Embarrassing Moment

Embarrassing Moment

By Steve Thomas

We all have them. One of those moments when you wish you could
disappear, or could erase in time as if life was just like some
prolonged recording on a VCR. Speaking for myself I've had a multitude
of such instances in my life. In fact during the years of
mid-adolescence it seemed that every day would bring with it some
reason for my face to flush burning red or the sensation of your
stomach lining being turned inside out by a family of imps to take
hold.

God it seems handed me more than my fair share of embarrassment, when
he dealt my unlucky cards. So if self-conscious introspection were an
art, I'd be a virtuoso performer.
By now you've probably heard enough. Yet another neurotic inanely
rambling on you'll think - better escape before he breaks out into a
fit of gibbering, or slavers on your pullover.

But please I beg, be kind and bear with me. Just one instance that's
all - hear me out. It was with this fateful episode where it really
began. Preceding embarrassments were just dress rehearsals in
preparation of what was to occur.

If there is anything, but anything I wish for you to take from this
little tale it is for you to understand. Then perhaps, the next time
you're travelling on public transport and are accosted by the imbecile
sporting the hooded Parker jacket and fungicide breath - at least
you'll show some compassion.

Let me take you back a year or so, to Hollywood at the end of the 80's.
Before you say it - not that Hollywood, but Hollywood, West Midlands.
The little suburban pimple on the back end of Brum - where my formative
years were spent. Hollywood's dubious claims to fame are that pop
poseur Simon le Bon originated there and that local gardening expert
Bernard 'Greenie' Smythe had won the acclaimed 'Monster Marrow Award'
consecutively in years 1978-81. Much in common with other villages,
where we lived was the type of place where everybody knew each other
and each other's business for the most part.

Grove Road was no exception to this rule. There I lived with my
parents, our dog 'Dinker' and our neighbours - a close knit little
community of about dozen or so other families. For example there was
Mrs Healey who lived adjacent to us, she shared her abode with seven of
the mangiest, scrawniest moggies you could imagine. 'Dinker' and me
took great pleasure in tormenting them whenever we could. He'd chase
them when they entered into our garden and as they tried to escape I'd
fire pellets from my toy gun at their backsides from the sun-lounge
roof.

Four doors down and you had Mr. Atkinson, who you dared not to cross.
He was a radged drunken old man, if there ever was. Once I kicked a
football over his fence when playing in the road. I tentatively knocked
on his door only to be assaulted by barrage of expletives so
comprehensive, that my extensive vocabulary of filth was complete well
before secondary school.

It is with the Grimmett family who lived at number eleven, who we must
concentrate on for the purpose of this story however. The burly Pat
Grimmett, his wife Linda their annoying son Bryan and daughter
Rosalind. Pat had been made redundant from his job as a British Telecom
engineer after privatisation and had now assumed the role of local odd
job man. He was always nebbing about fixing something or other for
someone. You couldn't escape his trademark whistle as he patrolled the
road his dirty grey boiler suit. My parents got on well with most of
the neighbours, especially the Grimmett's.

Dad would play tennis with Pat regularly in summer and Mom was always
sitting round Linda's gossiping about gossip, or attempting discourse
on the latest price of peas. Bryan and me didn't exactly see eye to eye
though to put in mildly. It had all started when he began to take the
mickey out of my red 'Tomahawk' bicycle; he of course had a shiny new
BMX. For this I dutifully kicked sand in his face, after which he ran
off blubbering to my mom, who grounded me for a week.

However, it was Rosalind who occupied a special place in my heart. She
was in the year above me at school and with her luscious figure and
heavenly locks of brown hair she was the portrait of an English rose.
How I pined for her to take more notice of me. I dreamt of how I could
win her over, impressing her with my.........well that was the problem.
On one instance though I did come close to asking her out. We were both
walking home and for once we struck a conversation. Then, under the
Coleshill underpass she turned to me and smiled that smile of hers. I
was so elated, anyone would have thought I'd been living in a helium
tent for a week. My chance had come at last, providence smiling upon me
- but alas! As I tried to express my feelings and ask the question that
I must have rehearsed a thousand times - I opened my mouth but nothing
came out. I tried again, but instead of words the only thing that I
emitted was a bead of lumped phlegm, which I must have expelled from my
mouth after it trickled down from my nose. Thankfully, I don't think
that she noticed. After all, I was only her nerdy neighbour.

