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I’ve lived life damn near dripping with embarrassment, blundering through an unforgiving world, wishing to please but screwing up at every turn. There must be others like me; we could form a club. If you’re a clown, fool, or idiot, you’re eligible. 

It started early: small, stinging occurrences strung together till I realized they were forming a pattern. Like a wide vista you step back from to see what’s really happening.  

 
I have a memory from sixth grade—a million years ago. It still rattles me, maybe because it signaled what was to come. I was hanging out with another boy in our school lunchroom, rumpled brown sack before me. In my mind’s eye the boy’s face is blank, but no matter, he’s not the main character. He did instigate matters by referring to a classmate sitting nearby as “real pretty.” I turned to look. 

Pretty she was—sleek and tall with curves, and a smooth, commanding face. Her poise radiated an alluring danger. I was mesmerized. Part of me was also aroused, like a flame struck instantly alive.    

               
I gaped at the girl for far too long. Suddenly, her blowtorch eyes caught me. 

I flinched with fear, knowing I’d trespassed and would absolutely pay. The girl’s sneer struck like a whip. “Take a picture, kid,” she taunted. 

Which isn’t a bad line for a sixth grader, and an early sign of my talent for bringing out malicious wit in others. I looked away in shame. My heart pounded; my breath choked up.     

That feeling has never completely gone away. 
                                                                                             ---

So many subsequent encounters with females seemed to use that incident as a template, as if I were a victim of repetition compulsion, doomed forever to re-live its plot. But it doesn't end there. In addition to affairs of the heart, I've floundered through a range of circumstances—professional, sartorial, educational, economic, social, familial, etc. You name it, I've messed it up.

 

I even tried sports, allegedly a great way for kids to socialize and build confidence. You’d think I would’ve known better.  

When I was a high school freshman, I played on the soccer team. I stumbled plenty when they let me off the bench, but I can easily recall my sorriest episode, one that occurred in a game with the score tied and the clock running out. I was doing my best to play right wing when I saw a teammate advance the ball along the far sideline. Whereupon I did something right—I dashed toward our opponent’s goal as fast as my spindly legs would take me. The teammate noticed my move, then kicked the ball my way. 

His pass was perfect; the ball bounded precisely to me as I reached a spot about 15 feet from the goal. As their goalie was out of position, I essentially had a wide-open shot. All I had to do was nudge the ball forward with my foot, and we would win the game.

But instead of keeping my cool, I let a surge of excitement overwhelm me. I panicked, kicked out as hard as I could, and connected only with air. The ball rolled harmlessly past. Meanwhile, my feet slid out from under me and I flipped backward, my arms twirling foolishly as I searched for balance.

 

I found none. Momentum sent me airborne, and I splattered onto my ass.  

The pain was jolting but far worse was the humiliation. As I lay, laughter battered me like bricks flung at my head. Guys on the other team pointed and jeered. My teammates looked on in disbelief, then disgust. They scowled and cursed my very soul. Their hostility was scathing, like I'd done something repulsive. I might as well have pulled down my shorts, taken a crap, and eaten it.  

                                                                                             ---

Bad as those and other experiences were, my masterpiece occurred while I was in college. In a single performance, I used numerous techniques to attain peak embarrassment, hitting the sweet spot each time. I must have been profoundly inspired, like a great actor in full command, astonishing and mesmerizing his audience.   

It began as a typical Friday night, when most guys fried their brains with various chemicals, hoping to kill their inhibitions and increase their odds of getting laid. It was a decent strategy. Even if you struck out with the girls, you could claim later you boozed, snorted, swallowed, and smoked huge amounts, that you don’t remember a damn thing. And people might be impressed; or at least, they’d tolerate you. Which is where I came in, as I yearned to be tolerated. Substance abuse was a way for me to belong, and very easy to achieve. 

I was sitting in a dorm room, drinking beer and smoking weed, with two guys named Dave. One was brawny and handsome, like a preppy fashion model. (Why he doped so much was unclear, girls liked him sober just fine.) The other Dave was a slouched, long-haired burnout type. I hadn’t quite befriended the Daves, as their apparent ease in their own skin put them far from my own experience—but they had grown used to having me around. 

