The tinkling bell above the door announced our entry into this English village pub, causing the regulars at the bar to reflexively glance in that direction, the glance turning into a gaze, taking in these four decidedly non-locals filing into their domain.
We were at the halfway point in our weeklong cruise on the Thames and had moored our rented 32-foot cabin cruiser along the riverbank, planning to reverse course and head back downstream the next morning. The crew consisted of three close friends and me, middle aged men commemorating my decade-turning birthday. We walked up into the village in search of a pub, because, hey, it was 4:00 in the afternoon, and we weren’t setting sail until morning!
We had entered the John Barleycorn, which like many British pubs, offers several rooms in which to imbibe a pint – the front bar, back bar, and various other rooms. We walked self-consciously through the front area, passing a number of stubbly men hunched over their beers and two guys in wheelchairs, one of whom circled around a pool table, shooting a game with a young girl who looked to be around ten or eleven.
We ordered beers at the bar and then found an unoccupied sitting area in the back, furnished with various settees and easy chairs and worn rugs under foot. We settled onto two couches, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the small windows. No sooner had we relaxed and taken a first sip of our beers, when a woman appeared in the doorway and enthusiastically said “Hello, friends!” She was of indeterminate age and carried a small dog of indeterminate breed. She could have been thirty, or maybe fifty, but I guessed around the midpoint of that range.
Now, a word about my dearest friends who were with me in this moment: Several of them – OK, all three – are natural conversationalists and “interviewers” – gregarious and naturally curious, easily and eagerly engaging complete strangers in conversation. This trait in and of itself is not a problem, as long as it is tempered by some sort of Internal Warning System: “Caution! Abort questioning! You are entering a Dysfunctional Zone!” There was something about this woman that triggered my alarm almost immediately, but these three forged ahead in tag team fashion, asking question after question, encouraging her to continue talking. The first warning sign: As she talked, she went to each of us in turn and thrust the dog into our laps, enthusiastically motioning us to take photos each time. This poor dog had the sad, passive look of a creature who was resigned to its lot in life – or maybe it was pleading, “Please, help me!”
At last, she got to my brother-in-law Greg, at that time a prominent pastor, and, rather than putting poochie in his lap, the spirit moved her to jump into his lap herself, clutching the dog and inviting us to take a picture. (I have the only existing copy of that out-of-focus photo, which I’m hoping will help fund my retirement.)
I forget all the particulars, but she rambled on about how she was a dance teacher and singing coach, and I seem to remember something about her claiming to be a professional actress in Spain some years ago; but she was now the coach for a talented young lady who was soon to compete in the “Has Reading Got Talent?” TV show competition, coming up in Reading, UK. She wondered, would we like to see the young lady’s act? Would you believe, she was actually present at that very moment in the pub! As we hemmed and hawed, she scurried off through the pub, returning in a minute dragging her protégé – the girl who had been shooting pool in the front room! She also carried a small cheap boombox that she evidently had stashed somewhere.
The Performance
She introduces this poor girl, who stares nervously at the ground in the presence of this captive audience of four complete adult strangers. The women enthusiastically whispers to her, pumping her up for her performance. She places the girl center stage in front of us and pushes the Play button, turns up the volume, and the tinny soundtrack starts: “Almost Paradise”, the theme song from the movie Footloose.
As the girl starts to sing, the two men in wheelchairs materialize in our back room, and the women whispers to me that one of them is the girl’s father. The future superstar dutifully sings, dramatically and off-key, with her mentor swaying and clapping along. When the woman makes eye contact with any one of us, she grins and tilts her head vigorously toward the girl, as if to say, “Isn’t she amazing?”
Oh, almost paradise
We’re knockin’ on heaven’s door
Almost paradise
How could we ask for more?
I swear that I can see forever in your eyes
Paradise
Just when it seems that it cannot get any more cringeworthy, the song reaches its instrumental interlude, and as the woman traces the rehearsed movements in the air like a marionette puppeteer, the girl twirls stiffly, arms akimbo, in what I assume is meant to be some sort of dance move. An eternity later (60 seconds), the routine is over, and the woman leads us in an enthusiastic round of applause. The girl hurriedly exits stage right, followed by her rolling fan club.
As I search my memory for what happened after the performance, I come up blank. I would guess that I encouraged my mates to hurriedly finish their beers, lest they prolong the interaction with our barmy new friend. The next thing I remember is that we were safely back on the boat for the evening.
The next day, as we motored downstream on the Thames, we once again passed through Reading. As I gazed at the buildings along the bank, I thought to myself, “God, I hope Reading’s Got Talent.”