The school holidays began and as my parents spent most summers visiting
the rest of our relatives' length and breadth of the country. That
particular weekend we were planning to visit with my Aunt Millie down
in Wales. This, I had been dreading from the outset. I hated long car
journeys and hated Aunt Mille even more! Her house always reeked with
the foul scent of chip fat and boiled cabbage. If this wasn't bad
enough though she would jabber on and on, whining and whinging like
only the Welsh can.

Saturday morning came I helped my Mom pack the car and settle 'Dinker'
in his back at the back of the vehicle in his basket. It was then that
I had the flash of inspiration - I would feign terrible stomach cramp
and they'd let me stay at home! I buckled over after carrying some
boxes out, much to Mom's concern.
"What's wrong dearest?" she enquired.
"Oh! It's beastly stomachache - only just started. To be honest, I
don't think that I can manage the journey; it hurts more if I sit. I
best go and lie down, Mom."
With that I cleverly contrived my abandonment, convincing Mother that
home was the best place for me to be if I was to recover. After I
listened to the car, pulling off the drive and on it's journey, I
pulled open the bedroom curtains to let in the sunshine and
smiled.
Hurrah! I had the house to myself; I could play games on my ZX Spectrum
all day long or blast out my favourite tunes on the stereo until my
hearts content. I made myself an enormous bacon sandwich, put 'Queen's
Greatest Hits' in the CD player and then ran a bath, where I could
formulate my plans for the day.

I got in the bath feeling fantastic, motivated on by the magnificent
music of Mercury and May. I basked to 'Bohemian Rhapsody', scrubbed to
'Somebody to Love', lathered to 'Living on My Own' and shampooed to
'Seven Seas of Rye'! The opening bars of 'I Want To Break Free' chugged
out and I found myself whipped into ecstatic fervour. I immediately
leapt from the water, turning the volume to number nine using the
remote. It was if I had been taken into a trance.

Overwhelmed, I began to sing and charade. I waltzed up and down the
landing and then into the bedroom not even bothering cover myself, an
empty shampoo bottle doubled as a microphone as I pranced and danced
like a lunatic. Then for a final frenzied rendition of the chorus - 'I
Want to Break Free????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" etc I strutted about the room
like I was performing at Wembley Stadium.

As the song began to fade, it was then I realised that a performance of
sorts is exactly what it had been. A glance out of the window, then a
second glance - NO! I saw two gaping mouths and startled faces shocked
in disbelief; they must have watched the whole episode! For some
reason, Pat and Rosalind were on the sun lounge roof directly below the
bedroom window. Rosalind looked at me, absolutely aghast.
Now painfully aware of my nakedness, conscious of my puny white body
and its little dangling flaps, I ran and dived under the cover bed. How
I hoped that a hole would appear from under me and swallow me right
there and then. I prayed that God would press a button that would erase
my every trace from history. I stayed under that bed for a long, long
time. I was absolutely mortified - I cowered, I whimpered and cried
engulfed by the nausea that only shame instils.

It transpired later that my Dad had asked Pat to put some new plastic
boards on the sun lounge roof to stop a leak or two. Rosalind being the
dutiful daughter that she was must have gone up with him to help him
tidy up, if only I'd know that this is what was going to happen in
advance.

From that moment on I became more and more withdrawn. I avoided
everyone, everything wherever possible. I never spoke to Rosalind ever
again and ran off if she ever was walking home my way. Pat was trickier
to avoid, but for the most I managed it. If I saw him and I'd hide but
occasionally he'd spot me and try and make conversation, usually
starting by saying something about 'Freddy' before laughing that
booming laugh of his. When the Grimmett's moved down south a few months
later, I was relieved. Hopefully now our awful secret could be laid to
rest.

For some obscure reason many years later, the Grimmett's cropped up in
conversation as I munched through a toasted teacake at Mothers.
"Oh! Linda sent me a letter the other day. Do you remember the
Gr?"?
"Yes, of course, mum," I quickly cut her short.
"Apparently Brian's now MD of an engineering company and is well on his
way to making his first million!" she continued. Always was a spawny
git, that Bryan, I thought to myself.
"I'm do feel sorry for Linda, though. What with her finding Pat after
that terrible accident with the electric drill."
"Any news about Rosalind?" I queried.
"Still safely locked away at the Basildon home for the mentally infirm
from what I gather."
"Oh! Dear," I muttered "such a terrible shame." Then I returned back to
my teacakes and newspaper.

You'll never ever know if what Rosalind witnessed on the balcony that
day played any role in her demise, disturbing, as it must have been for
her. One thing you can be certain of however is that after that
embarrassing moment, those awful few thwarting seconds -
My life was never the same again.

Steve Thomas - 5th May 2002.
Words 1,892.