A Lifetime Job - Part 1

A Short Story Dedicated to Dads and Sons

Author : jon@venite.ORG

It wasn't unusual for John's dad to get home before John did. Mr. Beck worked construction so his days started early, and he was often home by three o'clock. His old, reliable black pick-up was in the driveway when John came home. John parked his brown Jaguar behind the truck.

The two men had been living together for about a year and they had developed a particularly close relationship for a father and his adult son. They hadn't lived together since John left for college, and to the surprise of both, they found that sharing a house after fourteen years was remarkably agreeable. They experienced a fresh new camaraderie as men. They worked on household projects together, shared meals at the same table, watched a lot of sports on the tube and even played catch together in the same backyard where they used to twenty-odd years ago. Just two ordinary guys, father and son, living together as grown men. They were equals. It was great!

John had not expected this. When his job transferred him back to his home town, Mr. Beck insisted that John stay at home until he found a place of his own, despite the company's generous relocation package. A temporary stay with Dad sounded fine to him, but John knew that he would have to settle down on his own quickly. He valued his hard won independence, especially around his old man. Mr. Beck was about as traditional as an authoritarian father could be. He was old school and had been very strict with John. There were many household rules and restrictions and Mr. Beck didn't cut him much slack. When John disobeyed is dad, he was punished - it was that simple. Mr. Beck was a firm believer in old-fashioned woodshed discipline and he whipped his boy often.

John loved his dad but he also feared him. Mr. Beck is a very daunting and overpowering man still; and although John, at thirty-four, was a man in his own right, he never dared to cross his dad. That's why he resolved to find his own place and establish his own life as soon as possible.

Still, John had to admit that life with his dad had been surprisingly agreeable and both found themselves happily compatible. Mr. Beck had loosened up a bit and John sensed that his dad finally respected him. John's career had taken off and Mr. Beck was proud of his only son; he bragged about him often to his friends. Yes, there were times when he would raise his voice at him, and John would suddenly feel sixteen all over again. And yes, he would offer advice when not asked and he still expected and demanded a certain deference due to him as dad. He had this particular look, a look John knew far too well, a look that said, "Son, you're pushing me, and I'm going to beat your butt good and hard if you don't stop."

Twice now Mr. Beck shot John the look, and to this day, it still shook him up a bit. Both times the look came with a question, a rhetorical question. Both times, naturally and spontaneously, John responded to his Dad's question with "Yes, sir." It just came out. Old tapes play long and die hard.

The first time John got the look was when he put money down on an apartment. After being told the news, Mr. Beck informed him, "You're not going anywhere yet, son. We still have some things to work out, you and me, and I want you right here... got it?" Before he even had a chance to think, "Yes, sir" shot out of John's mouth.

Dad was right. For reasons unknown, living with Dad was for John's own good. As hard as it was for him to admit, he had never felt so protected, so secure since the last time he had lived under his father's roof. John wondered about this. It was so oppressive and restrictive when he was eighteen; why did it seem less so now? Perhaps it was because John knew that Dad couldn't bend him over and whip his ass with a razor strop like he used to when he was a boy. After all, John was a full grown man now.

True, when it came down to brute, physical strength, his dad was still a hell of a lot bigger and stronger than John and he could easily subdue him. And also true; that well worn strop still hung on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, just as it had throughout John's childhood and youth. John remembers being ordered to go get it and bring it to his dad countless times. But that was a life-time ago.

Yet when John first saw the old, black antique strop hanging there, the memory of lifting it off the hook and handing it to Dad made him shudder. But now as John himself shaves, he sometimes eyes the strop in the reflection of the mirror, and all those frequent father/son "discussions" make the sight of it almost nostalgic. Time heals all things, even teenage butts. "God, he was tough on me," John occasionally says to himself; "I guess I oughta' thank him someday. He sure was a controlling son-of-a-bitch, but hell, I turned out O.K. I guess. He sure didn't screw around when it was time for a spanking. My ass would sting and burn for hours. I probably deserved it I suppose, who knows?"

The second time John got the look was yesterday. It was Sunday afternoon and they were sitting outside on the front porch. Although John smoked at work, he never lit up at home. "Why get the old man going?" John often thought, "it would only lead to a fight and things are going so well between us."

