In my sparse office in downtown Des Moines, I alternated my stare between an unopened email and a framed painting on the wall. The email’s subject line said, “Contest Submission-Declined”. The painting was of a blue Easter egg.

I’m Jimmy McNamara, a collection lawyer. I call myself a debtor/creditor attorney to shine up the fact most people see me as a bottom feeder. It’s not all bad, though, in my spare time, I write short stories. Lately, I’ve had a lot of spare time.

I’m quite familiar with the, ‘Declined’, ‘Not for us’ email response to my short story submissions but, on rare occasions, I get one published in an online magazine. I’ve never gotten close to an award for anything, let alone story telling. Still, for me, writing is a release from the pressures of my day job, nothing more.

As I see it, the constant pleading by writers, artists and other creative people for recognition and awards is needy. All this “read my blog, click on my web page, leave a comment”, is a character flaw. Given that I have enough of those, I’ll pass on that particular one. As for the blue Easter egg painting, yeah, there’s a story behind it.           

#

A few months ago, I was getting ready for some hearings, when I made the mistake of answering my cell phone. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Usually, I ignore these types of calls. I almost hung up then I heard a voice.

“Jimmy . . .  Jimmy McNamara, this is Reginald J. Westgate”. At first, I didn't know who the caller was. The voice repeated, “Jimmy, this is Reginald J. Westgate, author, Fellow of the New York City Literary Society and prize winning fiction writer.”

I thought, “Why did I answer this phone?” Looking to dust this guy off, I said, “Pal, you got the wrong number. I’m not interested in what you’re selling.” Then I remembered this kid I grew up with named Westgate. Curious, I said, “I knew a Billy Westgate, is that you?”

A sharp rebuke followed my question. “My name is Reginald, I prefer Reginald, not Billy.”

Billy Westgate used to be Willie Wysowski. In fifth grade his whole family Anglicized their names. It was wholesale name changing, like they went into the witness protection program. One day, at school, our teacher announced Willie, from then on, was Billy Westgate.         

After a while, calling “Willie”, Billy became natural. It was only when someone wanted to get under Billy’s skin that “Willie” was trotted out. This caller was as prickly, now, about not being called ‘Reginald’ as “Willie” was, then, about not being called ‘Billy’. I guess time doesn’t change everything. I couldn’t resist, I said, “So, what  . . . you’ve changed your name . . . again?” There was silence.

I quickly remembered more. Back then, the Billy I knew, excelled in English and creative writing. He was the editor of the school newspaper and yearbook. He even wrote, “Human interest stories” for the local paper. Nowadays, most of these types of stories appear under the heading, “Crime Beat”.

Billy was smart and he knew it. It inflated his ego and made him arrogant. His attitude put him in constant danger of getting his ass kicked but he always talked his way out of tight spots. After graduating from Cornell University, he enrolled in the Iowa Writers' Workshop. He then started writing books, both non-fiction and fiction. He was a hometown star, even getting listed under ‘Notable People’ on our hometown’s Wikipedia page.

When his career took off, Billy must have changed his name, this time to Reginald J. Westgate. His fiction about assassins, detectives, forensic pathologists, cops and other noir type characters was widely read. His style was gritty and fast paced; creating the necessary escapism to sell millions of copies.

I had occasion to read some of his books, not realizing he was Billy Westgate. The bios appearing on the end pages extolled his many awards but did not mention his home town or change of name. Recognized as a top fiction writer, he was showered with awards but unflattering stories about him said he was quite impressed with his own success. And here he was, Reginald J. Westgate, on my cell phone.

He said, “I was passing through Des Moines on my way to New York City. I am to receive another award for fiction from NYC Literary Book Club. I’m staying at the Des Luxe Hotel.” He said. “I saw your short story, ‘Headlights’ in an online magazine. I traced you to here and wanted to reconnect. Your short story is good, very good.”

“Thanks, Reginald.” Saying that gave me a strange feeling. “What was wrong with going by ‘William J. Westgate’”? I thought. Then I asked, “How long have you got? I can pick you up and we can grab coffee.” I wanted to take Reginald to the Ritual Brew Café. It was a place where I felt comfortable.

What I like about Ritual, besides the coffee, is that you can talk without having to shout.  The tables and chairs are arranged to allow people to enjoy conversations. From the windows you get a good view of the activity on the street. Ritual’s customers are a diverse group from artists to professionals. I thought the mix would be something Reginald would like. It would be a good place to catch up although I had no idea what we might have in common anymore.

Due to a threat of rain, I picked Reginald up at his hotel. We swung around the block and got a parking place right out front of Ritual. “Well, we’re here. Let’s get in there before the rain starts.” I said.

Once inside, Reginald, was not impressed. It was not very busy. He wanted Starbucks or bigger, trendier place. He hoped he could interact with his fans or, at least, be recognized. After ordering our coffee, he wanted to sit at a table right in the middle of the café in case any fans might want to talk to him.

Reginald started our conversation by bragging about his success, his long list of awards and his famous friends. He told me he could to do me a “big favor” and recommend my short story for an award.

My response was, “I never do anything for awards. My reward comes from doing the best I can and getting joy from the finished story.”

Reginald’s stare was unnerving, and then he made an observation that seemed to put the lie to my last statement. “If you only get ‘joy’. . . ‘from doing the best you can’ and ‘from the finished story’ why send it to be published? Wouldn’t you get as much ‘joy’ from leaving it in your desk drawer?”

He then answered his own question. “You may not actively seek praise but you want to be acknowledged. Look, to one degree or another, everybody does.” He had a point. I do want to be acknowledged for writing good stories.

