There is a young woman in, say, Kansas, playing the lead in the local community theater production of "Our Town," and she has a fantasy all her own. It's snowing, or raining, or whatever the weather does in Kansas, and by an odd coincidence Steven Spielberg is passing through her small town, stranded and in need of a little evening entertainment. A star is born, and so on.
She's a stock character, this woman, in the drama of foolish dreams, along with the mailroom worker and garage band and salesman who writes at night. They dream long after their time is up, older and fatter and surrounded by kids and bills and weeds. A majority of men who played high school sports, a survey revealed, believe they could have made it in the pros if they'd just been given a chance. I coulda been a contender, Charlie.
I, of course, am immune from such fantasies, which didn't stop my heart from jumping a bit when my wife told me about the message on our answering machine. "Someone wants to give you an award," she said in an unbelieving tone, as if somebody had just offered me a job as a heart surgeon or a Chippendale's dancer. Twenty years of marriage can make a realist out of anyone but hey, it could happen, and by the way thanks for the support.
The message was muffled but I could make it out. Some guy in Washington, D.C. working for Tom DeLay and congressional Republicans was telling me I'd received a National Leadership Award, and they needed to talk to me about a press release. Call as soon as you get this message, etc.
Recognition is the phone call that never comes, and we get used to it and manage to survive, but here it was. I was finally being honored for all those years, all that effort, all that work I did on…national leadership, or something, and it was a proud moment. "You're not even a Republican," my wife said. "I TRANSCEND politics," I replied and played the message again.
I wasn't born yesterday, of course, and caution being the better part of valor (i.e., national leadership) I decided to consult Mr. Google first. Typing in "National Leadership Award" got me hundreds of entries, but refining the search a bit (Try this at home! It's fun! And educational!) by adding the words "Tom DeLay" I got my answer.
"ABC News: Questions About GOP Fundraising Tactics" was the very first site that popped up, but there were lots of them, telling the same story. It was the classic bait-and-switch: Small business owners are called and told they're being honored for service to their community, but in order to receive the award (and to receive access to important legislators) a small contribution of $350 or $500 is required to cover costs, etc.
Obviously it works to some extent, because my Internet search also came up with several newspaper articles about how so-and-so had been honored with a National Leadership Award by the Republican National Congressional Committee. Appealing to greed has always been a successful tactic for con artists of all sorts; vanity seems a promising target, too. So I guess Tom DeLay should be proud.
I was going to play the game, call them and listen to their pitch and them self-righteously denounce their deception and get some good quotes, etc. I just didn't have the stomach for it, and the ethics sort of bothered me. So for all I know, despite the articles that described almost word for word the message left on my answering machine, it could have been on the up and up. Maybe the RNCC really did want to honor me for running a small business that, by the way, at that point had been defunct for nearly two years. It could happen.
The scene in the taxi from "On The Waterfront" is one of the most famous in movie history, and when asked about it years later Marlon Brando shrugged it off. It was actor proof, he said, and I know what he means. The feeling that we could have been more successful, more famous, more honored, if only the breaks had gone our way or someone had recognized our talent must lie close to the surface in us, lurking behind the smile and apparent satisfaction with our lives.
I slunk back into the living room to tell my wife the bad news. It wasn't a surprise to her, of course. As I say, 20 years can make you a realist about your spouse. I was sort of moping, I guess, because she finally asked me what was wrong. I did my best Brando imitation. "Don't you see? I coulda been somebody…I coulda been a contender."
She patted me on the shoulder. "Of course you could have," she said, but, you know. In a nice way.
4:32:35 PM 
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