One day he casually told his friend, Jim, about not smoking at home. Jim had known Mr. Beck since they were both boys and he reminded John about the time Mr. Beck caught them both smoking in the garage. Mr. Beck told Jim's dad, and Jim was grounded for a week. John got his ass whipped and even showed Jim the black and blue marks on his tight, smooth fifteen-year-old butt.

John remembered this beating well, and with a sheepish grin, he joined Jim in a chuckle over the memory of it. Jim always got off easy it seemed. "So you still don't smoke around your dad, huh?" Jim teased him, "you worried he might beat your ass all over again? Maybe I'll just go tell him that you've been smoking for months now." That ribbing gnawed at John, but he didn't let on. So to prove something to himself, he decided that, after all the usual demands of a Sunday morning were over, he'd smoke outside on the front porch.

"JUST WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" barked Mr. Beck, when John casually struck a match to light a Winston.

"What's it look like, Dad?" John answered with an unusual mixture of bravado and sarcasm. Then he took a long, purposeful puff.

Mr. Beck stood up, walked slowly over to John, and grabbing the front of John's white linen shirt he pulled him up out of the porch swing. Then he looked him straight in the eye. There it was, that unmistakable look. As he held John's frightened gaze he said in a low, controlled voice, "I don't know when you started smoking again, and I don't even want to know. But you're going to stop, RIGHT NOW! Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." John responded, visibly shaken. He walked down to the first step, put out the cigarette with his shoe, carried the dead butt to the trash and walked back to the porch, all under the watchful glare of his dad. Mr. Beck sat back down, John followed suit and things were pretty quiet on the front porch for a while as they both picked up parts of the Sunday paper and began to read.

Monday was especially hectic for John. In addition to the usual first-day-of-the-week routine, he had two presentations to make to the Board followed by lunch with potential high end clients. By ten o'clock he'd smoked a half dozen cigarettes before he remembered yesterday's tete a tete with Dad. "Ah, fuck him," thought John, "who the hell does he think he is anyway?" The phone rang, he handled a small crisis with his normal aplomb and then slipped on his favorite suit jacket and rushed to the Board Room. He was off and running.

Mr. Beck had been to John's plush corner office many times. Usually these visits were special occasions, days John took his dad out to lunch. It was their custom to celebrate Father's Day by having lunch at The Palm the day after, and John always took his father to lunch on both of their birthdays. The two men loved the attention they got from the maitre d' and waiters at the handful of good restaurants in town; and it was one of the few times Mr. Beck dressed up, and when he did, he always turned the heads of women and men alike. Fact of the matter is, he turned heads in his work clothes too. And on this particular Monday, John's assistant, Bill, was once again reminded how good looking Mr. Beck was, regardless of what he wore. Bill was both surprised and pleased when Mr. Beck walked stridently up to his desk.

Immediately Bill stood up and greeted him, "Mr. Beck, it's a pleasure to see you, sir. (Everyone seemed to call him sir.) I'm afraid that John has just left for lunch. Is everything OK? Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"Everything's fine, Bill. I just submitted some plans across the street and thought that since I was so close, I'd drop by and see if I could take my boy out to lunch. Should have called first though, I reckon."

"Nonsense," replied Bill, "after all, you're the boss's father. How about some coffee, just made, the good stuff?"

"Thank you, no, Bill," Mr. Beck said in his courteous, old-world style, "but would it be alright if I used the phone? I need to get some specs from the field."

"You bet," Bill answered, "but use the phone in John's office, and make yourself comfortable."

Mr. Beck made his way past the outer office, opened the heavy mahogany door, walked across the room to John's desk and sat down in the comfortable, black leather chair. "Can't believe I raised this kid," he thought as he picked up the phone. He was one proud papa.

Half way through the call, he noticed an ash tray on John's desk. There were six cigarette butts in it. This made him lose his train of thought and caused him to ask the man on the job site to repeat himself. After clarification he hung up, got up and walked out of John's office.

"Hey Bill," Mr. Beck said, "has anyone been in to see John this morning?"

"No sir. He spent the morning alone preparing for a couple of meetings and putting out a few fires." Bill answered truthfully.

"I see," said John's dad, "thanks for letting me use the phone."

"Hey, any time. I know that John will be real disappointed when he finds out that you stopped by and he wasn't here." Bill casually added.