He then said, “I can give you help to improve your writing and on how to market better. With my guidance, I could turn your hobby into a money maker. An award would get the ball rolling.”

I was hesitant. “The thing about hobbies is that they are supposed to relieve stress not add to it. I’m not looking for another obligation or job. My hobby is just that, a hobby.”

Reginald wasn't having any of it. He had many protégés and wanted me to be another.  I was sure that was not what I wanted. To get him to relent, I offered to tell why I disliked awards. “OK, but make it fast.” He said. We ordered refills and I began.

“When I was five or six, my Mother announced my brother and I were going to the Kiwanis Easter egg hunt. My Dad was head of the Kiwanis that year and we had to keep up appearances. On the day of the event, she dressed us both in good clothes. When we got to the event it was overwhelming how many kids of varying ages were ready to compete for the prizes. I was one of the youngest. We were brought to a starting line; a man said “Go” and the hunt was on.”

“I was immediately pushed down to the ground. Bigger kids ran over me to hunt for the various colored eggs and the prizes they would bring. After being pushed, pulled, knocked down and shoved, I saw an egg under a bush. It was a big blue Easter egg. I hurried and grabbed it, trying to hide it so it wouldn’t get stolen by some bigger kid; I ran to the judge’s table and got in line. The kids in front of me presented their brightly colored eggs and received their prizes.

When I proudly handed mine to the judge he looked at me and said, “We don’t give prizes for the blue ones.” I stood there looking at the worthless, blue Easter egg that I had fought so hard to get. It was a “loser”; I got no prize because the judges said so.

After that, competing for prizes meant very little to me. Instead, I took pride in doing a task to the best of my ability. The work itself was my reward. I didn’t need judges or prizes to confirm the value of my work.”

“Well, that’s a very touching story but a sad way to look at competing for prizes.” Reginald said. “I want awards, prizes, acclaim. It inspires me to work harder and makes people want to read what I write. It’s all marketing; you have to create interest so that they can’t wait to buy your books. You need to change your attitude.”

I responded, “Hey, I’ve been happy.”

Reginald shot back, “No you haven’t! You only think so. Look, ‘Headlights’ is a good story. With my help and guidance, you could be an award winning author.”

I insisted, “I write as a hobby. It’s for fun. I’m not looking to make money, be famous or chase awards.”

“You will do anything to prevent yourself from succeeding, won‘t you?” Reginald said.

I wanted to strangle him but also wanted him see my point, so I tried again. “Your view of success is not mine. I don’t need awards to be happy. Art is appreciated or it’s not. That’s for the each person to decide. With awards all you’re getting is a judge’s preference. People believe that a judge’s preference for one creative work means that it is better than others. It’s not. Different people see art differently. They match it up to what’s relevant in their lives. If it speaks to them; they see its value and like it. A so called expert judge’s preference is no guaranty of quality,”

Reginald, shot back, “Nonsense. Spoken like a true loser. I want you to enter the New York City Literary Short Story Tellers Contest. It will be the right level for your skills and experience. You’d have a great chance of getting some notoriety by winning. With my backing, you’re practically a lock to win. Did I mention it comes with a five thousand dollar prize?”

“I thought, what the hell, I really could use five thousand dollars.” I agreed. The next day, I called the editor of the magazine where ‘Headlights’ appeared. I asked if I could submit the story to the New York City Literary Short Story Tellers Annual Contest. He seemed hesitant at first until I told him Reginald J. Westgate made this recommendation. That greased the skids. I sent ‘Headlights’ in for consideration.

I heard nothing more for weeks. Then I got both a letter and an email informing me that ‘Headlights’ was on the finalist list. The awards ceremony was three weeks from the date of their notification. I made arrangements to travel to New York City thinking, “So far, Reginald has been right.”

#

The night of the awards banquet, the committee hosted a reception. It was more of a vendors’ show. Publishers and editors hawked their services to those of us who might be the next “hot commodity” in the fiction writing world. These types of events are not my long suit. I hate small talk. It was there another contestant struck up a conversation. He said he had the opportunity to read ‘Headlights’ and had a few questions. Wanting to be polite, I asked what they were.

“In the story was the child hit by the car? Who was the man chasing him? Why did he go into the garage? Why call it “Headlights”?

I was shaken. I thought, “The story isn’t that dense. How could he have read it and still have these questions? What if the judges are like this guy?” I recovered and said, “I don’t want to spoil it for you. You should re-read the story since it was only nine pages.” He said he enjoyed it the first time and he would read it again. Then, it was time for the awards dinner. The announcement of the winner followed.

Later that night, after the awards ceremony, Reginald, called. He was in Denver on a layover to Los Angeles. “I’ve been on a plane and had to shut my phone off. How did you do?”

"I got a blue Easter egg". 

Reginald said, "What?  . . . Oh. You didn't win? I recommended your story to all the judges.” Then there was silence, followed by, “My next flight is making its final boarding call. I gotta go." Without another word, he hung up.

For me, contests and awards are not why I write. “The Blue Easter Egg” was painted and hung it on the wall as a reminder. When I have a moment of weakness, enter a contest and get a ‘Declined’ email, I look at my painting and remember; I’m happiest when I’m writing my short stories, for me.

As for Reginald, since our last call, I haven’t heard from him.

Edward N. McConnell writes flash fiction and short stories. To date his work has appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, The Corner Bar Magazine, MasticadoresIndia, Drunk Monkeys, The Milk House and Refuge Online Literary Journal. His story Where Harry’s Buried was selected for inclusion in The Best of Mad Swirl v2021. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.