I pride myself in being brilliant yet modest. That’s why I surprised myself when, on my ride home, I thought:
Tonight I’d really like to dress up, go to a downtown hotel ballroom, and receive an award.
I smiled as the scene presented itself to me. Isis sitting beside me, proud to be married to such an extraordinary man. My friends and colleagues taking turns at the mic to extoll my virtues. Thunderous applause as I rise from my seat. The audience – my audience – sitting in rapt attention at every amazing word that rolls effortlessly off my tongue.
There are pictures of a young Dylan playing at concert halls. The photos are taken from behind Bob, so he is mostly a silhouette. The spotlight makes his fluffy hair look like a halo, and the audience, what you can see if it anyway, appears completely in awe of the man who sings the words everybody wanted to say but wasn’t clever enough to articulate.
I’m saying I want that to be me tonight.
What kind of award, you ask? I’m not picky. Cartooning would be nice. I’d like to get credit for taking the whole artform in a new direction. But, you know, whatever. I could get an award for the short stories I wrote in high school and didn’t let anybody read. The point is, I get an award for my greatness. I get to take it home, put it on a shelf, and remember this blessed night of celebration.