Oscar Night
by Matt Fagan

Naturally, everyone had been wondering who would escort me to the Academy Awards.  The industry rags had been speculating for months, and though there was some agreement among the various top-ten lists, nobody was certain enough to lay money on the odds.  Paparazzi had spotted me with Luciano Salvatore, favorite son of the powerful Salvatore crime syndicate, at three separate intimate-looking lunch engagements.  There had, however, been several unsubstantiated rumors that Salvatore and I had argued bitterly over the course of two bottles of Merlot at an exclusive waterside restaurant two weeks ago, and I had stormed out, throwing down my glass and declaring that I never wanted to see him again.  Could anyone verify this?  Would I be arriving at the magic night with a new beau to unveil?  One Hollywood insider opined that “This breakup is for the best, because no matter how attractive a couple the pair made, showing up at the Oscars on the arms of a gangster would only tarnish Matt’s reputation in the long run.”  More than a few editorial pages came to my rescue, noting that my reputation could easily and cheerfully sustain any public outcry over alleged associations with organized crime.  But, if Luciano Salvatore and I had indeed called it splits, they rested assured that I would still find a date who would cause a satisfying stir in the entertainment world.

A week before the big event, I was finding it impossible to leave my apartment.  Not only was every snoop in the city out for a peek at my love life, but in the absence of any news on that front, they had finally begun to ask the other question that plagues every celebrity prior to the ceremony. 
What was I going to wear? 

No jeweler had claimed credit for whatever gleaming rocks I might sport on the occasion.  No chic salon had me in their appointment books for spa treatment and dynamic hairstyling.  Tabloid journalists had run themselves ragged harassing every major designer for some word on how I’d be dressed.  Actually, I also called every major designer, to find out if people had been asking about me, and the operators were all sick to death of hearing my name.  The press was frantic.

My fluctuating weight was, and is, common knowledge throughout the country.  Everyone knows that I require new measurements to be taken every three weeks.  But it seemed that not a single designer in the country had measured me in the past eight months.  This could only mean that I had been going through a private party, perhaps some unknown, an up-and-coming new design talent.  Entertainment Tonight began offering cash awards for information leading to the name of any designer responsible for providing my wardrobe for any public appearance since last June.  The National Examiner tapped my phone, but if I talked to anyone about my clothes, I must have done so in code.

The Planetary Eye, my personal favorite national weekly, ran a cover story about me in the issue which hit the stands March 16.  They claimed I had gone back to Gustav, noted wire sculptor and heir to the Reinhold mining fortune, which is a ludicrous proposition if you ask me.  Of course nobody did ask me. 
I ended my affair with Gustav because he was one of those extremely self-important, moody artists.  I always hated artists.  So despite Planetary Eye’s assertion, and Gustav’s tremendous wealth, I had no intention of starting back down that path. Nevertheless, disregarding all the frank discussion of the matter which occurred in my September interview with Cokie Roberts, the Planetary Eye insisted I had taken up with him again for the sole purpose of acquiring an Academy Awards costume.  They even published what they called an “artist’s rendition” of the finished product, a double-breasted suit made entirely of ten-carat emeralds and elaborate silver filigree.  Stunning, but ridiculous, and probably quite unwieldy.

With all the publicity whirling around me in the short time left before the big ceremony, there were some entertainment journalists who wondered if I wasn’t shying away from them for a different reason.  Toward the end of the week, an article appeared suggesting that I was abstaining from the Academy Awards out of shame.  I suppose it was inevitable that someone would eventually turn the public’s attention to that particular night of the Cleo awards, when I had what the media gently referred to as a “star fit”.

As the exposé reminded, news of my more than casual interest in animated breakfast cereal mascots was made public the preceding spring when an ex-lover, Tony, published a tell-all book.  Chapter six, “Champions of Breakfast”, was almost humiliating in the way it detailed my impassioned insistence that Tony donned various costumes when we made love.  I was portrayed as some kind of monster, as if the leprechaun, the rabbit, or the toucan were things I employed to insult Tony.  He always refused to believe it was an honor to wear the suits.

Well, this book quickly led to a series of commercial endorsements for Frosted Flakes, in which I was interviewed in silhouette, confessing that to me, this cereal meant more than a complete breakfast.  Way more.  Then a light would strike me and I would look all embarrassed, my identity revealed.  In some of these spots, I simply read aloud from Tony’s book.