“Now see here, Johnson,” one said to me. “We’re going out to get real fucked up. You up for it?”

“’Course he is,” the other Dave said, grinning and pounding my back. “Guy’s a party animal, you can see it in his eyes.”

“Really?” Dave number one kneeled and peered at my eyeballs. “Hey, I do see a wild man in there.”

Number two laughed and punched my shoulder, knocking me off my chair. He looked down at me with regret. “Uh, sorry about that, Johnson.”

The guys helped me to my feet, dumped me back onto my chair. Though my arm was paralyzed, I assured them that dammit, yes, I was up for it.  

                                                                                                 ---

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Dave and Dave attracted a fair number of girls, whom I enjoyed being around even if none showed any interest in relieving me of my virginity. At some point that evening one such girl, Jill, knocked and strode in. Things immediately began to look up. Jill was among my favorites, with a rich blondness that looked like the sun had settled somewhere within the glossy layers of her hair. Her skin was smooth and tan. I especially liked her because she was an athlete who glowed with physicality. She exuded a subtle, muscular restlessness; it seemed like mere walls weren’t enough to contain her. 

Jill sniffed at the smoke and pretended to be appalled. She wagged an arm and coughed. “What’ve you degenerates been doing?” 

She greeted the Daves, who responded in kind, then she looked at me. “How’s it going, Johnson?”  

I squirmed a bit. “Well,” I said. “Let me consider…” 

I think I was in my mid-30s before I understood that when someone addressed me with “how’s it going” or “what’s up,” they weren’t really fishing for information.

“My political science test was challenging,” I ventured, “yet . . .”

“It’s okay, Johnson, I don’t need all the details,” Jill interrupted. She looked at handsome Dave and said, “He takes things literally.” 

I blushed and gulped from a can of Genessee. The other Dave struck my shoulder again. “Ha ha, he sure do.”

Jill sat on a bedside next to handsome Dave. She accepted a beer from him, and a bong was passed around. We sucked on it, coughed, and added to the billows of smoke saturating the air. How fire alarms weren’t constantly clanging, I never knew. 

One of the Daves had put on a Jimi Hendrix album, I think Smash Hits. I recall “All Along the Watchtower” grinding away, and I looked at a poster of Hendrix on the wall behind Jill. It was one of those color-drenched psychedelic-style renderings, depicting a guy with flowing hair and a headband, slashing at his guitar. I was so inebriated that to my eyes, the Hendrix on the poster was actually playing the music I heard, hands moving over his instrument even as the rest of him remained frozen. I felt like the top of my head had blown off.   

“Wow,” I said wonderingly. “Holy fuck.” 

I should have taken that as a sign. While I was accustomed to doping and drinking, I must have imbibed way more than usual. Or, the quality of the dope was super special. Or both. My senses were firing warning signals I idiotically ignored.

I glanced at Jill and Dave sitting side-by-side with goofy grins, occasionally speaking. They were a formidable-looking pair, two positive outliers on the attractiveness spectrum who obviously belonged together. I felt a flicker of envy, as preposterous as the idea of Jill and me as a pair was. 

About a week earlier, I’d been with the Daves when the handsome one said, “I was talking to Jill, and I definitely see possibilities there.”

Burnout Dave wished him well, then the question came up as to whether her blond hair was genuine. 

“Oh, it’s real,” handsome Dave said with conviction. “She sat in a way like, I could see some poking out her shorts.”

I pictured the occasion and blood roared in my ears. Jill often wore very brief gym shorts, a late, lamented relic of that era. Not tonight, though: she sported flared jeans, sandals (revealing blood-red toenails), and a white blouse that made her sun-kissed complexion pop.

Jill held the bong and shook her head, looking dazed. “This shit’s unreal. Where’d you get it, another planet?”

So it wasn’t only me getting wrecked. Not that I cared at the moment, as I floated along.

Burnout Dave shrugged, claimed it was the usual source.

“Needs a stern warning label,” Jill said. 

We all laughed then partook in a couple of more rounds. We stood, wobbled, and weaved toward the door.  

