Such A Prestigious Award

Some people devote their lifetimes in pursuit of recognition of awards. But what happens when someone doesn't know which award they have won.

It was a day that began like any other day.  I woke up with a sore head, a throat like an ashtray, and an impending sense of shame about all of the things I hadn't done in my life.  I didn't open the curtains as it felt the easiest way to keep my world safe from the burden of existence.  I debated coffee and I won as the coffee couldn't come up with a convincing argument as to why the world is full of b******s.  The red light was blinking on my answer phone, its ominous wink serving as a warning that there was probably something important that I had forgotten.  I decided to forget what I had forgotten.

I stood in the darkness in my bedroom and cradled my coffee cup, a bitter cigarette hanging from my lips.  I watched her stretched out under my red velvet sheets.  Her makeup smudged on my pillow, a sticky bridge of saliva hanging from her lips.  I tried to remember her name but it wouldn't come.  I should have woken her really, but I decided to forego the awkwardness and head out for breakfast.

I opened my front door and the daylight blinded me, so I fumbled for my sunglasses.  I heard them before I saw them.  The flashes of the cameras greeted me as I bounced down my front steps.  Beside my gate was a group of people, presumably paparazzi.

"How do you feel?..."

"Are you proud?..."

"... such a prestigious award..."

Their voices stampeded over each other in a bid for my attention.  What award?  Why would I be getting an award?

"I'm..." my morning voice falted.  Could it be the Nobel Prize?  Finally recognition for all my years of heard work.  It couldn't be, I thought, as I had never worked hard a day in my life.  "I'm absolutely delighted.  I'd like to thank whoever nominated me.  It's great to be recognised," I said somewhat unsure myself.  The camera shutters silenced and the crown began to disburse.  

"Excuse me," I said to nobody in particular.  A feral looking man in a dirty jacket turned to look at me.  "What's the award for?

"You don't know?" he asked flashing me a smile of nicotine stained teeth.  I shook my head and he began to laugh.  "It's rear of the year."

"It's a what of the what?"

"Rear of the year.  It's an award for having the nicest bum."  He laughed heartily and kept shaking his head as he walked away.

The shock washed over me like the tide.  I stood still holding tight on to my gate.  It wasn't for working hard or an act of brilliance.  It wasn't for my athleticism or mental dexterity.  I felt something inside me snap as the realisation set in, that in thirty-two years on the planet the only award I had ever received was for being an arse.