I Barely Remember It
by Marc Spahn
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Manipulation, hazing and public humiliation. Ah, sweet childhood.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was the last kid to move into my neighborhood, and also the youngest. When you’re seven, ten year olds are supreme beings; elders on high. You can’t help but to fear and respect them, pining for their approval.
I puffed my first cigarette in the woods on the edge of the neighborhood with the Italian boy and the red-haired sadist. The Italian boy had stolen the cigarette out of a pack from his dad’s work truck.
My father smoked and told me all the time what a filthy disgusting habit it was. He warned me that I’d go rounds with the belt if he ever caught me doing it.
The Italian boy lit up, and I pushed the threat of my father’s wrath to a distant corner in my mind. He inhaled and coughed desperately, making me nervous, and causing the red-haired boy to double over in laughter.
“Give it here.”
Clearly a pro, he took a full drag, held it, and then blew the smoke straight up into the air.
“Alright, your turn.”
He handed the cigarette to me and I cautiously put it to my lips, puckered, and puffed, and basically kissed the damn thing like some sort of retarded fish. I knew I was off and the red-haired boy scolded me with some words that I understood, and others that I didn’t,
“What the hell is wrong with you? You smoke like a faggot. Gimme it.”
He took another couple of drags and tried to give it back to the Italian boy, who said no, and was now a strange shade of green and still coughing and spitting. Disappointedly, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and started walking back in the direction of the road.
The Italian boy and I followed and the three of us were almost out of the woods when the ginger sadist turned around grinning wide and asked, looking right at me,
“Do your parents know you smoke? What if I told?”
I froze. My father’s promise of annihilation if I were ever caught smoking had faded away into a soft echo, but was now present again and booming like thunder with only a second’s delay before the hard crack of lightning split the sky in my mind. I thought fast and countered,
“Then I’ll tell, too. You both did it. Not just me!”
I was impressed with myself. Tables turned. The Italian boy fidgeted a bit and just stared at the ground. The red-haired boy simply mocked me,
“My parents know I smoke! They don’t give a shit. Yours would be so pissed, though. I know it!”
I knew nothing of bluffing, or how to call it. Simply out of my league, I just started begging for mercy and telling him that I’d do anything he asked me to if he didn’t tell.
“Anything?”
He asked delightedly. He was visibly salivating, his mind overwhelmed with possibilities. I confirmed with a fearful sadness,
“Yes.”
We walked out of the woods to the edge of the road. The first thing demanded of me was that I pull down my shorts in front of ten passing cars. The red-haired boy made clear,
“Middle of the street. Shorts and underwear. You gotta show your dick.”
And so I did. The driver of each car that passed had a different reaction. An old woman who just pretended like she didn’t see anything. A mother with a car full of children who shouted something inaudible as she swerved around me. A gentleman driver who slowed down his vehicle to a crawl, causing my skin to do likewise. On and on to the last car. The Italian boy and the sadist were both laughing, ducked behind a parked car on the roadside. They called me over.
“Ok, ok…” said the red-haired boy, “one more car, but this time you gotta beat it!”
He snickered wildly, revealing every neglected tooth in his mouth. The Italian boy protested in my defense, but it only took one look from his Dom before he submitted. My indifference to this request revealed my ignorance. The sadist asked,
“You do know how to beat your meat, don’t you? Every guy beats his meat. Here, like this!”
He demonstrated with great authority while laughing like a hatter. I turned away and felt my face go red hot. I was confident that I could mimic the action but I still had no idea why someone would want to do such a thing.
I waited until I saw a car turn the corner and start its way down the road toward us. The two boys ducked safely behind their bunker and I made my way into the middle of the street. With the car just up ahead of me, I pulled down both shorts and underwear, closed my eyes, and started an awkward tug on my tiny seven year old penis.
The world went silent aside from a dull ringing in my ears. I’ve no idea what the driver’s expression was but when I opened my eyes I was glad to see that the street was empty. I pulled up my shorts and underwear and ran back behind the parked car where the two boys were reeling with hysterical laughter.
“Am I done?” I asked the red terror.
“No! Not unless you want me to tell your mom and dad you’re a smoker! Let’s go to my house.”
