Toughness, Part 2
When we encountered each other at work after the night he strapped my bare butt with a belt, my interactions with Mr. Patel did not change. Neither of mentioned what happened in the condominium. Mr. Patel continued to be a demanding but fair boss. The story he told me about the punishments he received from his grandfather and how this made him tough stayed in my mind for weeks. I must have absorbed something from the experience that night because I found myself more comfortable taking firm stands with my co-workers. In disagreements, I did not back down as readily as I had done before, and I discovered this did not anger other people and sometimes caused them to agree with me.
About two months after the dinner with Mr. Patel and the clients, there was a situation at work in which what I called my new toughness reached its limits. I had submitted a request to a man in our legal department and let him know I needed the information by a certain date. This jerk always made a point of letting us know he worked according to his own deadlines, not ours. Sure enough, the day came when I needed my information and he told me I would have it in three days. I was too flustered to tell him this was unacceptable, so I adjusted my work accordingly, even though this caused me some difficulties. The way I handled this situation bothered me. After stewing about it for several days, I knew what I had to do. Mr. Patel always remained at work for a couple of house after the office closed on Fridays. The next Friday, I wrote a note to Mr. Patel briefly describing what had happened without mentioning names. Late in the afternoon, I took this note to his office and handed it to him. Mr. Patel read the note and set it aside. Without looking up from his desk, he told me to continue working until six and then come to his office.
At six o'clock, I knocked on Mr. Patel's door. Even before I entered the office, I could smell the aroma of his cigar. Our "no smoking" policy did not apply to the boss when he worked late. Mr. Patel was at his desk. This man, who always dressed impeccably during business hours, had removed his suit coat and loosened his tie. A cigar rested in an ashtray on his desk. I stood in front of Mr. Patel and waited for his instructions.
"Remove your shirt and belt. Lay the belt on the desk and stand over there facing the sofa."
At least I knew he had decided to treat me as a man and not a boy when he beat me this time. I complied with his order, draping my shirt and tie over the chair in front of his desk. When I stood in front of the sofa the sofa, Mr. Patel was behind me, but the walls of his office were glass and darkness had fallen, so I could see him reflected in the window. Mr. Patel drew on his cigar and returned it to the ashtray. He stood up, removed his tie, loosened his shirt collar, and rolled his sleeves, just as he had done the first time he beat me. He picked up my belt. He felt the leather, testing its weight and strength. Then he folded the belt in half and snapped it. Mr. Patel moved from his desk and stood behind me, a little to one side.
"Fold your arms across your chest. Look straight ahead. Remain upright and do not move. I will tell you when we are finished."
Impassively, but with force, Mr. Patel brought the belt down on my upper back. The pain of the first lash was something I had never experienced before and I struggled to stay in position. As the beating continued, I stopped looking at Mr. Patel's reflection in the window. I focused all my attention on the sound of the belt snapping against my skin and the lines of pain cutting across my back. I could tell when the belt landed in the same spot and when it struck a new part of my back. Both hurt like hell. Although I counted the first ten or so lashes, I soon lost track as I concentrated on enduring the beating. It was incredibly painful but eventually my back became slightly numb to the pain. I wanted Mr. Patel to continue the beating until he was satisfied, because I knew I could handle what was happening to me. I wanted to show him I was tough.
At last, Mr. Patel said, "that should be sufficient," and the beating ended. He must have given me at least forty lashes with the belt.
The sound of Mr. Patel's voice brought me back to reality. I watched him in the window as he returned to his desk and laid down the belt. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and wiped his forehead. He unbuttoned several buttons of his shirt, exposing his dark chest hair. When I turned around, I could see there were perspiration stains on his white shirt. This made me aware of my own condition. Drops of sweat were running down my sides beneath my still-folded arms.
"Take a few minutes to cool down before your put on your shirt."
When I dropped my arms, I could feel how tense my upper body had been during the beating. The muscles of my upper back felt tight when I flexed them. There was a lingering soreness in the area where the belt had landed.
Mr. Patel drew on his cigar while I stood in front of his desk putting. When I felt the cloth against my damp skin, I wondered if there were welts on my back. I would look when I got home. Once I was dressed, Mr. Patel opened drawer in his desk. He pulled out a cigar, cutter, and lighter and pushed them toward me, motioning me to sit down. I had prepared for this.
A friend of mine from college lived near my apartment. I knew he smoked cigars occasionally, so after Mr. Patel told me it was impolite to refuse a cigar, I invited my buddy over for a beer and asked him to bring a couple of stogies. We sat outside on my deck and I learned how to light and smoke a cigar. I like the smell of cigar smoke and the feel of a cigar in my hand, but the taste does not do much for me. Maybe that comes with time.
"Thank you, sir," I said. As I cut and lit up my cigar, Mr. Patel smiled. I realized this was the first time he smiled at me since I started working for him.
Mr. Patel and I sat facing each other across the desk, smoking our cigars and talking about work, for about twenty minutes. Neither of us made any mention of what had just occurred. I realized there was nothing verbal in the way Mr. Patel was teaching me toughness. It was a just a matter of his offering to beat me when I gave him a note letting him know I needed it.
"I will let you enjoy the rest of your cigar on your drive home."
With this, Mr. Patel stood up and ended our meeting. As I had done the first night, I looked Mr. Patel in the eye and extended my arm.
"Thank you, sir."
We shook hands and I left the office. I did not enjoy the beating, which was painful, but on the drive home, as I smoked my cigar, I knew I was ready to handle the jerk in legal.