"It"

“It”

Tormented by the thought, dreading the moment, awaiting the inevitable, peace evades me. Morning, noon, and night, here, there, and everywhere, the specter haunts me. I’ve always known the Why. It was the What, When, and Where that disrupt my life’s journey, and of course, the fear of the great unknown, a/k/a “it”.

“It”- used with many verbs as a direct object with little or no meaning- Merriam-Webster.

“Timmy! If you do that again, I’m going to… well, you’re really going to get it!”

“When your Father gets home, he will… well, you’ll see. You’re really going to get it!”

The Why (Actually Whys):

-           Drawing pictures on the living room wall with Magic Marker.

-           Hiding the TV remote.

-           Putting a booger on my sister’s pillow.

-           Trimming the dog with my Dad’s electric shaver.

-           Putting a Whoopee Cushion on Grandma’s chair at Thanksgiving Dinner.

-           Slipping a nightcrawler into my big brother's spaghetti dinner.

-           Placing a fake poop on the floor during a meeting of Mom’s Bible Study Group.

-           Etc., etc., etc.

The consequence: I was going to “get it”. Considering the severity and frequency of my transgressions, I knew “it” would be harsh. And with the passion in my parents’ voices, I knew “it” was inevitable. I just didn’t know what “it” was or when I was going to get “it”.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”. That pretty well nailed it. I was the cartoon character with a dark cloud looming over his head at all times, waiting for the sky to open and release the wrath of countless “you’re really going to get its.”

Doomed. It was cruel and unusual punishment, a fiendish scheme to inflict lasting mental anguish to gain maximum pain and suffering. The compassionate mother or father, nay, the marginally humane parent, would administer swift and certain justice, and all could move on with their lives. But, alas, mercy was denied, and I was condemned to crippling anxiety and fear.

I set noise traps inside my bedroom door, aluminum foil on the floor, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling should my parents decide to deliver “it” while I was sleeping. I watched carefully as my Mother packed my school lunches, and kept a wary eye on my Dad at all times.

My sibling antagonists gleefully joined in.

“You’re really going to get it now.”

“Wait until Dad gets home. Then you’re really going to get it.”

What could “it” be? A 6-year-old’s mind can wander in untold directions when contemplating all the bad things that could happen to them- spiders in the bed, extra helpings of brussel spouts, for hire boogie-men in the closet or under the bed, no TV for the rest of my life, leaving me in a wolf-infested woods under a full moon. The possibilities were endless and terrifying.

Maybe they would insulate themselves from the deed and enlist the services of others to inflict “it.” I broke into a sweat whenever I saw Sister Mary Margaret strolling around the classroom with her menacing ruler in hand. I grew suspicious of my friends who I knew would do darn near anything for a candy bar or a pack of baseball cards. I even steered clear of Grandma who was likely still upset about the whole Whoopee Cushion affair and might cheerfully be inclined to do her daughter’s bidding.

I became Peter Sellers’ Lt. Clousseau. I suspected no one, and I suspected everyone- the butcher, the baker (Thankfully, our town didn’t have a candlestick maker.), the school crossing guard, the paper boy, Father Hanley, and especially the garbage men with their massive instrument ideally suited for body concealment and disposal.

It, it, it… “it” consumed me. When was I going to “get it”? What would “it” be? One “it” and “it” would be over? Or were there multiple “its” in my future? I knew that my parents were truthful and sincere people. “You’re really going to get it” was no idle threat; it was a promise of things to come. But what, when, and where? The uncertainty was too much to bear.

My first inclination was to embrace the time-tested, mind-soothing advice of Linus- “No problem is so big or complicated that it can’t be run away from.” I ran away from home so many times I lost count. (Ok, admittedly I never got further than the back gate, but intent matters.)

Every day was more worrisome, more disturbing, more painful than the day before. I was reaching my breaking point. It was like sitting in the waiting room at the dentist's office awaiting your turn to be called for a double root canal… and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. I just wanted to get “it” over with. I was seven; it was time to man up.

How does one prepare to “get it”? Old-fashioned anti-spanking measures like a telephone book stuffed down the back of my pants? Tape my name and phone number to my forehead for identification purposes? Bring a witness? Have Child Protective Services on call? Arrange for the showdown to occur in a public place? Recognizing that moments of requisite courage can be fleeting, I only had time for a prayer.

“Dear God, if “it” isn’t too bad, I promise I’ll never do another bad thing for the rest of my life.”

Showtime. I braced myself.

“Mom, Dad… I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’m ready for “it”. Please, bring “it” on… now.”

“What?”

“I’m ready. Let me have “it”. I can take “it”.

“Take what?”

I could feel my fears subsiding as I sensed the confusion.

“It.”

“It”? What’s “it”? What are you talking about, Timmy?”

Oh, my God. What’s happening? My Dad isn’t even looking up from his newspaper and Mom’s still typing away on her laptop. For the last year, I’ve been living in the shadow of “it”, and now you’re telling me there is no “it”? My parents lied to me? I suffered all this time for nothing?! Dust off my fake poop. Find that Whoopee Cushion. Fire up my Dad’s electric shaver. Where are the magic markers? Oh, man, they’re really going to get “it” for this.