We all three passed by my house en route to his as if we were the best of friends. Had my parents been watching from the window, they would have been happy to see me getting along so well with my new friends. The sadist lived in a cul-de-sac where most of the other kids in the neighborhood hung out and played. The Italian boy seemed bored of it all but under direction of his Dom he called the other children over. The red-haired boy announced,
“The new kid is my slave for today, and he has to do everything I tell him!”
The other kids were fascinated. I was a brand new toy and they were all eager to share me. Demands came from everywhere,
“Make him eat boogers!”
“No, dog food!”
“Put a tampon in his mouth!”
When you’re seven, somehow these things pale in comparison to a spanking from your parents.
I ended up drinking a cocktail composed of old coffee, toilet water, and a shot of Brandy, snorting black ground pepper, licking a used tissue, and eating a raw egg. My stomach bubbled and churned with the cruel contents of their vile imaginations.
“Can I go now? I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
The sadist relented a bit. He led me around his house to his back yard, everyone else trailing close behind.
“Alright,” he said, “stick your face in that pile of dog shit and then we’re done.”
Some of the girls gasped and others giggled, the boys howled with laughter or just stared with hanging jaws, no doubt grateful that it was I and not they who were facing such a trial. They waited for my reaction, buzzing around me like the flies that hovered around the fresh steaming pile at my feet. I got down on my knees and everything fell into slow motion. I looked around with watery eyes for rescue from any direction, someone’s mom, or dad, an older brother or sister, or maybe even a braver, more righteous kid who would stand up and put an end to my humiliation. All I saw were the faces of my tormentors. No savior would come.
I buried my face and instantly puked all over myself. Shit stuck to my lips and eyelids, it clogged my nostrils and clung to my hair. The girls squealed and ran away, and a couple of the bigger boys then scooped me up and dumped me head first into a trash can, one of the big brown toters on wheels.
All I could smell was trash and barf and dog shit. I was in total darkness and the laughter and shouting coming from outside the can was all muffled.
“Please!” I screamed. “I’m sick, I want to go home! I’m sorry I smoked!”
I heard a count of,
“1, 2, 3!”
There was a terrible rumble as the trashcan was toppled end over end, tossing me like a trash and shit salad with a vomit vinaigrette dressing. The can finally came to rest right side up.
I sat still and quiet, sobbing and feeling like the ordeal would never end. I waited and waited for release or new punishment but nothing came. A few random kicks and punches were delivered to the outside of the can; the laughter quieted and then stopped altogether. Voices were becoming distant, but I could hear someone shout something about finding a dead cat under the porch, and then the pitter-patter of running feet. I heard screaming from the girls, and evil laughter from the red-haired boy. He was chasing them with it and daring others to touch it. I just prayed to God I wouldn’t end up having to eat the damn thing.
I remained still, crouched on torn bags of trash and pizza boxes and loose beer bottles. The dark, stinking vessel that only moments ago I thought would end up my tomb was now my sanctuary. I waited and waited, covered in putrid filth until the outside was truly still and no movement was detected, no voices heard.
When I was sure I was alone, I popped the top off the can, and like a periscope, did a 360-degree survey of the scene. The back yard was empty.
I climbed out of the toter and walked over to the hose attached to the spigot on the back wall of the house. I stripped of everything but my underwear, rinsed my shirt and shorts until they were dripping wet, and then rung them out and laid them down flat in the grass. The stains then were undetectable as to their true origin, and could be easily explained away as dirt and grime from a summer afternoon of hard playing. I washed my face and hair and body until all that ran off of me was cold clean water. I dressed into my wet clothes and made my way back around to the front of the house. Some of the boys were in the street throwing a football, a few of the girls were talking together in a neighboring yard, and the Italian boy, the red-haired boy, and a few others were still poking at the cat. The red-haired boy looked up and saw me down at the end of his driveway. He stared at me for a moment before waving me over, shouting,
“You gotta come check this thing out! It’s so gross!”
I said nothing, turned, and started my way back home. When I reached my house, I walked in and grabbed a towel from the hall closet and then went straight to my bedroom. I stripped naked and sat on my bed for a long while before drying off and putting on fresh clothes. I left my room and walked down the hallway and into the living room, headed for the front door. My mom called me from the kitchen, walked into the living room and asked,
“Where are you going?”
She was smiling. I looked at her, and then out the screen window of our front door. I answered,
“Back outside to play.”
