stolen candy bar). I remember thinking that that was pretty clever.
But not clever enough. That was why the four of us were standing in our parents' bedroom with our noses in the four corners (one each) our hands on our heads, T-shirts bunched up around our shoulder blades, jackets and jeans on the bed and underpants around our ankles waiting for dad to get back from the front yard where he was picking four switches from the Brazilian pepper tree. Once again I cursed that _d_a_m_n_ shrub. I wanted that tree dead, dead, dead. But you can't kill a Brazilian pepper. The things grow like weeds and there is always a goodly supply of young tough, whippy shoots in a variety of sizes so mom or dad could match a switch to the child and the crime. Awful!
What was taking so long? This wait was terrible. All the more so because Markie was bawling his eyes out in his corner. When there was more than one boy to spank dad always went in chronological order, making the oldest wait and listen to the younger boys' screams before taking their turns. Markie was the youngest (8) and would, therefore, be the first to feel the switch on his little bare behind as soon as dad got back. Markie knew this and was a very unhappy little boy at the moment - and letting everyone in earshot know about it.
I couldn't be sure, but in-between Markie's slobbering sobs I thought I heard Conner crying softly in his corner. Conner was 10, so he'd be the next after Markie. Then would come Philip. Philip was 12 and I knew he wasn't crying yet. He'd be trying to play the part of the man he wasn't by holding out as long as possible. Me, I was 14 and not even close to crying. I was mad. Mad at myself for not doing anything before it was too late, mad at my brothers for getting me into this mess, mad at Murphy the Lawgiver for once again making everything come out for the worst, mad at the world in general, and when you are mad you don't cry. At least I don't.
What was taking so long? Dad could have picked a hundred switches from a dozen trees by now. He must be doing this on purpose.
The major lesson a boy takes home from a spanking is learned between the time the spanking is announced and the time it is administered. During that interval the boy is feeling sorry for himself, dreading the coming pain (often worse that the actual pain itself) and promising himself that he will never do whatever it was again. When the switch is in action his only thoughts are on his poor behind, and afterwards there is only relief that it's over and maybe resentment at having been punished - no need to make promises to self at this point. So, the pre-spanking wait is the only time that the boy regrets anything. At least that's what dad always said when we questioned pre-event corner time. For sure, that explained the delay.
My particular corner of real estate for the moment was next to the window. It was cold outside, and while the window was closed, the glass was thin. The heater duct was across the room from me and the output blew across the glass and cooled off before it struck my bare behind. That cool breeze called attention to the fact that I was all but naked before God and my brothers. I began to feel the beginning sensations of an impending erection. Oh, God, no! Not that! I immediately concentrated on Markie's irritating sobs and thought of the pain to come. Murphy and the hormone gods took pity for once and the erection subsided. What a crappy day this had become.
It started out so well, too. It was Sunday - no school - the sun was out. Way too cold for a November day in Southern California, but no smog which made up for the deficiency of degrees, F. Mom had fixed us a super breakfast: Fried eggs, sunny-side-up, bacon, home made hash browns, and fresh squeezed orange juice. Real food, not the good-for-you garbage she made us eat on school days. Cream of Wheat, yuck! We had shown the appropriate reverence for the bounty placed before us by squeaking delight and then proceeding to make even the biggest school of piranhas jealous. Markie even took advantage of a moment when Mom's back was turned to lick his plate. Dad gave him a _c_o_c_k_ed eyebrow. That was dad-speak for "I saw that, but if your mother had seen it there would have been trouble - so be warned young man". Dad was cool about table manners when he wasn't expecting us to put on a show for somebody.
When they were finished, mom and dad went their separate ways leaving us to clean up. Conner picked up the jar of Smuckers strawberry jam, gave it an analytical once-over, and announced, "This is almost empty. Shame to put it away like this."
I gave it the eyeball. It was half full. "Right," I said, picking up the loaf of bread. "Do you want yours toasted?"
Three voices, one yes, so I started loading up the toaster. Took us eight slices, but we emptied the jar. Conner threw the dead soldier in the trash can and piled the classified section from dad's newspaper on top to avoid any possible misunderstanding later. Philip wrote "jam" on the grocery list pasted to the refrigerator - can't forget that! We loaded the dishwasher, swung a wet rag somewhere in the direction of the table and went out to enjoy the day.
