There was a cavernous banquet hall. A lot of yellow. A bit of paisley on the papered walls. Soft rugs. Vertical stripes. Polished brass-rimmed chairs, standard issue ballroom stuff, the kind that easily stack in columns of 5, 6, maybe 7.
The entirety of the audience that had gathered was seated in a perfect rectangular bank of seats. Dozens upon dozens of rows. Every seat occupied by well dressed men or shimmering women. Tan faces, perfect chins. All eyes pointed towards the dais. Unwavering attention. Hors d’oeuvres were butler-ed non-stop. Servers running, making hard left turns, holding glittery platters impossibly still.
I was off to the right. An island of a seat. Ten feet away from everyone else. Alone in a room of hundreds.
I won the grand prize. I was honored as the “Funniest Person in Hollywood, 2013.”
My trophy was a pair of windshield wipers.