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From: Richard Lewis <rlewis@xsite.net>
Subject: Sibling Rivalry
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Sibling Rivalry

by Richard Lewis

rlewis@xsite.net

www.xsite.net/~rlewis

My tender-hearted dad did not believe in spanking. In fact, neither of my
parents ever raised a hand to their first born, Louise. She was 18 months
older than I was. It's hard to imagine Louise ever doing anything naughty
enough to merit corporal punishment. She was just about perfect. She kept
her room neat. She studied hard. She was sweet to everybody.

So naturally I hated her. I did everything I could think of to be as
different from her as possible.

Louise wasn't the kind of child who would pull up the carrots in Mr.
Brickman's garden. So I did, just to see if they were growing. She wasn't
the kind of child who would throw pebbles at the hornet nest above Bobby
Boenke's bedroom window. So I did, just to see if the hornets would get as
mad as my parents said they would. Nor would she pocket a model airplane at
the five-and-dime store and walk out without paying. So I did, but in that
particular case another kid put me up to it.

The only rotten thing Louise ever did was report my misdemeanors to my mother.

I'm not really a mean person, but I went through a mean phase in my campaign
to distinguish myself from Louise. I lured Mrs. Martin's too-trusting
Pekinese into our front-opening Kenmore clothes drier and set the dial to
"Fluff." The clickety clickety click of its frantic claws against the
revolving metal drum quickly aroused Louise' attention. She ran to get Mama
to rescue the indignant, yapping pooch. 

"What are we going to do with this boy?" I heard my mother say on the
kitchen phone. I knew she was talking to my father, who was at work. (He was
an elevator repair man.) She listened to whatever he was saying at the other
end of the line, until she noticed me. "Wait a minute," she interrupted him.
"Little pitchers have big ears." She gestured for me to go outside and play
in the yard. "And don't slam the door," she yelled. Too late.

That evening, while the family was having dinner, the manager of the local
Woolworth's called the house to squeal. He told my parents that he had
apprehended me shoplifting a plastic airplane, which he duly confiscated.
For a long moment, my mother was too angry to speak. Then she asked my
father to confer with her in the kitchen. Louise and I could hear our
parents discussing something, but we couldn't hear what they were saying.
Louise was faster than I was to grasp the significance of their pow-wow.

"Ooh, you're going get it now," she hissed at me from across the table.

I'll never forget the crest-fallen look on my father's face when he came
back to the dining room table. He was a big, heavily built man, and was, as
I said before, gentle to a fault. It troubled me to see him cowed by my
mother's wrath, especially knowing that I was the cause.

After dessert, my father disappeared to his work bench in the garage, as if
on cue. My sister Louise turned on the television in the living room to
watch Melrose Place. My mother asked me to come upstairs to her room, that
is, my dad's and her room.

For the first time in my young life I knew fear. My knees turned to water as
I climbed the stairs. I stumbled. I got rug burn on my little shins. When I
reached my parents' room, my mother told me how she and my dad had
reluctantly concluded that they needed to be more strict with me. "We can no
longer give the appearance of condoning your behavior, young man," she added
in her officious way.

"First, I want you to take off your pants." I was shaking so bad I had to
sit on the floor to get them off. "Your boxer shorts too," she added. My
knees were knocking as I prepared to climb up on her ample lap. But she
stopped me. "Now put your shoes back on." Puzzled, I laced up my sneakers
again. "Go tell your dad to lend me his belt," she said. "I believe you will
find him in the garage."

"I don't want to," I whined. "Louise will see me." My appeal to modesty fell
on deaf ears. 

"That's why it's called 'punishment,'" my mother said.

My rug-burned shins were stinging as I descended the steep-seeming stairs on
my stubby short legs. My pathetic little penis was flapping in the breeze.
Louise tore her eyes away from Melrose Place. When she saw my predicament,
her neat, studious, sweet face lit up with glee. Her eyes popped wide open.
She put her hand to her mouth as if to suppress a laugh, even though she had
no intention of giving herself away by laughing out loud.

My face was hot with shame as I scrambled past my sister to the kitchen, and
through the kitchen to the back door. From the back door, it was only a few
steps across the yard to the garage. There, to no one's surprise, my father
was waiting.

"Mama says you're to lend her your belt," I stammered. It was humiliating to
be a pants-less little boy standing in front of a big, dressed man.

"What do you suppose she wants this big belt for?" he asked.

"Mama's going to give me a licking," is all I could manage to say.

"Well, I'm heartily sorry to hear that." In those days, my dad wore a black
utility belt with a silver alloy buckle and silver alloy hook eyes. Time and
weather had cracked the thick leather in some places, and softened it in
others. Slowly Dad withdrew the supple leather from around his enormous
waist, one loop at a time. He ceremoniously handed it to me. It was heavy.
It was nearly as big as I was.

I realized now why my mother had made me take my pants off. If I were fully
clothed, I could have run down the street, thrown the belt into the storm
drain, and hidden myself under Bobby Boenke's porch. Without pants, however,
I had to return directly to my mother's room.

She took the belt, folded it into a manageable strap, and motioned for me to
lie across her knees. I screamed as the first blow hit my plump fanny. Not
because it hurt, but because it startled me. It took a few seconds before I
noticed the pain. As soon as I did, the second blow fell. 

Just then, Louise ran into the room. "Mama! Mama! Don't hit him," she said.
I wasn't fooled. She knew Mama might show some mercy if no one was looking.
But, with her oh-so perfect daughter looking on, my mother had no choice but
to deliver ten full strokes to her writhing, screaming son.

"Now take the belt to your dad," she instructed. I sat on the floor to put
on my pants, but Mama told me, "Don't bother with that. I want him to see
what I did." So I scampered butt-naked down the stairs, lugging the big belt
in my arms. My behind was as raw as my shins and as hot as my face.

In the garage, my father sat on a tall stool in front of his tool bench. He
looked at me with immense pity. It was a sadness that was bigger than Mr.
Brickman's garden, bigger than Bobby Boenke's hornet nest, bigger than the
dime store's model airplane. It was a sadness that was even bigger than Mrs.
Martin's Pekinese. When I saw that look on his face, I broke out crying.

"You poor thing," he said, fingering the welts on the back of my legs.

He went to a cabinet, reached for an emergency medicine kit, and pulled out
a tube of first aid cream. "Is there no balm in Gilead?" he sighed as he
rubbed my rotund cherub cheeks with the soothing lotion. 

"Does that feel better?" he asked me, lifting me up so I could sit in his
lap. He held me in his arms as he slathered the ointment in the crevice
between my legs.

"Yes, Daddy," I answered.

"Does it feel good enough to give your old man a hug?" he asked.

"Yes, Daddy." I hugged him desperately and buried my sobs in his burly
chest. I had certainly learned my lesson. From that day forward, I never did
anything naughty unless I was sure to be caught.

###


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