Lunch was supposed to be roast beef sandwiches from last night's leftovers. When I got to the table I saw that mine had the bread heel uppermost. I was about to complain. Mom knows I hate the heel. All crust and no bread. I saw Philip's plate had a heel, too. Philip saw it and was opening his mouth when Mom silenced any protest with a "concerned" look.
"Don't whine," she said. "We seem to be out of bread. You're lucky you got even that. Your father and I have to eat ours 'a la plate'." True, they had the guts of their sandwiches spread out for knife-and-forking it.
"Funny, but I seem to recall most of a loaf left after breakfast..." She announced that to no one in general while looking directly at me and _c_o_c_k_ing an eyebrow. That was mom-speak for "Know anything about this, do you? Care to explain this mystery, young man?"
That was problematic. There was no reason to suspect that we were under any dietary restrictions at the time of the bread disappearance. We had just cleaned our plates down to the glaze on the crockery, lunch at that time was in the distant future, and no one had said no (i. e., no one was looking). We couldn't be accused of spoiling our dinner by eating between meals and she as good as offered us the stuff by putting it out on the table. No, no reason to suspect a crime had been committed, but you never know about parents. Best to avoid offering any potentially perjurious evidence. I pursed my lips, smiled slightly and gave a very slight shrug of my shoulders. That's boy-speak for "Yes to the first question, no to the second, Mam".
Dad picked up on that right away. "Egads, you four are the pits! Bottomless ones at that. Where do you put it? If I ate one tenth as much as you do I'd be a whale."
Conner was about to offer up a witticism at that, but settled for a giggle instead. Good boy. Mom still hadn't rendered a verdict. She looked us over and sighed. She hadn't seen the jam jar. Instead of threatening us with a sugarless desert for dinner, she issued an ultimatum: "Well, if you boys want a sack lunch for school tomorrow, one of you will have to go to the liquor store for a loaf of bread."
Whoh! That got my attention! I'm a freshman in high school, Philip is in middle school, and Conner and Markie are in grammar school. Three different schools, but one cafeteria, or so it would appear from the food, which on the best days can only be described as non-poisonous. You really don't want my opinion of what is served on the bad days, but I'll give you a hint: On my first day of the first grade, my first ever meal at school the cafeteria served sauerkraut for the entree! Imagine! Giving pickled cabbage to a 6-year old. I went home and announced that I was never going to eat at that miserable place ever again. Mom was about to give forth with an appropriately dressed-up version of the starving-people-in-Africa speech when I stopped that in mid breath by telling her what I had been forced to eat by some child-abusing son of a chef. Even my mom realized that sauerkraut was over the top, stifled the Africa speech and started making sack lunches. I never ate in the cafeteria again. When my brothers started first grade they all got sack lunches, too (this prevented a mutiny, since I wasn't having any of the cafeteria kygada and how can you force a little brother to eat there when big brother doesn't have to?) However, on those days when Mom overslept or was sick or away or misjudged the piranha effect the previous day, or became miffed at an apparent lack of appreciation for her effort (usually after being given a banana instead of a Twinkie for desert), she would give us lunch money and tell us to buy lunch for once. I don't know what my brothers did, but I hid out in the boys' room for the first 15 minutes of the lunch period so the teachers wouldn't notice that I wasn't eating, pocketed the cash and hoped that my stomach didn't growl loud enough to be heard in the front of the class for the rest of the afternoon. Therefore, being appraised of the obvious consequences of the disappearing bread caper constituted a minor emergency.
"I'll go," I said at once.
"I thought somebody would," she replied. "Conner, bring me my purse, please." Conner popped up and trotted over to the drawer where Mom stored her things and handed it over. She rummaged around in there and came up with a tenner, which she then handed to me.
Seeing the vault open wide and disgorging Captain Kidd's treasure, Philip piped up, "Can we go, too, and get a Popsicle?" This was followed immediately by two yeses.
"Huh?" Dad puffed. "It's 50 degrees outside, you've just finished lunch," (by that time the measly single sandwich had gone the way of the eggs and jam) "and you want a Popsicle?"
"Yes"
"Yup"
"Of course, why not?"
"Sigh, " Mom sighed. She looked directly at me, "You can buy a loaf of bread and four Popsicles and bring me the change," followed by a _c_o_c_k_ed eyebrow, a homonym of the one earlier. This one was mom-speak for "bread and four Popsicles and nothing else, do you understand, young man?"