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Manipulation, hazing and public humiliation. Ah, sweet childhood.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was the last kid to move into my neighborhood, and also the youngest. When you’re seven, ten year olds are supreme beings; elders on high. You can’t help but to fear and respect them, pining for their approval.
I puffed my first cigarette in the woods on the edge of the neighborhood with the Italian boy and the red-haired sadist. The Italian boy had stolen the cigarette out of a pack from his dad’s work truck.
My father smoked and told me all the time what a filthy disgusting habit it was. He warned me that I’d go rounds with the belt if he ever caught me doing it.
The Italian boy lit up, and I pushed the threat of my father’s wrath to a distant corner in my mind. He inhaled and coughed desperately, making me nervous, and causing the red-haired boy to double over in laughter.
“Give it here.”
Clearly a pro, he took a full drag, held it, and then blew the smoke straight up into the air.
“Alright, your turn.”
He handed the cigarette to me and I cautiously put it to my lips, puckered, and puffed, and basically kissed the damn thing like some sort of retarded fish. I knew I was off and the red-haired boy scolded me with some words that I understood, and others that I didn’t,
“What the hell is wrong with you? You smoke like a faggot. Gimme it.”
He took another couple of drags and tried to give it back to the Italian boy, who said no, and was now a strange shade of green and still coughing and spitting. Disappointedly, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and started walking back in the direction of the road.
The Italian boy and I followed and the three of us were almost out of the woods when the ginger sadist turned around grinning wide and asked, looking right at me,
“Do your parents know you smoke? What if I told?”
I froze. My father’s promise of annihilation if I were ever caught smoking had faded away into a soft echo, but was now present again and booming like thunder with only a second’s delay before the hard crack of lightning split the sky in my mind. I thought fast and countered,
“Then I’ll tell, too. You both did it. Not just me!”
I was impressed with myself. Tables turned. The Italian boy fidgeted a bit and just stared at the ground. The red-haired boy simply mocked me,
“My parents know I smoke! They don’t give a shit. Yours would be so pissed, though. I know it!”
I knew nothing of bluffing, or how to call it. Simply out of my league, I just started begging for mercy and telling him that I’d do anything he asked me to if he didn’t tell.
“Anything?”
He asked delightedly. He was visibly salivating, his mind overwhelmed with possibilities. I confirmed with a fearful sadness,
“Yes.”
We walked out of the woods to the edge of the road. The first thing demanded of me was that I pull down my shorts in front of ten passing cars. The red-haired boy made clear,
“Middle of the street. Shorts and underwear. You gotta show your dick.”
And so I did. The driver of each car that passed had a different reaction. An old woman who just pretended like she didn’t see anything. A mother with a car full of children who shouted something inaudible as she swerved around me. A gentleman driver who slowed down his vehicle to a crawl, causing my skin to do likewise. On and on to the last car. The Italian boy and the sadist were both laughing, ducked behind a parked car on the roadside. They called me over.
“Ok, ok…” said the red-haired boy, “one more car, but this time you gotta beat it!”
He snickered wildly, revealing every neglected tooth in his mouth. The Italian boy protested in my defense, but it only took one look from his Dom before he submitted. My indifference to this request revealed my ignorance. The sadist asked,
“You do know how to beat your meat, don’t you? Every guy beats his meat. Here, like this!”
He demonstrated with great authority while laughing like a hatter. I turned away and felt my face go red hot. I was confident that I could mimic the action but I still had no idea why someone would want to do such a thing.
I waited until I saw a car turn the corner and start its way down the road toward us. The two boys ducked safely behind their bunker and I made my way into the middle of the street. With the car just up ahead of me, I pulled down both shorts and underwear, closed my eyes, and started an awkward tug on my tiny seven year old penis.
The world went silent aside from a dull ringing in my ears. I’ve no idea what the driver’s expression was but when I opened my eyes I was glad to see that the street was empty. I pulled up my shorts and underwear and ran back behind the parked car where the two boys were reeling with hysterical laughter.
“Am I done?” I asked the red terror.
“No! Not unless you want me to tell your mom and dad you’re a smoker! Let’s go to my house.”
We all three passed by my house en route to his as if we were the best of friends. Had my parents been watching from the window, they would have been happy to see me getting along so well with my new friends. The sadist lived in a cul-de-sac where most of the other kids in the neighborhood hung out and played. The Italian boy seemed bored of it all but under direction of his Dom he called the other children over. The red-haired boy announced,
“The new kid is my slave for today, and he has to do everything I tell him!”
