I know what will happen if I ever write the Great American Novel and win the Nobel Prize for Literature or its equivalent. I know what will happen if my work is acclaimed and recognized.
I will step up to the stage and accept the reward, hold it in my hands and look at it, and then look out over the vast throng of well wishers.
And I will say, “Fooled you. I am a fraud. I am not the man you think I am.”
But I will step down from the stage and cling to the award with all my heart and soul.
We all suspect that we are imposters just waiting to be found out. I won’t tell if you won’t.
I stayed up Wednesday night missing Red, watching TV, and playing computer solitaire while waiting to see if I had won $1 billion. The numbers were drawn, and what do you know, the 292 million to 1 odds did not shine in my favor.
I went back to missing Red, and I realized that I have already won the lottery once in this lifetime, so I shouldn’t be greedy.
Twenty-six years with this sweet, smart and compassionate woman are worth more than a billion dollars anyway.
“Well, look here,” said the bully with an expectant grin, “a clean sheet of paper, so pretty and so fresh.”
“Please,” said the page, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?!” the bully said, mock indignantly. “Why would you think I want trouble?”
“I know your kind,” said the page, “all full of sarcasm and ill intentions.”
“Oh, come on,” the bully cooed. “I just want a little taste —”
“You wish to defile me,” said the page. “The intentions are written all over your face.”
“If by ‘defile’ you mean I want to run my fingers over your pure, smooth surface and leave words of love and primal joy in a passionate frenzy,” the bully murmured, “well, then, yes, yes, I surely do intend to defile you.”
“Oh, my!”
“Oh, my, indeed,” said the bully, and he began to write.
And when he was spent, he brushed his fingers over what he had written, and if it was not good, at least it wasn’t bad.
“You should not have done that,” the page hissed.
At this the bully dropped his facade. “I was just play-acting, lovely page,” he cooed, sincerely this time. “If I had and idea you didn’t want me to —”
And now the page laughed. “I know, you silly. Two can play that game; in fact, one needs two to, well, tango. Now come here and run your hands over me — oh yeah, like that, that’s it —”
“Oh, yes,” said the bully.
And then the page struck.
“Ouch!” the bully said, pulling his hand back in pain. “What did you do THAT for?”
