Is it who you know?

I can tell you this. In my small town, the old adage ‘It is not what you know, but who you know that matters” certainly applies. And I would add to that “It’s not what you submit to local writing and art contests, but who you are related to that matters.” Regarding the latter, I think that Maggie Cutler submitted something from her daughter’s finger painting session in kindergarten in her winning entry this year. Mayor Cutler, one of the judges, must have liked her granddaughter’s artwork a lot, or at least liked her.

           Now, I am no artist, but I do feel that I have some ability as a writer. Every year for the last five years, I have submitted an entry in the annual short story contest.. Every time someone else won. Now I wouldn’t have minded that so much, but every year the winner was of the younger generation of Cutlers or Brewsters, you know of Brewster’s Manufacturing, the largest employer in town. The two families are quite close.

           So why am I entering the contest again this year, you might ask, when my chances of winning and being published in the local paper are slim, call it gossamer thin? Well, it gives me an opportunity and a reason to put together a story. Without contests such as this, I doubt whether I would write as often as I do. And once I have started writing, I enjoy the process so very much. 

           But I have another reason this year to enter the short story contest. There is the possibility of family influence in my favour for once. My brother Ralph, recently elected for the first time as a town councillor, is one of the judges. He is the only family I have left. My parents and two sisters all died 10 years ago in a horrible car crash. Both my parents were only children, no brothers or sisters. Ralph and I do not see each other often, deliberately at least, more than a few times every year. But he is still family. And that might just be in my favour on this occasion.

Discovery of Betrayal

I am now entering the town municipal building. I do shift work, so I get Fridays off. I need to obtain a license for my new dog Thelma, so she can be a ‘legal dog’ in town. I wonder whether I will see Ralph here. I am thinking that as long as I am here anyway, it might be a good idea to remind him of my familial existence while he is a judge in the short story contest. I License obtained, I walk over to where the councillors’ offices are. Brother Ralph isn’t in. But then I hear his voice, quite loud and clear, like a crow among sparrows. He is in a room across the hall. Nosy by nature, I cross the hallway to listen unobserved to what he is saying. Hearing such phrases as “boring in places”, and “too artsy-fartsy ”, I surmise that he might be talking about one of the entries in the contest. I hope that the writer is a Cutler or a Brewster.

Then there comes a shock. I distinctly hear him say, “my brother Steve”. He is talking about my story! And clearly he didn’t like it, and wants the other judges not to be too fond of it either. He has turned on me!

Well, you can pick your nose, you can pick your toppings for your takeaway pizza, but you can’t pick your family. What I thought might give me something of an advantage in the contest, has become a distinct disadvantage. Maybe sucking up to the Cutlers and Brewsters is on his personal agenda, more important than doing something good for his brother.

I get out of that place as fast as I can. I don’t want to hear the other judges agreeing with my traitorous brother Ralph. And I do not want any of them hear me scream. 

Walking and Thinking

I am fast pacing my way back home. I do my best thinking while I am walking, especially when it comes to thinking up plots for short stories. That is one of several reasons why I always need to have a dog to take for an early morning walk. Thelma has already been good for two stories. This time, my walking is getting me to ponder what is going on in my mind right now. Am I being a hypocrite in this? Here I am criticizing powerful families influencing the results of a contest, while at the same time wanting to have such influence working for me, and being disappointed when it does not. “Boo” when it unfairly works for other people, against me, but “Yeah” when it unfairly works for me against other people. Damn this self-reflection anyway! It just ruined a perfectly good feeling of being betrayed.

When I get home, I put her new licence tag on Thelma. I hitch her up to her leash and we head in the opposite direction of the municipal building. I do not want to see Ralph, or him to see me. Even though I know now that it was ‘wrong’ of me to hope to win the contest because of his influence, I am still angry that he criticized my work so harshly. That’s a reasonable emotion.

I come up with the idea of a story in which the villain is called ‘Ralph.’ Writing can be a form of relatively harmless revenge.

A Week Later

It’s now a week after the fateful day of hearing my brother’s criticism of my work. The winner is to be announced to the general public through its publication in the local paper. If you are one of those who didn’t win, you don’t hear back from the committee that does the judging, which is just as well. I just hope that the winner is not a Cutler or a Brewster.

           When Thelma and I get back from our walk, I see the newspaper on the front porch. I am in no hurry to see who the winner is, so I feed the dog, and then go for the paper.

           I pick up the paper and open it to the second page, where the winning entry is always printed. I decide to cover up the name of the winner, so that I can judge the work on its merits, and not get angry right away at the patronage that may or may not be involved. I read the opening words.

           “I was walking my dog Thelma, when I first saw it,…”