Story a Day

There is almost no point in writing about this, since by tonight she will have won by default. Winning was to be my ticket out of this town, my passport to fame and fortune and world-famous conservatories. Now all I have is the private knowledge that I was the best. She will get all the glory and prize money, the world tour.

And I would have won, too. I know because I got the letter saying so.

That day I stayed home from work, because I had the flu. I had spent all night and most of the morning puking up celery and egg noodles from last night’s chicken soup, and then dry-heaving. I couldn’t even keep water down until noon. But it was uphill from there: after a glass of water stayed down for an hour, I tried grape juice and soda crackers. By afternoon, I was crunching down toast with peanut butter and feeling fine. I was still a little shaky, but the fever and the nausea had subsided. I was sure I could go to work the next day.

Around four in the afternoon, I could hear the mailman opening the squeaky mailboxes to my apartment complex. After the usual series of squeaks, I heard his shoes tromp away down the gravel path. I stepped into my slippers, which were soft fabric loafers with plastic, treaded soles. I went up to my mailbox, wondering if my letter would finally come. At this point, it was late.

I opened the mailbox for my apartment. It was completely filled by a large bundle of letters, rubber-banded, with a laser-printed receipt on the top.

HELD MAIL, it said. ANGELA LAMBIC. JULY 15TH, 2008 THROUGH AUGUST 1ST, 2008.

Held mail? I hadn’t requested a mail hold.

I shuffled back into the apartment in my robe and slippers, clutching the heavy bundle. Thinking back, I realized I hadn’t gotten any mail for over a week. I hardly get any mail anyway, since I do most of my business and social chatting over phone and email. Plus, the past week, I had been so busy with voice lessons and training the new guy at work, I hadn’t had a chance to think about my missing mail.

I slipped off the rubber bands and went through the stack. There, among the usual advertisements and coupons, and a magazine or two, was a letter from the American Soprano of the Year competition. I tore it open.

July 13, 2008

Dear Ms. Lambic,

It is with supreme pleasure that I congratulate you on winning first place in the American Soprano of the Year competition. Your vocal technique, discipline, and obvious natural talent will soon be an inspiration to audiences everywhere.

This year, the American Soprano of the Year competition hosted more than 10,000 competitors. The 2008 application pool was more talented than any in my memory. After extensive deliberation the judges have determined that your performance showed more confidence, technical prowess, and heartfelt emotion than any of the other ten thousand sopranos.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience at 1-800-—. I look forward to going over the details of your solo world tour with our symphony orchestra, as well as the presentation of your trophy and cash prize. Preparations for the tour are scheduled to begin on August 1st, so please contact me before July 20th. If for any reason you are unable to perform in the tour, or if I do not hear from you before the 20th, the prize will go to the first runner-up in the competition, Ms. Jennifer Stockhill of Indianapolis.

With warm regards,

Aimee Addams

Chair, Board of Directors

American Soprano of the Year

It was pretty easy to deduce what had happened. The runner up, Jennifer Stockhill, had gotten a letter letting her know that in the event I couldn’t collect the prize, it would go to her. Taking advantage of the competition’s somewhat backward practice of relying on snail mail for correspondence, Stockhill looked up my address, called the postal service, and asked them to hold my mail. When I didn’t call to collect my prize, it went to Stockhill. Now that it was too late, and the world tour was already in rehearsal, I was officially out of the running. It was classic deception.

I called the number on the letter, of course. The voice answering was icy.

“I’d like to speak to Ms. Addams, please.”

“Oh? And who may I say is calling?”

“This is Angela Lambic.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Addams is unavailable. She and the competition winner are in rehearsal. Perhaps you should have called a week ago.”

“But someone had my mail held. I just found out I won.”

“Well, maybe you should have been more on top of things. Didn’t you wonder why you weren’t getting mail?”

She had me there. Bitterly disappointed, I hung up the phone. For a minute, I felt like puking up my peanut butter and grape juice, but then it stayed down after all.

image: droob on flickr