2010 Fringe Festival's 24-hour Play Contest

I found the flyer for the 2010 Fringe Festival lying near the window of my local Wine Rack. I almost missed the tiny print near the bottom of the flyer that announced the 24-hour Play Contest. The rules were simple: come to the Fringe Festival Club Tent on June 30 at 6pm sharp. Hear the four items that must be included in the short script. Write a one-act play in 24 hours and return it to Fringe headquarters. But first give us $25.

As usual, I considered the fact that I picked up this flyer at random serendipity. If I were not meant to win this contest, then I would not have happened upon its announcement. Simple. Logical. I logged on and paid the fee as soon as I got home.

Having never written a play (seriously) before, I intended to spend the week’s interim online (the usual place) doing a bit of research. The 10 to 20 minutes I spent looking at a bevy of one-act plays performed by high school students were heartening. The hour or so spent watching Beckett’s Endgame and Play had the opposite effect. So I ditched the effort. Anything that I had to say would have to be innate and reactionary to be good anyway. I rationalized.

With my new-found confidence, the week passed quickly. Soon I was speed walking down Bloor on my way to the Fringe Festival Club Tent. Slightly late.

At roughly 5:53 pm, I passed Sushi on Bloor. At 5:54, I turned around and went in to place a to go order for the vegetarian bento box. I would need fuel for my writing marathon. And my choice of food over punctuality was certainly proof of my genius.

I showed up at the Fringe Festival Club at roughly 6:01:45 pm. As I asked the stand of volunteers near the entrance where the announcement would be, I heard a microphone-voice telling everyone “good luck, write away be geniuses”. They weren’t kidding about 6:00 pm. Luckily, the harried announcee deigned to give me the four items in the midst of her post-announcement hurryings (thanks to the cache my $25 had given me):

T.S. Elliot’s Lesser Known Brother
Jungle Red Lipstick
A Drunken Embalmer
You’re Cruisin for a Bruisin

I knew I shouldn’t have prepared.

After I walked home, consumed my massive meal (recovered from my massive meal) and watched 2 episodes of The Office I had already seen, I got to work. Auspicious beginnings.

After a few false starts, the drunken embalmer presented himself to me. As I continued writing, it turns out that he may-or-may-not-have-been an underappreciated angel sent to earth by a flawed deity or a deeply disturbed serial-violator. He left it up to the reader. Whoever he was, he started a zombie apocalypse which descended on him at the end of the play.

At 2:00 am when sleep descended, I thought: just crazy enough to be brilliant.

When I re-read the play at 6:00 am to do my final edits, I was gripped with panic. I was a crazy person. Not only was my play not going to be chosen, but the festival conductees were going to report me to the nearest mental health authorities. But, at least I had finished it. I had written a play, and I could (sort of ) officially call myself a playwright.

While I showered, I let my boyfriend read what I had written. When he was done, he informed me that I was right to think I was insane but that it was well written. High praise. I laughed aloud and said that of course I did not expect to win with it (I did). But it had been fun to write it (it was), and that the recognition was not all that important (it was).

We dropped the play off on the way to a friend’s house to watch the Canada Day fireworks. I tried a million different ways to drop the fact that I had just written and delivered (pretty genius) play . That I was maybe about to be discovered and that I didn’t want to have to be the one to say it but I may-or-may-not-be a pretty big deal. Unfortunately, the conversation in no way lent itself toward that announcement and there was no way that I could bring it up out of the blue without sounding a bit like an asshole. I consoled myself with the thought that when my play was picked (and it would be), the fact that I hadn’t mentioned that I even submitted anything would make it that much more awesome. My genius would seem effortless and my genius so total that I did not even recognize it.

The next day, I checked my email approximately 25 times for news of the winners. The next day, I e-mailed the office to find out when they were announcing the winners. The terse response informed me that I would have to wait until Wednesday or Thursday for the results.

Wednesday came and went, nothing. I checked my email every half hour except for the few I spent sleeping.

Around 5:00 pm on Thursday, I was watching a movie with my boyfriend when I remembered that the email suggested that they might call instead of email.

I scrambled for my phone.

One missed, unidentified call at 1 pm.

No message.

I debated about what to do for roughly 30 seconds. Then I called the phone number.

It rang a ludicrous number of times. Finally, a simple message: you have reached the mailbox of Renna. Leave a message. I hung up.

I don’t know anyone named Renna!

I typed the phone number into the Google search bar on Firefox.

Nothing.

I read every single sort-of-pertinent line on the Fringe Festival’s website.

Nothing.

I opened my e-mail from the artist liason.

There it was: “You should get an email or call from Renna Reddie to find out.”

Holy shit.

I shook all over. I didn’t know whether to play it cool or scream. I screamed. My boyfriend beamed, gave me a hug and called me ‘his little playwright’. I immediately thought to myself that he was handling the fact that I was clearly a genius and way out of his league now quite well.

Why hadn’t she left a message? Why hadn’t she called me back?

She would call. It was 5:30 pm now. She was probably busy with festival business. She would call tomorrow. I decided to wait until then to tell my friends and family. I hadn’t called my mom in 3 weeks. I would explain to her that I had been terribly busy doing writer-type things. Oh, and did I mention that someone had decided to produce my play? I hadn’t been on Facebook in a month or so. I would post “They’re producing my play!!!” and refuse to respond to any inquiries because I would be too busy supervising its production.

What would I wear? Any-fucking-thing I wanted too. I’m a fucking genius. Everything is the right thing. I planned my introductory speech before the performance: something short, simple, non-chalant: “Wow guys, this is weird, standing up here. Thanks to Fringe for choosing my play, thanks to my friends for all of their support. I hope you enjoy it.”

I would be just-this-side of insufferable. Smug. I would let other people bring it up. I would smile politely to myself. Constantly. I would end every argument with some sort of reference to my literary genius. I would buy a spacious, eclectic but sparsely decorated house (so my profundity echoes), chain smoke and go to parties where I would be the guest of interest.

I brought my phone to the living room while I pretended to do work. At around 2:30 I called Renna again so that she could tell me, while rushing to whatever was keeping her so busy, that I had won and that she had not yet gotten around to telling me. Her bad.

Answering machine again.

I checked the website, Facebook and Twitter pages for an announcement. Nothing. My boyfriend laughed it off and made some comment about how unorganized they were.

6:00 pm rolled around.

The conversation got darker. They may not have been calling because: Renna gets some twisted joy out of calling the losers of the contest. I did not answer and she was satiated by the other pangs of anguish from all the other rejection calls before she could get around to me. She had the wrong number. She called me to announce that I had won second ($300) or third ($150) place, but decided against it at the last moment and decided to pocket the money herself. The entire contest was called off and they still didn’t have the cash to refund all of the $25 reading fees.

On Sunday, the website announced the winner.

Not me.

I read the announcement again.

Still not me.

I checked my e-mail for an admission of an oversight and an announcement of the real winner: me!

Nothing.

I read the announcement again.

Still not me.

I checked my e-mail again for an email announcing that they were just kidding. They liked to play jokes on the winner and they had announced a fictional play and winner to disappoint and then overwhelm me with happiness.

Fucking nothing.

Why had she called me?

I was not the winner.

She must have called me for a reason.

Not the winner.

Not a writer, not published, just me.

Fuck you Fringe. True Story.