"Disappointed isn't the word for it." thought Mr. Beck. Obviously distracted, he left by saying, "Thanks again, Bill. Drop by the house sometime why don't you."

Mr. Beck was livid. Genuine anger raged inside John's dad. "That little bastard didn't take me seriously yesterday" he thought. Mr. Beck's own father had died of lung cancer so he felt especially passionate about smoking. One week before he died, Mr. Beck, the elder, made him promise to quit smoking and never to let John start. John's dad quit that very afternoon and had never picked up a cigarette since. Mr. Beck, Sr. was as forceful and controlling as his son when it come to raising boys. In fact, it was his razor strop that hung in the bathroom, so it had been used consistently on two generations of Beck sons. Mr. Beck's anger only escalated as he drove the truck into the driveway.

Meanwhile, John's morning presentations and business lunch were so successful that he decided to take the rest of the day off. Bill was busy at the Recorder's Office so John didn't get a chance to tell him the good news. Instead he wrote a note: "I got what I needed from the Board and hooked three new clients! Have gone home."

John was still flying high when he pulled up behind the black pick-up. "Dad will be pleased when he hears about the coup I pulled off today." John thought. He bounded up the porch, skipping every other step and opened the font door. "Hey, Dad," John shouted, "wait till you hear what happened today." A cold ominous silence greeted him.

"Dad... you home?" called John. He walked through the hall, placed his suit jacket carefully over a chair and proceeded into the kitchen. Mr. Beck, leaning against the counter with his arms at his side, fists clenched but controlled, stared angrily at the somewhat startled John. John's quick gait stopped abruptly as he read his dad's fiery face. "What's wrong, Dad?" John's voice faltered.

"Did you smoke today, son?" questioned Mr. Beck in his deep, controlled voice.

"No sir!" John shot back, "You ordered me to stop yesterday and I did." John's sudden respectful attitude would have ordinarily pleased his dad if he weren't so furious, especially now after his son's bold and blatant lie. John was getting in deeper and deeper and Mr. Beck was demonstrating amazing control. He hated lies, especially from his own boy.

"I went to your office today," he began, "you were out and Bill let me use your phone. Guess what I saw on your desk?"

By this time, John's heart was racing. "Oh, I can explain, sir. I had a client in with me this morning for over an hour. The damn fool chain smoked and he wasn't even considerate enough to empty the ash tray when he left."

It was all that Mr. Beck could do not to walk over to John and deck him. Two lies in a row on top of smoking! "THAT'S IT! You are in some SERIOUS TROUBLE, boy" he said, "I think it's time for another lesson in obedience."

Now it was John's mind that was racing. "Another lesson in obedience. That's what he used to say before he whipped me. No, this can't be real, this can't be happening. I'm a man for Christ's sake"; thought John, "no one's gonna beat my ass, not even my own father - this is crazy!"

Mr. Beck's low voice brought John out of thought and back into the kitchen, "Go upstairs, get the strop and wait for me in the garage," he ordered.

"You're out of your fucking mind. I haven't been spanked since I was seventeen and I'm sure as hell not going to get whipped now - I'm twice that age. You can't beat me. I won't let you!" John argued with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

"I'm going to say this just once more, very clearly. GO GET THE STROP! It's either a whipping or my fists!" Mr. Beck replied.

"Shit!" thought John. "The fucker really means it!" John had seen the old man fist fight before, twice. He was quick, strong and John didn't have a prayer against him.

"MOVE IT!" shouted Mr. Beck and he shoved John with such force that he fell up against the refrigerator. John was angry now, real angry, but he wasn't stupid. He gathered his dignity as best as he could, walked out of the kitchen, into the hall and started up the stairs. He thought about bolting out the front door, but he knew his dad would come after him, tackle him on the front lawn and start swinging in front of the neighbors. He had to obey his dad. He was trapped! "This isn't happening." John kept saying to himself. But it was. He reached the top of the stairs, opened the bathroom door and lifted the strop off the hook. "Shit!" John said to himself again.

John held the strop loosely in his hand as he walked down the stairs, through the hall, through the kitchen, out the back door and on into the detached garage. John knew he was being watched carefully. "Well, good, maybe he'll cool down a bit sitting there." he said to himself hopefully. John was angry, nervous, embarrassed, and anxious, and much to his chagrin, he noticed a knot had begun to form in his stomach, just as it used to so many years ago. "Shit!" he said for a third time.

