Careful What You Wish 4

Saralee Perel

careful what you wish for

Unfortunately, I recently won an award from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. My husband Bob asked excitedly, “What will you say in your thank-you speech?”

My anxiety soared. “Say? As in opening my mouth to form words?”

“Of course. At the awards dinner in New Orleans.”

“No way. There could be thousands of people!”

That night I had a nightmare. I was walking to the podium – naked. I woke up sweating, then went back to the dream. Attendees were in large round banquet tables, staring at me in disbelief. This time I had clothes on – a gorilla suit.

Bob was behind the side curtain. The director introduced me, then pointed to the microphone on the podium. My speech was on a teleprompter. I couldn’t read it. So I had to wing it. For a long time, I could not think of one word to say.

People began reading novels. Others were staring at the ceiling while picking their teeth with the corners of their cocktail napkins.

Beforehand, I had downed a handful of Valium – not knowing a thing about this medicine. That wasn’t smart. I began, “I’d like to thank – ” My head went face down on the podium, where it stayed. The Dixieland Band quickly started up. “Oh when the saints,” their soloist belted out, “go marching in,” as Bob rushed over with iced coffee. “Bob? There are two of you. And you’re both keeping perfect time to the music!”

“Honey, pull yourself together.”

“I will. Just one second.” My head went smashing back down.

The director brought a big plate of Cajun shrimp. “Eat!” she said.

When I told her, “A shrimp is like a cicada. They’re bugs,” I threw up behind the podium.

“I’m fine now,” I kidded myself. Bob knew I was still under the influence of Valium and lunacy.

Everything seemed so vital in my intoxicated state. Instead of actually singing a popular New Orleans song, I wanted to convey the deep message behind it, so I slowly stated the profound words, “Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh – ” The audience stood up and applauded. They couldn’t be thinking “me gotta go” meant I was actually leaving . . . could they? No way.

So buoyed by their ovation, I continued. I forgot some words, so I fudged them. In fact, that enhanced the song’s philosophical significance.

Like a powerful performance by Billy Graham, I proclaimed, “Jambalaya and a-crawfish pie-a!” I let the poignancy sink in. Then solemnly I said, “And some pickled pork-o.” Bob was looking up with a, “Heaven help me,” expression. So was the director. Because of the emotional depth of the song (and the Valium’s effects), I began crying. I put my hands over my heart. “The words ‘pickled pork-o’ really speak to me.” I looked at the audience.

Attendees were asleep in their gumbo.

“Son of a gun,” I declared. “We’re gonna have big fun.” Then I bellowed, “On the bayou!”

Bob shook me out of the dream. “You’re having a nightmare.”

“It was awful. I dreamed I gave a disastrous speech after winning some award.”

“Well, honey, you did win. Remember?”

Suddenly I remembered. “Bob! Get me out of this. Tell them I have a dentist appointment. Tell them I have fleas. Tell them I have Foot Stuck in Mouth disease. Tell them I’m dead!”

“Why don’t I tell them you’re a lunatic?”

“They’ll never believe that. They all know me really well.”

He left the room and made the phone call. I asked what happened.

“I told them the truth.”

“That I was too scared?” He nodded his head.

“Oh no. What did they say?”

“They were ecstatic. I heard cheering in the background. They said, ‘Every year she doesn’t win, she demands a recount. She’s nuts. She’s crazy. The woman is out of her mind!’”

I felt such relief. Bob said, “You’re OK with that?”

“I’m thrilled. At least they don’t think I’m a lunatic.”

And so, if I win next year, I’m going to face my fear and give a speech. What’s the worst that can happen?