This wasn't going to be easy. Rimmer had been dreading the conversation for months, each day's stress adding a little more to the bubbling in his stomach and the tension in his back. But it had to be done. Would Napoleon have put this off? Or Alexander the Great? Of course not. Then again, they would never have had this problem in the first place; they were men of action. And what was he? Bonehead. Smeghead. Loser. Gitface. Disappointment….
He stepped into the phone booth and dialed the number on his calling card, followed by his parents' number. As it rang, Rimmer felt his mouth go dry. Maybe they wouldn't be home, wouldn't answer….
"What do you want, Arnie?" a shrill voice demanded. "If it's about your toy soldiers, I already told you, we aren't sending them. You can play with them over holiday."
"Replica soldiers," he corrected automatically. "And it's not about that…"
"You shouldn't be playing anyway. It's a waste of time. Idiotic hobby. You should be spending your time studying for the officer's exam. When Frank was your age…"
When Frank was your age, he was already an officer. When Frank was your age, he had the perfect wife. When Frank was your age, they were talking about making him a saint, even though Seventh Day Adventist Hoppists had never had saints before…
"Mum," Rimmer interrupted as forcefully as he could. "I told you this isn't about the soldiers. I need to talk to Father."
"He's watching the game. Is it important?"
"Yes, actually it is," Rimmer said before the rational part of his mind could chicken out, equivocate, or generally apologize for being such a bother.
"Well then." His mother gave a long-suffering sigh. "I'll fetch him straight away."
Rimmer tried to call out to stop her, but she was already gone, and before he could screw up the nerve to hang up, his father's gruff voice was on the other end.
"Make this quick," he said. "Manchester's getting their bollocks fed to them, and I don't like to miss that."
"No. Right. I'm sorry. It's no—it's nothing. Sorry. Never mind."
"You need some money?" his father asked. "I'll have your mother send you a cheque."
"No, actually…" Rimmer hesitated. In fact, he was so tight-fisted that he made Ebenezer Scrooge look like a spendthrift, but this would be an excellent way to stall. Also, with the extra money, he could buy a ticket to Brazil and avoid the fallout. Or at least get some cyanide capsules.
"Nonsense," his father said. "I know how expensive the Academy can be. Especially if you're training to be an officer. We'll take out a second mortgage for bribe money. You have to make friends with the right people, you know."
Rimmer let his head thud against the glass of the phone booth. He couldn't let them do that, especially since… But how could he let them down? He couldn't… he couldn't do anything right.
His father continued on glibly. "It's a worthy investment. An investment in your future. You can pay us back when you're Captain Arnold Rimmer, eh?"
"I'm never going to be a captain," Rimmer blurted out.
"Of course not. Not with an attitude like that. But if you work hard and overcome—"
"No, you don't understand." Rimmer took a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to keep his hands and voice from shaking. "I'm not going to be an officer at all. I'm dropping out of the Academy."
"What?" His father's voice cracked.
"I know how much you wanted me to be an officer. And I know… I know you're disappointed. But I can't do it. I can't." Rimmer's breath caught in his throat, and he couldn't speak without sobbing. "I haven't got any talent for leadership. I'm useless at making quick decisions. And I'm 110 percent hopeless at astronavigation. No matter how hard I try, I'm never going to be Patton, or MacArthur, or even Jean-Luc Picard. I'm no one. I'm a failure."
Hot, salty tears stung at his eyes. He leaned against the wall of the phone booth, trying to control his shaking and sobbing. This was just splendid—anyone walking by would be able to see him having a mental breakdown. He'd become blind and epileptic and a shell of his former self, forced to panhandle on the street, and he probably wouldn't even be successful at that. But at least he'd die quickly. Not that that made him feel much better.
"Arnold…" His father's voice sounded tired and suddenly very old. "If anyone's the failure, it's me. I never became an officer either, and I didn't want you to lose your dream the way I did. So I pushed you, trained you, quizzed you, stretched you out on racks so you'd be taller… I shaped you like putty to fit into the mold of my dream. I think deep down I knew you wouldn't fit. It wasn't fair to you. I'm so sorry…."
"Father?" Rimmer wasn't sure, but he thought he heard his father sniffling. Then again, it was hay fever season. That was why he was crying too, of course; he had forgotten how bad his allergies could get.
"So what are you going to do now, Arnold?" his father asked. "Is there anything left of you that I haven't destroyed or bent hopelessly out of shape? Is it too late for you to have a dream of your own?"
"Well…" Rimmer wiped his hand across his eyes. "I still like studying tactics, maps, battles, history… I've applied to a few universities in history. I don't think I'll get in, but…"
"You'll get in," his father said. "And if you don't, we'll get you the bribe money."
Rimmer laughed in spite of himself. "Thank you."
"Arnold?" his father said. "I know this wasn't easy for you, and I just want you to know… I'm proud of you."
In that moment, Rimmer felt as though he could conquer more of the world than Alexander the Great and Napoleon ever dreamed of.