Fart Memory

I remember the most embarrassing fart I’ve ever experienced in public. Luckily, I was just a witness to the exhibition. Protected by the anonymity of a group. We were all young, year 4, junior school. It was story time, and so we had gathered before our teacher: him on a chair, us on the floor.

It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.

He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.

All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.

It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?