“And now, ladies and journalists, with no further ado, unnecessary adornment of other people’s resumes or the unavoidable ass kissing that invariably accompanies such events, it gives me indescribable pleasure and no less a feeling of moral superiority thinly disguised as propriety and décor appropriate to such and other ceremonies, to announce this year’s winner of the Mississippi Media Medal…”
A roar of applause fills the auditorium, its 20-odd collapsible wooden chairs trembling in the excitement of the moment.
Bret Boner, evening dressed to the occasion, casually untangles a clump of his eternally uncomfortable underwear and leans forward into stand-up mode a la old man.
“Hear, hear… Dear me… The man has done much indeed.”
The stage goes silent, hubbub fills the hall, and Boner freezes up mid-motion like a man caught taking a crap.
A middle-aged fellow of Mediterranean complexion takes command of the floor, his saffron yellow turban ablaze in the spotlight of the moment.
“I endorse all exclamations, thrust modesty aside,
For any delay of all due praise,
No honest man would abide.”
Stillness holds sway over the seating section, all eyes under the spell of the impromptu speaker. Boner unlocks his kneecaps, intending thereby to plop amiably back into his chair. But instead, he’s hamstrung into an intermediate position that one might not unreasonably liken to an angry tribesman preparing to launch into the final stage of a war dance.
“His pen is not a dagger,
But drips with poison prose,
And all who trample on freedom of speech
Are counted among his foes.”
Boner’s eyebrows go up and teeth bite down, but his back remains un-straightened. The Mediterranean fellow, by comparison, stands fully erect among those in attendance, with a slight orator’s arch to his back, one hand slicing the air with ease, the other at his side in repose.
“He burns the midnight oil.
To set the truth on fire,
For all to see and cheer in glee,
The man, the myth, the liar.”
Boner, helpless to stand, sit or stay where he is, opts for crashing onto the floor, come what may. But even in this, some might say desperate effort, he is one-upped by misfortune. For at the very moment he begins his descent into the arms, legs and laps of those presumably present to celebrate his craft, a chorus of unseemly sounds echoes from an unseen antechamber, breaking the trance of the unscheduled speaker while simultaneously muffling the clamor created by the hapless wordsmith’s fall.
It’s the squeal of a pig, no, the grunt of a hog, civility itself under attack in some dark corner, no doubt.
The award ceremony continues apace, but now a carefully bearded youth in flak jacket and freshly pressed camouflage trousers has taken a stand. He reads from his field pad, a pencil neatly tucked behind the ear.
“You celebrate a man, you say,
An editor-in-chief who saved the day.
But I, no more than a boy in my way,
The war came to me… The war came to me.”
Once again the crowd is stirred, with ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ the rows of chairs do sway. One man tilts back in his seat as if riding a rocker, only to come down extra hard on Boner’s unsuspecting head. It’s like a sea of legs, some panted, some hosed, all kicking and bumping or digging into his back, neck and ribcage. His eyes howl in pain, his fingers clutch for safety, but the high heels are merciless, the rubber soles relentless.
“By all means honor redaction.
Give headlines and cut lines their due.
But remember the darling of trenches and action.
The war came to me, the war came to me.”
Steady on there, Boner, got to get to your feet. It’s a war up there, so no playing the hero. Just grab that guy’s seat in front of you and push that bitch’s legs to one side. That’s it, now pull yourself up slowly – don’t take any chances and keep your head down. But all this self-imposed instruction under the worst conditions of combat is alas all given in vain. A knee, indeed, followed by an elbow or two in tandem from more than one position, sends the battle-hardened press veteran back face first into the floor.
“I heeded the call of the Peace Corps,
Then found my fate on Maidan,
The Paper, then YouTube, ugly duckling turned swan.
The war came to me – I tell you – the war came to me.”
More roar of applause – to the further physical detriment of Boner – and the ceremony begins to wind down.
‘Now where is that woman of mine,’ thinks Rico Soiree, finger soothing an itch under his turban.
Christopher Millhouse, alias Havana Hat Boy, alias G.Q. Joe of Mashed Potatoes Online, quickly takes up a battle crouch ahead of the retreating crowd, shooting selfies from his cellphone in various action poses.
Boner soon finds himself being hoisted up by his suspenders and carried off to a couch to recover. He’s presented with the Mississippi Medal while still supine. A passerby pats him on the shoulder on the way to the refreshment area.
Soiree decides to check the Men’s Room, ‘salacious old tart that she is.’
And to his great wonder, he’s met there by a large loveable Negro who relates the following tale:
“Now them there country boys took a likin’ to Misser Losser – must a seen him a fussin’ over the table with those book jackets in those stretchy band trousers for older men. All purdy and pink he mussa looked to them boys, I imagine. Can’t say I didn’t notice him myself, primpin’ up them book jackets with the color photograph of hisself in plain sight. So he comes a-runnin’ in here. And ‘fore I know, he’s a-squealin’ like a pig, and them gruntin’ like hogs and all. Nope I didn’t call no police. Yep, it was me that shut the door to muffle the yellin’. Miss Mustard? She’s drunk in the lobby with her legs all open and uninviting.”
Filed February 22, 2015