There were the usual performers: a ten- year-old girl played the piano badly, making many mistakes which she went back and corrected, giving her playing the jerkiness of a heavy freight train trying to get started. Her parents and their friends applauded enthusiastically. A twelve-year-old boy sang off key, forgot one stanza and sang it at the end. A grandmother played the spoons – a novelty act. Someone’s aunt played “Silent Night” on a row of glasses with various amounts of water to produce the different notes. A whistler did “Listen to the Mockingbird” while I imagined a mockingbird whistling “Listen to the Human Blirt.” And all the time I watched the trophies.
Finally it was Amanda’s and my turn. A bright spotlight caught her as she approached the piano: she was wearing a dark blue, knee-length dress covered in sequins. There was a lot of male whistling and applause. There was no female appreciation for me, maybe because of my best but drab suit.
We had decided to do a medley of different songs, a tour de force of tunes. To catch the teens, we began with a rock song:
Wanna kiss ya, baby,
Wanna kiss ya, baby,
Want kiss ya, baby,
Yah, yah, yah.
Then we segued to a country-and-western:
Rustlers stole our cattle,
Leaving us with fewer,
And what is even worse,
We have much less manure.
Followed by a love song during which I should have gazed at Amanda, but instead I kept watching the trophies:
Although I’m a detective
I sure don’t have a clue’
My ideas are defective
How to start with you.
And we finished with a tribute to the town:
Blandsville:
You’re the town that never stands still
And your every street and hill
Gives me a thrill.
The judges consulted, than announced the winners. Third prize went to a fiddler who probably spent his weekends playing for square dances. Second prize was awarded to a young woman who sang “Cry Me a River” and made every music lover weep. Then the judge said to me: “We noticed that you’ve been gazing longingly at the trophies all evening. Well, now one of them is yours.” And he presented the trophy to Amanda as a new hurricane of whistles and applause filled the hall.
“Thank you,” I said, overcome with amazement.
“And,” added Amanda, “here’s to the finest song writer since …”
“Calixa Lavallée and Adolphe-Basile Routhier” shouted someone who obviously knew the history of Canada’s national anthem.
“Thank you, Mr. Tuff and Ms. Friend,” said Ms. Cross. “We’re glad that none of the trophies were stolen this year.”
Except this one, I thought.
Later Amanda and I sat in her living room, sipping pink champagne and gazing at the trophy standing proudly on her piano. “Teamwork pays off,” I said clichéishly.
“It causes one problem, however.”
“What’s that?”
“Do we enter again next year to defend our championship?”