That required more than body language to answer properly. "Yes, Mam", I immediately replied aloud, nodding for emphasis. I noted Philip's frustrated frown, but unfortunately ignored it.
After our parents finished their lunch we kids cleaned up. The dishwasher was full, so I started it, almost, but not quite, forgetting the soap in the rush to get to the Popsicles. Forgetting the soap meant having to run the machine again. This constituted a waste of hot water (which didn't grow on trees) and to make up for this the offending boy had to take his next bath cold. Close shave, that one.
Once the machine had started we rushed out to our bikes and hot-pedaled it in the direction of the store. Usually my brothers were racing ahead trying to score one off Big Bro, who was increasingly inclined to just let them, but not this time. They lagged behind talking among themselves. God has granted to parents some help in raising sons: Whenever two or more of them are conspiring some voluntary rupture of the rules, their voices change. I guess I was becoming an adult. I noticed the change. Alas, I wasn't adult enough to take the warning for what it was and do whatever needed to save the day.
We reached the liquor store without making it into a reckless race and parked our bikes in front. Well, three of us did. Markie never could be bothered to put down the kickstand and just dumped is bike on its side like he always did, creating a minor hazard to navigation. The liquor store is divided into two sections. To the right is the booze. Kids aren't allowed there. To the left is a mini convenience store. That side is rated "G". I headed to the bread rack. Can't forget that item no matter how important the Popsicles might be. The other three headed for the freezer.
"Markie," I shouted to him, "get me a lime Popsicle. That's a green one."
"Jeeze, you think I am too dumb to know that?" he shouted back.
Well, yes, I said to myself. Sometimes. Best to make sure. I selected the largest loaf of regular sliced white bread. None of that appropriately colored wheat bread or sliced-so-thin-why-bother-with-it sandwich bread for me, please. I put it on the counter and waited for my brothers to come with the goodies. It was then that I saw them filching the candy. That explained the behind the bike conversation earlier. They came up to the counter, all innocent looking and put up the Popsicles. Markie held up a green one.
"See?" he asked. "Green. Lime. OK?" He handed it to me. I gave the clerk the tenner and got the all-important change. We started for the door.
Before we could make it the manager popped out from the side isle. He had been bent down where we couldn't see him, changing the stickers on the shelf. He could see through to the next isle and observed the theft in progress. "Just a minute, boys," he said, holding out his hand, palm forward. "I want to see what you have up your sleeves."
Busted!
Maybe we could have received some mercy if the three little Dillengers had shown some remorse in their expressions at that moment. Alas, all they registered was anger at being caught.
Completely busted!
"OK, you four. Back to the counter, march!" We slowly retraced our steps and lined up in front of the counter. "Give me your Popsicles, I'll put them back in the freezer until we settle this little matter". We reluctantly gave up our legitimate booty and stood rock still while the manager gave us his pep talk. "I try to run a little business here," he started out with a mongo frown, "and make little enough doing it. I can't afford to have a herd of thieves pilfer me blind, understand?"
I winced at that "herd of thieves" remark, mostly because it was right and that made me realize just what my brothers had become. Truth hurt. And for what? Three measly candy bars. If you're going to risk it all, at least go for a can of beer! I hadn't yet realized that my status wasn't any better, but that was coming. He took down the telephone and placed it on the counter.
"I'm going to make a telephone call, either to your parents or the police..." he looked me in the eye. "What's it to be?"
"Don't look at me," I exclaimed. "I didn't take anything."
"No, you were just the lookout," he shot back. Cripes, that's the rap. How can I get that charge dropped? No way. I'm busted just as much as my brothers. No use even trying. Not even dad would vote acquittal on the evidence. _d_a_m_n_! "And a _d_a_m_n_ poor one at that!" he added. That gratuitous cheap shot hurt. He transferred his growling frown to Philip. "Well? What's it to be, your parents or the police?"
Even Markie could follow that one up to the logical conclusion. It wasn't a question of our parents or the police, but our parents or our parents and the police. What's the choice, here? Philip managed to squeak out a whispered "Parents, Sir."
"Ok, then," he said lifting the receiver. "What's your name, son?"
"Philip."
"Philip, what?"
"Philip, Sir."
He bristled at that reply. "Listen up, you young hoodlum. You're in a world of trouble in case you didn't know. It would be in your best interest to cut the crap. What's your last name?"