                                                                                         ---

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We walked to another dorm, where some guys were throwing a party. All parties, at that time and institution, were roughly the same. Beer kegs, dopers and cigarette addicts smoking, people dancing, shouting, jostling crowds, music blasting. For obvious reasons, my memory from here on is sketchy. But what I do recall is intensely vivid, like sudden brightness one sees upon emerging from underwater.

Jill was sitting next to me; I think on a couch. Shadowy jumbles of people shrieking. I drank beer from a plastic cup; quaffed half of it and spilled the rest on the floor, which I found hilarious. 

I knew Jill was on the soccer team, and I decided to discuss our common experiences. That she played college varsity and I’d been a jayvee high school scrub didn’t deter me.

Part of my face felt numb, but I managed to blurt, “Sliding tackles, ever do ‘em? Haw haw!”

In response, Jill just narrowed her eyes. “Gotta be strong, play soccer!” I blabbed. I took her hand in mine and lifted her arm. “Look! Let’s arm wrestle!” As I held her hand aloft, I grunted, pretended to strain. “Uhhhhh,” I groaned. I moved our arms in a way that conveyed she had won. “You’re quite strong,” I exclaimed, and let her hand go.

Instead of punching me in the nose, as I deserved, Jill laughed. Soon enough, after more senseless talk on my part, and polite grins and nods from Jill, she briefly rested her head against my shoulder. Whereupon I told her I loved her, and she reacted with an astonished look. 

                                                                                              ---

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It was as if my ego had been obliterated. I was outside running on a lawn between dorms, feeling airborne. I remember tall lamps giving some light; then a sudden splash of stars and a quarter moon. That’s because someone had tackled me and I rolled over to a view of the sky. The tackler turned out to be one or both of the Daves. 

They dragged me a few yards, then sat me with my back against a tree. Sweat flowed down my face. 

“Christ, Johnson, did you piss your pants?” a Dave demanded.

“Longfellow serenade,” I crooned. “Such were the pants I made…”

A Dave smacked my face. 

I looked around. “Where’s Jill? We’re gettin’ married, you know.”

They grabbed me roughly under my arms. “Sure you are, Romeo.”

They hoisted me up, began walking me forward.

I said softly, to nobody except maybe myself, “I played soccer too, you know.”

                                                                                       --- 
                                                          
We were back in our dorm walking down a hallway. Bright overhead lights, a few intoxicated students milling around. Residents’ doors lined up on either side of us as we proceeded. A girl named Beth, another of the Daves’ hangers-on, burst from a room followed by an annoyed-looking fellow. Beth, with long black hair and glasses, wore a tube top and shorts. The guy looked disheveled and dismayed. Beth launched herself into handsome Dave’s arms. He had to let go of me to accommodate her; the other Dave let go too, and I stumbled into a wall, slid to a sitting position.

Beth slurred, “Dave, let’s be outa here, go somewhere.”

Dave backed off, politely disentangling himself. “Now Beth, relax. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Beth lurched forward, remained in Dave’s face.

I looked around for Jill, didn’t see her. I called out her name to express my ardor. My hope, remembering it today, is that nobody heard. But with my track record, they probably did. 

The guy who was with Beth folded his arms. Dave raised his hands to rebuff the advancing Beth. My entire world tilted; then it started spinning, a weather vane in a fierce wind. My stomach lurched drastically. Stuff arose in my throat. I interrupted the Dave-Beth drama with a cataclysmic cough then a spewing avalanche of vomit I deposited onto the tile floor. 

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I awoke the next afternoon in my dorm room, sprawled on my bed. I hadn’t a clue who’d plunked me here. Maybe Dave and Dave? I recalled a gallery of hostile faces glaring at me after I’d barfed in the hallway. Then, a bottomless black void. 

I gasped, rolled over with my limbs akimbo, it’s amazing a misshapen arm or leg didn’t snap off. Dried bile was caked on my shirt, scattered on my bed, and streaked along the floor. The room reeked.   

