It started in Kindergarten. I went into the bathroom, took my time, and came out into a dark classroom. Everyone had gotten in trouble during the interim, and were now lying down on the floor. I somehow felt the punishment didn't pertain to me because I was out of the room. I started playing there by myself, in the dark. In heightened whispers, friends were saying, "Lay down(!)" Within two minutes, the teacher came over and told me to hold out my hand. Sounded OK, so I did. She then cracked a wooden ruler over my palm.
I carried on that "say no to no" premise for some time. I questioned authority, played mean tricks, and was a really rotten kid. Actually, I made Bart Simpson look like an alter boy.
At eight years old, I found a great love in gullibility. I'd say things like, "Hey Grandpa - does your pie smell funny?" When he would bend over to smell it, I'd mash his face in it.
On the Fourth of July, I asked this guy to check out an ash-snake in the palm of my hand. When he bent over, I mashed it in his eye.
At 10, I was a veritable baby-sitter destroyer. I ate `em alive. One time I said, "Check this out," and pointed into the closet. It was dark, but she walked right in. I locked her in there until my parents got home. Needless to say...
I liked fire. One time, between getting one going, and s'mores, I lit this flower shop into a raging blaze. Another time, I was suspended from school for lighting magnesium-dust fires on a table. (5000 degrees will go through just about anything!) Flame was just so neat.
One sunny day, with his back to me, I lit my cousin's ass on fire with a magnifying glass.
But fire was certainly not the extent of my malevolent use of science. Once I broke a neighbor's sink by filling it half full of water, then congealing it with freon.
From science, I began to find a power in language. I called my science teacher, Mr. Bowman, a fat dink under my breath. I must breathe loud. I had to write, "I will talk less and be more respectful in science class" 250 times. Now it hurts just writing it once.
When Mom caught me swearing, it was the old soap treatment. I always tried to be cool and eat it. That never worked.
Now that corporal punishment is such a faux pas, it seems bad looking back. But as you can tell, I was bad. Mom tried to notch me with a belt once. She didn't want to hit me too hard though, so it was painful enough trying not to laugh.
But the Wooden Spoon was no laughing matter. Mom was a culinary samurai with that thing, and she feared not to whip up a baker's dozen smacks on the ass before you could protect your buns.
The Wooden Spoon became my childhood nemesis. Beating up my little sister always provoked the Wooden Spoon into religious calling. "Eye for an eye - tooth for a tooth - beating for a beating."
I tried to hide it. I tried to destroy it in the blender. I lived in fear of the Wooden Spoon for many years. It never kept me from wrongdoing; it just made me realize how much I screwed up.
Although my ass was always sore, who could turn down a kid asking for ice cream. I remember so many afternoons, holding my freshly spooned and stinging butt, with tears in my eyes, and hearing the chimes on the ice-cream truck.
That truck was the ultimate test for speed and resourcefulness for a kid. I could go from Bart Simpson to Wally Cleaver in one roll of the ice-cream truck wheel, and start sweetly begging for 50 cents. No sooner than Mom could tell me to get some for everybody, I became the dear, sweet boy they always hoped for. A delicious, sweet-bearing young lad that graciously brought back treats for everybody.
Then I would be cute and smiley, not unlike the Cheshire cat, and haply lick the frozen reward. Then I would say, "Thanks Mom... Hey Laurel, does your ice cream smell funny?"