"Perry, Sir."
"OK Philip Perry, what's your phone number?"
Philip rattled it out as the man dialed. It was the correct number. The deed was done, Rubicon crossed, no way out. "Hello," he spoke into the mouthpiece, "may I speak to Mr. Perry, please. Yes. This is Jerry Donzer down at the 'Broken Bottle' liquor store over on Third. I have somebody here that needs to talk to you." He handed the receiver to Philip. "This is your father. Tell him what you did."
I have read in novels when a character is presented with a shock the author has him "turn green around the gills". I always thought that was literary license hype. It isn't. Philips face went instantly sheet-white as if some mad surgical nurse had slapped a clamp on his carotid. He reached for the receiver as if it were a poisonous spider.
"Hello, Dad?" he barely croaked out. "The man here says we took some candy." His face took on a lead colored ashen hue.
Oh, good one, I thought. Kid's a regular presidential candidate. Not only did he manage, in the space of only a second or two, to come up with the best possible spin on the disaster, but he also managed to spread out the blame ("we"), avoid the s-word (steal), pin the blame on the victim ("the man"), and, piece de resistance, leave some doubt as to what actually went down ("he _says_"). Gold star performance. Elected by a landslide by the clueless voters! Only problem: Dad isn't a clueless voter. I heard some reply from the phone. That's when Philip's cheeks took on a very pale olive green tone. Just like in the novels. Philip handed the phone back to Mr. Donzer. "He wants to speak to you." Even Philips voice sounded green. Gad, I hope he doesn't faint. Or worse. He looked dead.
"Yes? Ok, they'll be waiting for you." He hung up the phone. "Your father's coming down to have a little chat with you four. Go over there," he indicated the cold-box, "face the wall and keep your hands where I can see them."
Two eons and an era later we heard Dad's diesel pick-up pull up and stop. We didn't turn around. Fear had us paralyzed. The door jingled. I heard dad's voice. I was expecting a raging bull, snorting fire and brimstone, pawing the ground, ready to gore anyone in sight. What we got was worse. Much worse. Dad's voice showed no emotion whatsoever. "Mr. Donzer?"
"Mr. Perry? Here they are. Boys, come over here." We turned to face dad. He had a hurt expression on his face. Not mad at all. Bad impression. He was keeping it in. Bottling it up until the pressure ruptures the vessel. Not good. Mucho plus not good. We were dead meat. We lined up at the counter. "Boys, show your father what you have up your sleeves."
Oh, crap. In the rush of events they had forgotten to get rid of the evidence. The _d_a_m_n_ Snickers bars were still stashed where they had no right to be. Completely busted. Even the OJ jury would convict. Doom. Markie stretched the elastic on his left sleeve and let the Snickers bar drop to the counter. Connor did the same. Philip's was in his right sleeve, but otherwise repeated the actions of the other two. Dad looked at me and _c_o_c_k_ed an eyebrow. That one was dad-speak for "and may God have mercy on your soul and what have you got up *your* sleeve?".
"I didn't take anything," I said matter-of-fact like. Maybe, just maybe...
"No," stated Mr. Donzer. "He was the lookout."
No, not to be.
"Oh," replied dad. "Let's just make sure, shall we. Richard, hand me your jacket!"
Oh my God, no. He's going to do a strip search. Right here in front of everybody and their dog. A few years ago I had tried to sneak a dollar from his wallet. I got as far as the living room when he apprehended me. Made me take off every piece of clothing one by one and hand it to him to search through. Right there in the living room in front of everybody (my brothers and some of their friends). Shoes, socks, ballcap, T-shirt, jeans, and finally underpants. Completely naked he made me raise my arms and patted me down. Then I had to bend over and spread my butt cheeks. All my brothers friends had giggled loudly. Mondo embarrassing. But nothing compared to doing that here.
"Markus, Conner, Philip, you, too." Gasps all around. We took off our jackets and handed them over. He shook them out. "Nothing else, it seems. Boys, turn out your pockets. Put everything on the counter."
