About Coming in Second (Part One)

Post 942:

Coming in Second: A Short Story (Part One)

            Grace Todd-Harper couldn’t believe how nervous she was. Everything was so perfectly glamorous. From the red carpet outside to the tastefully decorated foyer to the gorgeous sanctum of the Grand Bank Ballroom, it was breathtaking. Just breathtaking.

            Everything, perhaps, besides her husband. She clutched his thick hand as a legendary old man read with great effort from a teleprompter up and above their seats. Christopher whispered something in her ear she didn’t hear; the ringing of anticipation had full sway over her senses now.

            “The Clifton Sage World Humanitarian Award goes to: Seth Gilyard.”

            Stringed music swept over everything. Christopher lightened his grip on her hand and she pulled it away. Sweat was forming on her brow as she denied the results with her thoughts. Everyone in the crowd looked for Seth Gilyard, but they looked in vain. He wasn’t there. Instead, his face appeared on three big screens over the stage. The message was clearly prerecorded. He hadn’t even shaved. He hadn’t combed his hair. He wasn’t even forty years old.

            Gilyard said his thanks without passion, listing off some of the charitable things his foundation had been able to do around the world and how much it meant to him personally. It all came off as peremptory and void of passion.

            When the message wasn’t even finished, Grace Todd-Harper told Christopher that they were leaving. They’d do it in the break when milling around was at its peak so the majority of people wouldn’t notice. He said it might look bad. She told him that it couldn’t look any worse than it already did.

            The Clifton Sage World Humanitarian Award was the top of the hill. It had overtaken the Nobel Peace Prize. The Nobel people handed a few too many laurels to dictators and warmongers over the years and it had piled up. All the stylish papers and the important shows and internet personalities covered the Sage. It was a New York event. For one night a year, everything else was competing for second.

            Christopher tried talking to her in the limo. Her apathy toward him turned to rage with every one of his feeble attempts. At their building, she ordered him out and had the driver pull away before a protest could be lodged. “Take me to the Gilyard.”

            “Of course,” said the driver. At this time of night it wasn’t far but it gave her time enough for a few drinks. For the first time in years she was feeling a buzz radiating through her body.

            She laughed in the doorman’s face when he asked who she was and that he’d have to call up to ask Mr. Gilyard if it was “okay” to send her up. When he put down the phone and held out a hand toward the elevators, her face was pure contempt. She walked a semi-straight line and got in, calling the doorman “pathetic” and a “nobody” and even worse before the doors closed.

            When she knocked on the door, it was clear that Gilyard wasn’t alone. It sounded like a party. For a moment she was better. At least he was celebrating his victory. At least he was giving the Sage World Humanitarian Award its proper due.

            A pretty thing in her twenties answered the door wearing a shirt that seemed to bring attention to her lack of breasts. Grace Todd-Harper stifled a comment and asked to see Seth. There was awful music playing in the background, something wordless, like the score to a bad movie from the 80s.

            Seth came to the door and kissed the flat-chested girl, saying something in French before smiling at Grace Todd-Harper. “You look lovely, Grace. That is one heck of a dress.”

            “It’s a beautiful color for your skin,” said the girl, accent delicate and light as a feather.

            “That’s nice of you to say. I’m sorry to interrupt, Seth, but I was wondering if we could have a moment.”

            He yelled across the enormous penthouse for someone to turn down the music and led her down a winding staircase to what he called his office. It was simple, mostly white wood. He had a lot of pictures from his adventures around the world. She looked at them briefly but didn’t recognize anyone else of prominence and got bored. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, walking behind his desk to a small bar.

            “Bourbon.”

            “Good choice,” he said, turning around with two full glasses and a concerned smile. “Is everything okay?”

            “I see you’re celebrating.”

            He looked up and laughed lightly before sitting on his desk. “Oh, the people—we’re actually just doing a little thing for an old friend from the neighborhood. He got back from Afghanistan. Bit of a wild soldier, but a good man. We’re glad he’s home safe.”

            Whatever anger she’d let go was back twofold. This smiling prick with his jeans and shirt buttoned down so his chest hair could vent. He wasn’t proud. It was like she suspected. The Clifton Sage World Humanitarian Award meant nothing to him. He was more concerned with some fucking loser back from the fucking war. Still, the good papers would write stories about him. The best websites would put up pictures of him smiling and looking happy and humble. Some would mention how she lost. Most wouldn’t mention her at all. All the shit she did to earn that award. The shit countries and shit people she had to be around. Endless piles of shit.

            Gilyard set his drink down and leaned forward. “Grace, are you okay?”