Boston Globe who wanted me to call, win, lose or draw, or if somehow the foundation had made a mistake by listing me as one of the finalists. I won’t read it now, self-ridiculingly funny as it might possibly be, because it’d be too absurd to,” and someone shouts “Go, read it,” and he says “No, thanks but no, I’d rather fail at extemporization than at preparedness,” and some people laugh and applaud. “Does that mean I’m through or should be? Anyway, before I go let me just give my thanks. I know I’m only supposed to have five minutes to speak, and I’ve already blown a couple of them. So my deepest thanks to my wife, my kids, my mother for her encouragement, my father, may he rest in peace, for giving me the necessary discouragement I think every writer needs to keep him going with his work, and also a sense of humor and lots of stories. My mother again for encouraging me to read, for knowing all the words when I didn’t, and during my early writing years and later ones too — I just didn’t want to give my dad more praise than her, in what I said before — for never giving up on me, always encouraging. And the publisher, of course, Lawrence Terngull, and my editor, Sissie Lassner — please, she should take a bow. Without her I doubt the book would have been published and she even designed the cover and did the layout and everything like that. She’s at my table; please, if you could get the light on her,” and a spotlight finds the table, there’s applause, she stands, waves, blows a kiss to him with both hands. “And Jeffrey Baker for loaning me his tux, Pic ’N Pay, or is it Pick and Pay? for having black dress shoes for twelve bucks, which I’ll probably only wear this one time in my life. And finally the, well, my wife Jane again, though I could never say enough about her, all of it nice. And I said the publisher, but for backing this agentless worstselling author and especially in so large and expensive a book to produce. And the typesetters or printers or whatever they are and also the copyreader and proofreader for having to deal with those endless paragraphs and oddly constructed sentences and intentional misspellings and such. And finally the judges, the foundation, all of you for coming here, and the manual typewriter, erasable paper and pencil eraser, and Mr. Cavalieri, the one person in Boston who’s still able to fix my aging typewriter and find the parts. Thank you, I’m so happy I can’t tell you how much,” and steps back from the podium, is applauded, shakes hands with the four people on stage, “Very nice,” “Very natural,” “A shot in the arm to all of us,” “Congratulations again, Robert,” leaves. As he’s going down the steps he thinks why didn’t he can all that thanks crap and mention that writer who’s in hiding because of the Iranian death threat he’s under for his book? Just to say “Don’t forget, besides the monstrous horror against him, it’s also an abomination against all culture and civilization, we should do something about it, all we can, keep writing and speaking out and using whatever power we have and getting literary and all those kinds of organizations here to do the same thing against it and in every way possible pressure our government to do something, like a complete trade embargo and economic sanctions against Iran, if they’re not the same thing, and other people and organizations of other countries to pressure their governments and labor unions and such and pressure the UN also till the sentence is lifted and the guy can do what the hell he wants with his life, like walk along the street again with his kid without thinking he’s going to get stabbed or shot and the kid too,” is escorted by the same young women to his table, back patted, slapped, arms squeezed, “Damn,” he thinks, “that’s what I should have said, plus a few quick start-off thanks, instead of rattling on so foolishly and self-depreciatively, what a chance, what a dud,” hands grabbed and shaked till one time he almost drops the statuette, good, who needs the stupid ugly thing, and where’s he going to put it anyway except in some out-of-the-way storage place so he can never see it again? Someone pops up in front of him, blocking his way, and says “Mind signing your book, Mr. Bermmeister? It’ll take a second,” and holds out the book and a pen and he says “You bet, and thanks for buying it,” and the man says “You’re welcome — actually, I didn’t buy it, it was a book trade between your house and mine — we fielded one of the other finalists, Buckley’s Ye Who Enter Here,” and he says “Looks like my house got the best of the deal, since that was some book,” and the man says “I’m not taking sides in this,” and Rob signs his name and then says “Oops, I forgot to ask to whom,” and the man says “Sally, and the date if you don’t mind — November 28th,” and he writes above his name “To Sally, via the fella who gave me the book to sign for you, best and thanx,” and puts the date after his name and someone says “What’re you doing, Robert, writing a short story?” and he says “Just an appreciative inscription — I at first thought he bought this too-expensive book — I’m only kidding,” he says to the man and hands him the book back, gets to his table. “I hope he wasn’t offended,” he thinks. Spotlight’s on the table, people crowded around, most of them reporters and photographers, judging by their equipment and clothes. “So how do you feel, Mr. Bermmeister?” one asks, and he says “Feel? Just great, what do you think? Great. Totally unexpected, winning it. What a bunch of writers to beat out. I mean, they’re not really beat out. Their books are there to be read and revered—reveered, how do you say the bloody word? — for a long time, and it might take them a little longer, maybe because they’re more complex, before they surpass my book’s recognition. But my head’s still swimming from the surprise and excitement of the announcement, so if you don’t mind, nothing more than what I said up there till my head’s cleared.” He sits. “Oh boy,” he says low to his wife, taking her hand and kissing it, cameras click, “this is too much — am I sure my fly’s zipped up, I don’t have drool on my lips? — I need a drink,” and she hands him his glass, “I don’t know why I didn’t think I could get it myself,” and she says while he’s drinking “Go easy for now, and listen, get used to this, and tonight’s attention will probably be the worst,” main course is on all the surrounding tables and is now put before them, he’s hungry and picks up his knife and fork when a reporter asks “What do you think of the food, Robert — taste any better now that you’ve won?” and he says “Food? Who can eat? And again, I’m so nervous and excited I’m afraid it’ll go in my lap, ruining Jeffrey Baker’s new tux and costing me a fortune to clean it or replace. He’s a writer, by the way, who lives down the street from me,” and a woman says “Mr. Bermmeister, sorry to interrupt your meal, though the kitchen will keep your plate warm — and all you newspeople if you wish — would you come to the Louis the Fourteenth room for a brief press conference?” and he says “Sure thing, I guess,” stands, whispers to his wife “Where you think the losers go, the Sixteenth?” kisses her, then whispers “It is Louis Seize who got his head chopped off, in case I gotta make a joke, right?” and she nods, he follows the woman, in the corridor outside the ballroom he sees Pond from a distance and shouts “Pond, Lemuel, hi, it’s me, I’m sorry, and I meant every word I said about you up there — you know — the rest of you and especially you,” reporters take this down, he says to the one closest “Oh Christ, look at me, how does anyone like me win such an award? I can’t even speak,” and Pond waves without smiling, it seems, though he can’t really tell because of his big beard, and goes into, he sees when the door opens, the men’s room. “Doesn’t look happy, I don’t think,” he says to the AFF woman. “Well, why would he be? I doubt I would be too.” Goes into the Louis Quatorze room. TV lights go on when they enter. Two cameras, few microphones on a lectern, reporters, maybe twenty of them, and the AFF woman points to where he’s supposed to stand and says “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Bermmeister,” and he says “Heilo, thanks for being here, I hope I haven’t disturbed your meal. Well, I’m ready for whatever from you, not that anything I say here will be the last word, meaning, that I really, in all this excitement again, haven’t the wherewithal — not that, but the intelligence, the thinking cap—