Oh, good. Turning out the pockets means not taking off our pants, doesn't it? Please make it so! We each turned out all four pants pockets and placed the contents on the counter. Dad pawed through it all separating the coins from the detritus. He opened my wallet and took out all the cash, including mom's change. He slid the money over to Mr. Donzer. "Keep this, please, for all your trouble." He put my wallet in his pocket. The others didn't have one. No room with all the other stuff. This dad swept into the trash can. No one said a word as their treasures went dumpsterward. All our pockets were turned inside out now. Dad didn't order us to take our pants off. What a relief. The door jingled. A customer came in, took one look at four boys with their pockets turned out, and quickly sized up the situation.
"Ohh, caught 'em red-handed, eh?" he asked the other clerk. Thank God we didn't know him. It was obvious what we had done. It wasn't bad as being stripped naked, but it wasn't a whole lot of fun, either. God, I hope nobody we know shows up. It'll be the talk of the block!
Dad ignored the interruption and stared down at Markie. "Markus, do you have anything to say to Mr. Donzer, here?"
Markie teared up. "I'm sorry," he warbled.
"Sorry about what, Markus?"
"I'm sorry I took the candy bar."
"No, Markus. You didn't 'take' the candy bar. You stole it, didn't you?" Dad wasn't into political correctness. He never let us spin our way out of trouble.
"Y-y-y-yes," Markie stammered. He was losing it.
"And so?" dad asked, _c_o_c_k_ing an eyebrow. Markie seemed to translate that one himself.
"Mr. Donzer," he was sobbing now. "I'm sorry I stole the candy bar."
"Don't you think you should thank him for not calling the police?"
"T-t-t-thank you for not calling the police."
"Sir."
"Thank you for not calling the police. Sir," almost incomprehensible between the sobs.
"Conner."
Conner took his turn. He wasn't crying, but his voice still shook. "I'm sorry I stole the candy bar. Thank you for not calling the police, Sir." Connor had listened to Markie's lesson and gone to school.
Philip, too. He didn't wait for dad to give him a _c_o_c_k_ed eyebrow. "I'm sorry I stole the candy bar. Thank you for not calling the police, Sir." He was almost at attention. Big boys don't cower?
"Richard?" dad goaded me, I wasn't on the ball, it seems. Well, I had a lot on my mind at the moment.
I looked up. No way out. "I'm sorry for the trouble we caused you," I temporized, trying to avoid any false confessions. Thought that was rather clever, given the stress of the moment. "Thank you for not calling the police, Sir."
"All right you four," dad ordered. "Get on your bikes and get home. Wait for me in the living room. Move it."
We slowly filed out, stuffing our hands in our pockets to turn them right side in so as not to advertise our adventures to everybody in route. I heard dad tell Mr. Donzer that we only thought we were sorry now, but that he was going to make sure of it. Only one interpretation of that remark, as if there was any doubt. We'd bought ourselves a wicked spanking, for sure.
We managed to make it home in silence, except for Markie's crying. Dad wasn't home yet. We put our bikes in the garage and went in the front door, leaving our shoes on the landing. We observed the Japanese custom of socks-in-the-house out of respect to the carpet. Mom was waiting for us. Here, finally, was the raging bull (mad cow? - No, don't even think it. Don't risk cracking a smile. Your life probably depends on it).
"Well! What do you have to say for yourselves?"
"We're sorry, Mom" was the general whimper.
That was her cue. She was off. Yelling like no tomorrow. I'll spare you the lecture. Couldn't remember it, anyway. Didn't hear a thing. I'd had a look at the pepper tree on the way in. Nothing else registered.
Somewhere between the "Well!" and whatever it was that she used in closing the tirade, dad had made it home. When mom was finally done he looked at us.
"I suppose you know what's coming," he said, still calm as a clam. Mucho bad, bad, bad. "Get yourselves into the bedroom, now!"
We were aware that he didn't mean our bedrooms. We made the forlorn trek to our parents' room. Dad followed us in. Markie was wailing away by now. He knew what was coming. That prevented dad from lecturing, so we were spared that.
"All right you four. You're getting the worst spanking you've ever gotten, hope you enjoy it."
What the heck did that mean? Markie belted out a sob, big one. He thought he knew.
Dad was starting to show a little anger, now. Good. Pressure relief. "Take off your jackets and jeans and put them on the bed."
Four jackets were tossed on the bed. Four pair of hands started to slowly unbuckle belts. Buttons were unsnapped. Zippers opened. Four pairs of pants came down, then off and tossed onto the bed.
