Last Sunday left Charlie and I in St. Hyacinth's version of the Bermuda Triangle.
Possessed by idiocy, with no exorcist on the premises, we only regained our senses as the mass ended and church let out. Well, not quite all our senses, but enough to know - as we hit the courtyard – that the shit was hitting the fan.
Whatever murkiness of the triangle's depth that remained was removed as soon as I met up with my dad in the schoolyard. Man, was my father red in the face.
Whatever murkiness of the triangle's depth that remained was removed as soon as I met up with my dad in the schoolyard. Man, was my father red in the face.
While I was totally oblivious to the rest of the people in church ~ neither they, nor my Father, were unaware of my antics. Antics that ~ I soon learned ~ were so outrageously disruptive, they earned me the one and only strapping of my life.
Frantically, self survival instincts scrambled to draw my Dad's attention to my innocent as a lamb essence.
“I can't wait to say the rosary tonight with you, mom, Bob and Jerry!”..........” I'm never, ever again, going to hide anything sharp under the seat cushion for Bob to sit on!”.....”I'll always eat everything on my plate and won't ever feed the dog under the table anymore!”
The light of a minor infraction at the end of the tunnel of easy pardon went off as I observed my father’s neck veins bulging.
“Go change your clothes, you’re going to bed without dinner” I was ordered.
While burning with guilt, I was called, from my adjacent bedroom, into the kitchen where my Father was explaining, with uncharacteristic drama - to my mother - what I had done. Upon entering the kitchen dressed in my t-shirt, shorts, and a bathroom, I discovered that it wasn’t the kitchen at all. It was the Roman Coliseum arena, and it reeked of carnage yet to come. Oh shit!
With a manner I have never before seen, nor thankfully, ever seen again, my Father took off his belt, commanded me to turn around and began his one and only ever whipping of me.
In the terrible intensity of a moment gone all wrong, came a surprising escape. The belt that my dad was using to give me a “strapping” as was the term, found itself hitting my bathrobe and not me. This was possible because, as the bathrobe hung straight down, I instinctively arched my butt away from the swinging belt, and space was created between my robe and my bottom. This miraculous guardian angel space was just large enough to absorb the strap, and small enough to be unseen. It actually took a few seconds for me to realize this as I awaited the painful contact that never came. Once that dawned on me, I gave an award performance hollering, yelping, and bawling. Fortunately for me as well, my Father’s strapping was over before I had to improvise further acting techniques such as throwing myself onto the floor and faking a seizure or the like.
I gladly hastened to bed to be free of the whole mess, the real pain remaining as the emotional anguish in having caused such discomfort and disappointment for my Dad.
Whatever angel/good-luck/magic/spirit/saint that intervened, thankfully continued late into the afternoon. Just as I was resigning myself to the fact that there would be no trip to the toy wonderland, I glowed with restrained delight as my parents announced we could make it to the warehouse for the last hour if we hurried. If I didn't exceed light speed then, well........ all the laws of physics were proved sound.
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Happy daze,
The Captain