I sat up, squinting at the sunshine coming relentlessly through the window. The glare further intensified my headache—if such a thing were possible. The rest of me didn’t feel so good, either. Everything hurt, even nostril hairs. My body kept shuddering. 

I rolled off the bed, onto the cold floor. Rose to my knees then engaged in a Herculean effort to stand. I shuffled at caterpillar pace to my second-floor window, careful not to jiggle my head. I watched normal life unfolding outside on a warm Spring afternoon. On the lawn, students wearing shorts and light tops moved briskly, healthily about. They walked, smiled, and conversed; presumably about how great life was.  

 
Nobody’d want to converse with me now. I’d made a filthy, disgusting ass of myself. (A sudden bolt of memory from last night: A guy looking contemptuously down at me, saying, “Get this sack of shit outa here.”) So much for a rewarding social life greased by avid drug and alcohol use. 

As I stood swaying next to the window, watching people and the sunshine, I had a rare flash of self-insight: I’d gone too far, and I’d enjoyed it too much. Disasters like this could happen again.  

A couple tossing a frisbee caught my attention: Jill and handsome Dave. The distance between them was impressive, the better to show off their athleticism. I watched the disc in the sun, a fiery gem describing a smooth, lengthy arc as it glided toward Jill. Golden hair flying, Jill dashed to her left a few yards and deftly caught the frisbee with one hand. With her lithe, powerful legs in action, she was like a springing panther. You could see her splendid grin as she hurled the frisbee back. 

Dave was shirtless, and his etched body shone. He moved quickly, with the flowing but vigorous steps of a linebacker. He called something out, then Jill slapped her thigh in delight. They could have been a choreographed pair of Olympians wowing the hell out of the judges.    

My eyes burned with emotion. What was most embarrassing about the whole damn thing was known only to me. My pained feelings as I watched Jill, as if she was betraying me. Last night, something must have clicked in my addled brain, slotting together fantasy and a perceived truth that Jill really liked me. Watching the two specimens frolic in the sun, I imagined a chorus jeering at my foolishness. I’d sooner rip out all my own teeth than have anybody know I felt like that. 

Something I’ve learned: It’s the secret embarrassments that damage the most. Because you know yourself, you can’t minimize them. Not even time will ease their wounds.     

I turned from the window and surveyed the sickening mess of my room. I needed cleansers from the utility closet down the hall. Soon I’d have to go out, be among people, my sorry state clinging to me like dirt. 

I shuffled to the door, grabbed the knob. Here we go again, I thought bravely.  

                                                                                              ---

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Some years later, I was at a hotel bar in a city near my old college. I was with some male work colleagues, watching them booze it up while I drank ginger ale, having quit the hard stuff. I hadn’t yet met my wife so I was avidly, but covertly, checking out women. Not that I’d be forward with any, but I wouldn’t have minded being approached, as unlikely as that was. Walking back from the john, I saw a woman with gleaming blond hair, and she looked familiar. I shuffled through my brain, and settled on Jill. As I continued to furtively examine her, she kept looking like Jill.

Well, how about that? Not that I was absolutely positive, as it had been about 10 years. But it sure looked like her.

I didn’t have the nerve to approach her directly, but I was curious as to whether she’d remember me. I decided on an experiment. I hung by the bar hoping she’d separate herself from her group. When she finally did, heading up an aisle between tables, I walked toward her.  

As I came closer, I noticed a violet-like sparkle in her eyes, which I seemingly recalled Jill had had. So I moved from 80 percent sure it was her to about 90. She wore pressed slacks and a light blue blouse with ruffles on the sleeves. Her hair was pulled back, and her skin still radiated a tan. 

I made myself stumble—I was an expert at stumbling—then I hopped closer as if regaining my balance. I was just a few feet away from her now, and I scanned those violet eyes—where one drunken night, I must’ve found hope. 

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman. “Sorry.”

She met my eyes and nodded. She breezed past, then all I had left of her was a wisp of stirred air and perfume that lingered briefly then faded like memory.  

I returned to my colleagues a couple of minutes later. I sat and gave them a broad smile. “Gentlemen,” I said. “I just met a lady—and I tell you, I still got it.”

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                                                                                                THE END

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