"Markie, stand in that corner," dad said as he propelled the crying little boy into the first corner near the door. "Connor, that one." he said pointing to the next one. "Philip, Richard..." Philip and I went to the corners indicated to us. I stood rock still in mine, not letting my nose touch the wall (skin oil stains, you know, we spent so much time here). Dad came up behind me. I felt him grab my T-shirt and roll it up to my shoulder blades. Then he tugged at my underpants and dragged them down to my ankles. I didn't move. I heard Philip groan. I couldn't see, but dad must have pulled his undies down, too. Didn't hear anything from Connor, but a loud shriek from Markie as he was made bare-ready.
Leaving us all prepped for a spanking, dad turned to the door. "I'm going to pick some switches now. You kids think about what's coming and what you did to deserve it. Don't move a muscle until I get back." I heard the door slam.
Then the wait. Awful time, but I believe I already said that. Finally I heard the door open. Markie let out an agonizing sob. Dad probably came in. I couldn't see and Markie's howling prevented me from hearing much. I did hear the door close and dad call to Markie.
"No, no please daddy, sob," he wailed. "I don't, screech, want to be spanked, boohoo. It hurts, wahhhhh."
Oh, crikes, Markie, I thought. You're eight years old. You've had it many times now. You know the drill. Once you are in the corner and have your underpants pulled down, the spanking is as good as got. Never been a reprieve at this point. Stop with the begging and get it over with. Dad didn't reply, or at least I didn't hear him.
"Bend over the bed, Markie." Dad had to yell. "Give me your hand."
"Shreeeek!" That must have been the first stroke. It's started.
"IeeeeEEEEE!" Two.
"YoweeeEEEEE!" Markie's voice jumped an octave at the last "EEEE" The incessant noise stopped for an instant as he gasped for breath. Three.
Thwippp. Heard that stroke. Markie was still sucking in air. Quiet for a second, then "eeeEEEEE" Four.
"Bahhha, ulp, whannna, IYEEEE" Five.
"Kieeeek" Six. Done.
"ShreeeeEEEEK" A double octave jump this time. Send him to La Scala, that one should have shattered the window. Oh my God! Seven! Markie had never gotten more than six. I had never gotten more than six until I was 10. Bad and worse.
"Yipe" Eight. Markie was hoarse now.
"EeeeeeeeeYiii" Nine.
Thwipp! Heard that one even over the noise. "Scream!" Ten.
"All right, young man. Into your corner." Dad had to shout to be heard. "No, don't you dare rub that butt. Put your hands on your head. I want you to feel the sting. Think about it! Connor!"
Deeper sobs now. Connor definitely was crying. His turn.
"Owww!" One.
"Ahhh, sob" Two.
"Ooooh, bawl" Three.
"AyyyII" Four.
"Owww, owww, aa-haa-haaaa" Five.
"EYEEE" Six.
"Baa-Haa-haaa" Seven.
"Owtch, EEEk" Eight.
"GAAAAAA" Nine. Now Connor was gasping in air.
Thwipp! Ten.
Thwip, Thwip. Eleven, Twelve!
"OK Connor, corner. Hands off that butt. Let it sting. Philip!"
I saw a bit of movement to my left as Philip moved to the bed. Amazingly, over the sobbing from my two freshly smacked youngest brothers I heard the mattress squeak as Philip assumed the position.
Thwip! "Ow! That hurt!"
Thwipp! "Outch"
THWIPP!! "Ow, S**T!"
"What did you say?" Thwipp, Thwipp, Thwipp!
"Owwwww, it stings!"
Thwip.
Thwipp!
Thwip! "Ahhhh"
Thwip! "YIKE!"
Thwip
Thwipp! "Oh, enough. Enough!"
Thwip "Stop! It hurts."
Thwip "IIIIIEE."
Thwipp! "YIEEEEEK, No more, no more, Please."
Thwipp! "PleasEEE, no more. It stings. I'm sorry."
Thwip, Thwip!
"Ok Philip. Corner. Richard!"
Gad! Did I count right? Fifteen for Philip (plus the three for swearing!). What am I in for? I turned around and caught a glimpse of Connor's cherry-red little hinny. Bright red stripes. We weren't going to have any fun tomorrow trying to sit on those hard wooden school seats. No time to inspect the other two as I kicked my underpants aside and walked to the bed. Dad was selecting the fourth switch, the biggest one, no doubt. I didn't look. I bent over the side of the bed and grabbed the bedspread tight and closed my eyes, waiting for it. I could feel the wetness of the sheets. My brothers had sweat and teared, obviously. Markie was still howling. It came.