The other kids were fascinated. I was a brand new toy and they were all eager to share me. Demands came from everywhere,
“Make him eat boogers!”
“No, dog food!”
“Put a tampon in his mouth!”
When you’re seven, somehow these things pale in comparison to a spanking from your parents.
I ended up drinking a cocktail composed of old coffee, toilet water, and a shot of Brandy, snorting black ground pepper, licking a used tissue, and eating a raw egg. My stomach bubbled and churned with the cruel contents of their vile imaginations.
“Can I go now? I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
The sadist relented a bit. He led me around his house to his back yard, everyone else trailing close behind.
“Alright,” he said, “stick your face in that pile of dog shit and then we’re done.”
Some of the girls gasped and others giggled, the boys howled with laughter or just stared with hanging jaws, no doubt grateful that it was I and not they who were facing such a trial. They waited for my reaction, buzzing around me like the flies that hovered around the fresh steaming pile at my feet. I got down on my knees and everything fell into slow motion. I looked around with watery eyes for rescue from any direction, someone’s mom, or dad, an older brother or sister, or maybe even a braver, more righteous kid who would stand up and put an end to my humiliation. All I saw were the faces of my tormentors. No savior would come.
I buried my face and instantly puked all over myself. Shit stuck to my lips and eyelids, it clogged my nostrils and clung to my hair. The girls squealed and ran away, and a couple of the bigger boys then scooped me up and dumped me head first into a trash can, one of the big brown toters on wheels.
All I could smell was trash and barf and dog shit. I was in total darkness and the laughter and shouting coming from outside the can was all muffled.
“Please!” I screamed. “I’m sick, I want to go home! I’m sorry I smoked!”
I heard a count of,
“1, 2, 3!”
There was a terrible rumble as the trashcan was toppled end over end, tossing me like a trash and shit salad with a vomit vinaigrette dressing. The can finally came to rest right side up.
I sat still and quiet, sobbing and feeling like the ordeal would never end. I waited and waited for release or new punishment but nothing came. A few random kicks and punches were delivered to the outside of the can; the laughter quieted and then stopped altogether. Voices were becoming distant, but I could hear someone shout something about finding a dead cat under the porch, and then the pitter-patter of running feet. I heard screaming from the girls, and evil laughter from the red-haired boy. He was chasing them with it and daring others to touch it. I just prayed to God I wouldn’t end up having to eat the damn thing.
I remained still, crouched on torn bags of trash and pizza boxes and loose beer bottles. The dark, stinking vessel that only moments ago I thought would end up my tomb was now my sanctuary. I waited and waited, covered in putrid filth until the outside was truly still and no movement was detected, no voices heard.
When I was sure I was alone, I popped the top off the can, and like a periscope, did a 360-degree survey of the scene. The back yard was empty.
I climbed out of the toter and walked over to the hose attached to the spigot on the back wall of the house. I stripped of everything but my underwear, rinsed my shirt and shorts until they were dripping wet, and then rung them out and laid them down flat in the grass. The stains then were undetectable as to their true origin, and could be easily explained away as dirt and grime from a summer afternoon of hard playing. I washed my face and hair and body until all that ran off of me was cold clean water. I dressed into my wet clothes and made my way back around to the front of the house. Some of the boys were in the street throwing a football, a few of the girls were talking together in a neighboring yard, and the Italian boy, the red-haired boy, and a few others were still poking at the cat. The red-haired boy looked up and saw me down at the end of his driveway. He stared at me for a moment before waving me over, shouting,
“You gotta come check this thing out! It’s so gross!”
I said nothing, turned, and started my way back home. When I reached my house, I walked in and grabbed a towel from the hall closet and then went straight to my bedroom. I stripped naked and sat on my bed for a long while before drying off and putting on fresh clothes. I left my room and walked down the hallway and into the living room, headed for the front door. My mom called me from the kitchen, walked into the living room and asked,
“Where are you going?”
She was smiling. I looked at her, and then out the screen window of our front door. I answered,
“Back outside to play.”
About the Author
Cincinnati-born
Marc Spahn is of Scottish heritage.
Currently living in Taiwan and working as an English teacher, he is at
heart a musician and writer. You can
hear his music here on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/winkingowl