Lifetime Achievement
This is a writing experiment: I wanted to try writing something in the Second Person, as people hardly ever use it in writing. Feedback encouraged — and let me know whether you saw the twist coming. (I'm hoping you have to read this twice to get the full effect)
Lifetime Achievement
This is it. Your big day. And God knows, it’s taken you a lifetime to get here.
The audience shuffle in and take their seats; it’s not as glamorous as you’d imagined, but at least there are enough chairs. People are chatting excitedly; that’s a good sign — you can tell they’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. And what are those things they’re all carrying? They look like pamphlets... with your name on! Fantastic. They spelt your surname wrong, and you middle name isn’t Steve, but that’s okay — your fans will know that.
You steal a quick glance at the front row before the ceremony starts, and can’t remember the last time you saw the family dressed so smartly; they look so out of place at such a prestigious black-tie event that it takes you a moment to tell who’s who. And it’s not just the immediate family, oh no, this is the entire family: the obscure great-aunts and second-cousins whose presences are normally kept reserved for gold and silver anniversaries, or the off-chance you marry into royalty. Damn, you feel important. You see a tear in your mother’s eye — she must be so proud of you.
Once seats have been taken and the noise has settled, a heaving giant of a man lurches forward from the crowd and, with tremendous difficulty, embarks on an epic journey up the three steps leading on to the stage. It takes him a good five minutes, but eventually he reaches the microphone stand and immediately clings to it for support. Judging by his size and the immense difficulty he has climbing steps, you wager his weight to be somewhere in the region of thirty-stone. He is red of face, sweating profusely and, presumably, the one giving the introductory speech. Oh unfathomable joy. He inhales deeply — a task which obviously causes him great discomfort — and attempts to start the ceremony.
“...Ladies...” he manages, in-between breaths, “...and gents.”
He pauses briefly, both to catch his breath and to simper triumphantly at having completed a sentence.
“We are all here today to com-” he breaks to wipe the deluge of sweat cascading down his glistening head and onto his previously white collar, and in so doing reveals unwelcome evidence of an armpit that is, for lack of a kinder word, soggy. A few eyebrows narrow, and a group near the window shoot accusing glances at the organiser, who shrugs uselessly and sinks in his seat.
You wait behind the curtain with gritted teeth. You admit the budget wasn’t that extravagant, but where did they get this guy?? He looks ready to drop down dead from a heart attack! Doing your best to contain your patience, you keep your eyes closed and clench your fists tightly. You won't move a muscle until you hear your name. This is your day and no embarrassing oaf is going to ruin that.
You begin to think he’ll wrestle with his diaphragm all day when his voice drops to a murmur, his hand crosses his chest in an American flag salute, and he begins to quietly hum a single note.
“Is he American?” a few people wonder quietly. It would certainly explain the weight. His face contorts a little. He goes blue. No, wait, he’s having a heart attack. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.
Clutching his heart with one hand and the stand in the other, the unspeaking spokesman sways unsteadily for a moment, then collapses backwards into an amplifier, bringing the stand and any remaining shreds of dignity with him.
The wail of interference emanating from the speakers, one of which now has a microphone embedded in it, either sends people reeling or has them trying to cram their fists in their ears. By the time someone actually observes “He’s dead!” half the hall is deaf.
After the ambulance has left, along with a few members of the audience, the day continues as planned only without a spokesperson. Instead, members of the crowd who feel they know you well enough take it in turns to say a little something about you. Obviously the average audience member could never hope to comprehend your intellect, so under normal circumstances it would be a terrible idea, but considering the microphone is broken and the audience are deaf, it doesn’t really matter. You’re growing impatient. It must be nearly time now.
Music starts to play. This is it — you’re up! The curtains open.
Someone’s phone goes off. They answer it.
It’s Chris Tarrant.
You just, sort of, wait patiently on the stage and pretend to be as thrilled as everyone else about this prat who clearly can’t understand the concept of ‘silent mode’. When the excitement — which culminates in a TV being brought in to see if the show is going out live — and subsequent discussion (it was C: Ericaceous) eventually dies down, the same bright spark who spotted the dead guy announces that the curtains are open. People shut up. Finally.
And this is it. It’s you. You’re onstage and, at long-last, getting the attention you both crave and deserve. It’s taken you a long time, but you’re here now: no more scrawny, dateless, last-kid-picked-in-gym, never-earned-more-than-minimum-wage loser; this is it. You’re the man now. You’re going to make a difference, and today everyone had better remember it. Today they all have no choice but to focus on you.
A fat child clambers up onstage in search of a promised buffet, and stops briefly to stare at you. As his mother bends down to grab him, she eyes you unusually before spinning sharply around and whispering to her husband: “Who’s that?” The husband leans over and peers at you for a moment, then with all the subtlety of an undomesticated rhinoceros, announces: “Caroline, we’re at the wrong funeral.”
Groans emanate from the crowd of mourners, and you’re about to beam with joy at how offended they are when they all grab their coats and leave. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but half of them were family. Still, at least your mother loves you, even if she is sitting at the back watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
When all is said and done, which doesn’t take long, the remnants of the congregation begin the march. The CD doesn’t work, so they substitute Lover, You Should’ve Come Over with What’s That Coming Over the Hill, is it a Monster? They say you wouldn’t mind.
Nobody bothers to drive to the crematorium, but don’t be disheartened: the world isn’t finished with you yet. You walk through fire. You change shape, become light as the air, and now, in your finest hour, you fly: you rise up above the trees, and as you approach the heavens you climb aboard the wind and ride it into eternity. You swoop majestically up, up into the air and in a glorious, twirling cloud of posthumous dustiness, come crashing down to earth as the breeze changes direction. And, in the most impact you’ll ever have on the world, you clog a drain: causing minor flooding, and creating a stagnant puddle that lasts well into the afternoon.
You’ve finally made a difference.
Amen.
Image: http://sizzlingbanana.wordpress.com/
1 Comment – Postiwch sylw
Pasternak
Rhoddwyd sylw 69 mis yn ôl - 4th September 2010 - 22:37pm
Thanks guys! :)