Punishment is an unsavory but necessary
thing. My parents didn't punish me very often. It was probably a
combination of me being a good boy and them being...lazy. I never
really got grounded. My parents never threatened to take the car
away. I needed to be my dad's designated driver and pick my brother up from school.
I can remember three times specifically
getting spanked. The first time, my little brother was two-years old
and I was ten. He was in our living room playing with the electric
outlet. My dad got up and screamed, “No Jon-Jon!” and spanked
him. Totally justifiable. I didn't see it that way though. I
pushed my dad and said, “Don't you hurt my brother!” Yeah. My
dad removed his belt and proceeded to beat my ass. This was also
justifiable.
Right around this time I was alone with
my brother babysitting him. Ten-year-old boys should not babysit
two-year-olds. We were watching TV. Our TV was one of those large
ones that sat on the floor inside a wood body. Anyway, I lost track
of where Johnathan was. Then I heard a scratch-click sound. Ignored
it. Then I smelled something burning from behind the recliner. I
got up and looked. My brother had a lighter and was burning
photographs. What the hell?!? I freaked out and slapped the photo
out of his hand. Now the carpet was on fire! Shit! I had a glass of
tea or soda on the table and extinguished the fire. But now there
was a charred black spot on our shag carpet that already had
questionable design issues going on. I was brilliant and solved our
problem. I scooted the recliner back over the hole and covered it.
Plausible deniability. Believe it or not I never heard anything
about it.
The 2nd time I received
corporal punishment was one I believe was unjustified. My mom was
asleep. Probably exhausted from working hard, running a house with
three kids and dealing with my dad. She may have had migraines.
She worked at an American Legion and
one of her coworkers Leeanne called asking to speak with her. I told
her mom was asleep but she insisted it was important. I obliged,
this sounded serious. I went to wake my mom. She resisted. I
nudged and prodded. My mom got up and I told her, “Phone.”
She spoke on the phone. Then she
tracked me down in the house and smacked me. And she slapped me
three or four times more after that. I cried. Crap that hurt so bad.
Leeanne must have been told about this because years later I wished
her happy birthday (we shared the same birthday so it was easy to
remember). She told me she remembered that she was the reason I got
beat and said she felt bad. I told her, “Not as bad as I did.” I
had totally forgotten about this event, but as soon as she mentioned
it, I remembered as if it were yesterday.
The third time I got whacked was me
being an ass. My dad and I would watch baseball games together on
our TV. This means 18 or 20 commercial breaks. For whatever reason
this time, I got up and went to my room for every commercial break.
The room next to our living room had this light fixture with a long
chain hanging down. Every time I walked by it I'd swing that chain
into the fixture as if we were the sales department and I just made
commission. By the 4th inning my dad says to me, “ You flip that chain up one more time, I will beat
your ass.” I didn't take him seriously. I mean come on? What was
the big deal. And dammit, I was like 14. I kept doing it and right
around the 7th inning my dad had his belt in his hand. I
made the damning clink sound with the chain and my dad got up and
said, “I told you what I was gonna do!” and he got up and whipped
me with that belt in my upper thigh, lower ass area. Yeah it hurt.
And I as embarrassed about it too.
There was one time where I fully
expected to get a good whipping ahead of time. I had stayed the
night at my best friend Bryce's house. I was supposed to have been
home by dinner the next day. Our houses were only about a mile and a
half apart, so we would walk or ride our bikes back and forth. This
time I was walking. I didn't get around to leaving his place until
his dinnertime at about seven thirty. Dinner at my house was around
seven. You would think I would have run home. But I was already
late. I took my time.
I started walking knowing what was
waiting for me at my destination. I started practicing my
explanation. That walk wasn't that long but I probably went through
about five or six drafts. My final version went something like this,
“Mom. Dad. I know I screwed up. I am so sorry. I lost track of time. That is not an excuse and I accept my punishment. I am old enough to know better. I am so sorry I
didn't obey your wishes. Do to me whatever you think is the correct course of action.”
This was good. This was noble and
showed my willingness to accept whatever punishment their years of
wisdom deemed appropriate.
When I got home my parents weren't
there. Just my sister and brother. Dinner was on the stove. I
should have been relieved. But I was disappointed. The fact that I
had prepared to be righteous and surrender myself to their judgment
was just the same as actually doing so. Only without the credit. I
was excited to be the selfless hero in my own play. What did
I get? This was opening night on Broadway and nobody was in
attendance. Must the show really go on? What good is the best
performance ever if nobody is there to appreciate it?
Now one would think that if I felt so
strongly about this I would have confessed unprompted when my parents
came home. Nope. The show must not always go on. Even better than
winning hearts and minds when busted for a crime is getting away with
it. I would save my spiel for another day.
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If I had to pick a song to be the soundtrack to this post it would be...
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| Just wanted to use a real old pic of me. 1985 |
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