Thwip! Right across the middle of my butt. Felt like a branding iron. Incredible pain! No wonder Markie screamed. Dad wasn't holding anything back. One.
Thwipp! An inch below the first one. Agony. Two
Thwipp! Another inch further down. Sting! Three.
THWIPP! "Ahhh," I let out a cry. Couldn't hold it in, it hurt so much. Four.
Thwip! "Ayyy!" That one went across the crease between my butt and legs, always the most tender spot. I was close to crying now. Five.
Thwipp! Dad had retargeted at the top of my crack this time. Bad, but not as bad as the last one. I managed to avoid crying, but this was only number six.
Thwipp! Midway between the first stroke and the last one. Seven.
Thwipp! Close to the first stripe. Sting! Eight.
THWIPP! "AhhYYY, OWWW." That one crossed some of the older stripes. Nine. Only nine. How many more to go?
Thwipp! "AHHH, EEEYI" Dad swung that one so hard that the end whipped around and bit into my lower thigh. Too much! I started to cry. Ten.
Thwipp! "Ah-ha, Ieeyy Owie" I let it flow. Full crying now tears and snot wetting the bed. Couldn't hold it back. Eleven.
THWIPP! "AYYY, Owie, UhHA" Another in the crease between butt and leg, across the first one. Branding on top of branding! Twelve.
THWIPP! "OW, NO! EEEK" A stroke to my upper legs. Thirteen.
Thwipp, thwipp, thwipp! Three fast ones to my lower butt-upper legs. I let out a screech to rival some of Markie's. Sixteen! My God, how many more?
Thwipp, thwipp, THWIPP! Another three all over my butt. Nineteen.
WISHHH, THWIPP! The hardest one of all, right across the sit-spot. "Ah HUH! IEEE OWIE, OWIE, Owie!" Twenty!
"All right, Richard. Get up. Corner."
I couldnt get up. I was crying full-stop. My butt stung so much I didn't think the muscles would work. Thinking I was ignoring him, dad smacked me across the butt with his hand. "I said get up, boy!"
I made the attempt. My legs were shaking. I stumbled. Another swat with his hand propelled me into the corner. I remembered the drill and put my hands on my head, trying to stop crying. It was just Markie and me now, Conner and Philip were down to sniffling, trying to stop the snot from dripping onto their bare legs. A few minutes passed before I could stop the tears. I was letting the snot fall where it would. Have to shower when it's over.
Dad sat on the bed and admired the view and, no doubt, warmed his hands at the four fires he had just lit. When Markie and I finished crying he gave us a final lecture. "That was bad," he stated the obvious, "and I NEVER want to have to do that again. Understand? Stealing will never be condoned in this house. Ever. If there is a next time you will get the strap before bed on top of the welts from 20 licks of the switch – 50 for you Richard, hear? I KNOW you wouldn't like that. Think about it. Don't move until I tell you you can. No talking. No rubbing." He left, leaving the bedroom door open so he could check up to make sure we were doing as ordered. Sometime later mom came in and inspected the damage.
"Ah, good ones," she expressed her opinion as she saw our sorry, red, bare, bottoms. "You'll all eat dinner at the counter tonight. See you then." She left. Dinner at the counter. That meant the hard wooden stools to sit on. We have to sit for dinner. Can't sit down? Can't eat. Right now it looked like I was going to bed hungry. Can it get worse?
Yes. Dad came in after about a year and a half and told us to put on our pants and go to our rooms until supper. We asked and were granted permission to take two showers. Markie and I took the first one together washing each other's butts VERY carefully. Geeze, the hot water stung! Connor and Philip went next, using up the tank of hot water. Then we put on our PJs and went to our rooms. I fell asleep on my stomach. I awoke when mom called us down to dinner. We slowly trooped into the kitchen and tested the chairs. Bad, but hunger made us wince and sit.
Supper was Cream of Wheat. Mom and dad had T-bone steaks bar-b-qued on the outdoor grill, the smell of which was gave us such appetites it was agony to suck down that tasteless snot we had to eat.
Breakfast was worse. Left-over Cream of Wheat. Then the final coup d'grace: Lunch money. We had forgotten the bread.