John paced back and forth in the clean and neatly organized garage. His dad was a stickler for order. All the tools hung on the peg boards facing the same direction and the workbench, although used only yesterday, was cleared off completely. "That fucking workbench!" he thought. "He always made me bend over it while he swung the strop." Before John had reached his full height, Mr. Beck made him step up on a wooden crate in order to stand high enough to bend over and rest the top half of his body on the bench. "There was always this God-damned ritual to his beatings." John remembered. It was all coming back very clearly and John began to notice the cold sweat on his forehead and under his arms. An ass beating was as planned, efficient and well organized as the fucking garage!

He walked over to the workbench, dropped the strop and waited for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time. He knew that this was part of the old man's plan and it pissed him off big time. He remembered once sweating out a full half-hour for his dad to come in for the tanning. "This can't be happening. Where is that jerk anyway? Let's just get the whole fucking thing over with for Christ's sake." These and similar thoughts simply drug out the time and made John more anxious.

Finally, he heard the springed screen door open and then slap loudly and forcefully back into place. His dad walked slowly toward him. John looked down at the cold cement floor and began earnestly, "Listen Dad, I'm really sorry for lying to you, sir. Please forgive me."

"I will son, after the whippin'. In the meantime, I suggest that you keep your mouth shut and speak only when spoken to. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." John knew that a litany of questions was about to begin. "This is just how he used to do it," John thought, "He's trying to work me up, to frighten and intimidate me. God how I hate this son-of-a-bitch and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. It's useless to try to talk him out of it - that just pisses him off even more. I'll just keep quiet, grit my teeth and it will all be over soon. I'll play his silly-assed game. He won't break me. He won't!"

"Why did you lie to me, son?"

"Because I didn't want to upset you, sir."

"And you don't think I'm NOT upset right now?"

"I can see clearly that you are, sir."

"So what did you gain by lying, son?"

"Nothing, sir.".

"Oh yes you did, son, you sure as hell did. You're going to get a much more severe ass-beating now than if you had only leveled with me a while ago.

John, lowering his head, remained silent but he thought to himself, "Oh fuck you, you ass-hole."

"Stand up straight when your father is speaking to you!" shouted his dad.

"Oh great, now he's speaking about himself in the third person; what an arrogant bastard!" thought John as he stood up straight, chest out, shoulders back.

It was now Mr. Beck's turn to pace as he continued to fire questions at his son.

"You remember how your granddad died?"

"Yes, sir."

"How, son?"

"Lung cancer, sir."

"That's right, son, lung cancer. What causes lung cancer, John?"

"Smoking."

"Yes, right again boy. Smoking." Mr. Beck paused, his hands locked behind his back, resting gently on his own beefy butt. Mr. Beck was one hot man and he knew it. There he stood in his well worn brown work boots, blue Dickies work pants, stitched brown cowhide belt, and short-sleeved work shirt unbuttoned to the second button revealing a bright, white tee-shirt. Suddenly he grabbed John by the shirt, drew his face within three inches of his own and shouted, "SO WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMOKING FOR?" John could feel the moisture in his father's breath.

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know," mimicked his father. Another pause, more pacing. "So what do you think I oughta do about this, son?"

"Honest answer?"

"It had better be!"

Here was his one shot at getting out of this unbelievable situation. "I think that you have made your point loud and clear, sir. And I think that you should accept my genuine and heartfelt apology for lying to you and to trust my promise never to smoke again. I give you my word, sir, as a gentleman and as your only son. Then we could both shake hands and go back inside." John thought to himself, "This just might work. After all, it's the same kind of smooth talk I used with the Board today. Maybe all he wants to do is just fuck with my mind a bit."

Another pause. More pacing. Finally Mr. Beck said, "John, you know as well as I that I'm gonna take that strop and blister your butt. What you need is a little rawhide on the backside, son. That'll convince you that your smoking days are over. And son, I do accept your apology for lying. But I want you to know that you've really hurt me, and scorching your butt is the only way I know to show you just exactly how much you've let me down. When I'm done whipping your fanny I'll offer you my hand; but you're a damn fool if you think you're not going to get punished for this.

continued in part 2......