I was a little hurt by the stories about me, but I bore them with dignity and felt thankful for the opportunity to appear as spokesperson for Frosted Flakes.  The public was delighted that I could laugh along with all the revelations regarding my fetishism, and any disastrous force Tony’s book might have had was defused by my gracious demeanor.  I was thrilled to be recognized with a Cleo nomination for my work on the Frosted Flakes campaign.  It was a deep honor, a commendation of what I had been through and the manner in which I had handled it.

It wasn’t even that I expected to win.  Really.  I was all about suavity in that mother-of-pearl tailcoat.  My Cleo night escorts were Michel and Gastón, a sinewy pair of professional lacrosse players, setting me ablaze against their finely tailored basic black.  We were all three quite reserved, well-behaved, just happy to be included here amongst the likes of the Brawny Man and the parade of frazzled housewives.  I was hysterical with tears when I lost the award.   An eight-year-old boy who loved grape juice mounted the stage and I, who loved Frosted Flakes, began to shriek and thrash.  My lacrosse players attempted to contain my ferocity but I struggled against them, tearing my coat and sending one of my shoes in a clean arc up onto the stage.

The eight-year-old grape juice mascot was trying to thank someone, but all eyes and cameras had turned to me.  The moment is preserved in our collective social consciousness for all time, the image of me blubbering and redfaced, fists flying, trying to fight off Michel and Gastón, who were trying to help me fight off security.  One headline called me “Show Biz’s Sorest Loser”.  I actually fractured Michel’s jaw in the skirmish, but as I explained to him later, I was in something of a blackout at the time.  Besides, everything got very confused after the guards closed in.  Luckily, since I was clearly acting out against Michel and Gastón, the security guards assumed that the lacrosse players had assaulted me.  I was regarded as a victim.  While I pitched the fit, they were set upon by a dozen uniformed guards who made quick work of their athletic futures.  Both lacrosse players were jailed for assault after being released from the hospital, but were freed once the tattle rags printed the star-fit stories.
 Every celebrity who got interviewed in the next five months was forced to give an opinion about me.  I became the scale by which modern celebrity misbehavior was determined and discussed by the proletariat.  The majority found the Cleo incident appalling, and now it was being posited that I was avoiding the Oscars because I still had egg on my face over that.

The truth was that I had not even planned to attend the Oscars.  But not because of the Cleo awards.  That wasn’t a high point for me, to be sure, but I was over it now.  I just didn’t feel like going to the Oscars.  I had spent months refusing to RSVP but the Academy, apparently determined to include me, did not give up and didn’t tell the paparazzi that I hadn’t responded.  I don’t know why, but hell, I didn’t tell the paparazzi either.  Maybe I liked the attention.  So the circus just kept getting crazier, and by that final week before the awards I was in such great demand that I grew intoxicated from the incredible longing that America felt.  Everyone wanted me.  Everyone needed me.  The sense was almost one of responsibility, not because I owed the public anything, but because I was the only person who could satisfy the demand.  I imagine it’s what a commuting doctor must feel when someone has a heart attack on a subway car: the fanatic need that wells up all around, and the knowledge that only you can make it better.  When you announce your identity, why yes, I’m a doctor, well, all eyes turn expectantly to you, eyes full of hope, trust, and desire.

How could I possibly disappoint them, my public, my peers, this country that I call home?
 It was then that I realized my only option was to seduce the set designer for the awards, a third-generation Romanian with a degree in architecture, so I headed down to the theatre and promptly had my way with him behind a stack of enormous bolts of white satin cloth.  I found out later that his name was Rolando, and as we lay tangled in the damp satin I convinced him to help me carry out my plan.

That’s how I came to spend the entire six-hour ceremony standing stiffly at stage right in a solid gold suit of armor, looking exactly like the famous statue himself, while outside the reporters from various exploitation programs bemoaned my apparent absence.  Although my costume weighed well over two hundred pounds, I did not shift or in any way betray my presence in the suit of armor until the award for best picture was announced.  The speech-makers, like every speech-maker that night, took a few moments of their time to express their sincere gratitude to me, say they were sorry that I couldn’t be here this evening, etc. etc., and that was when I made my move.  Letting loose a shriek, I came barreling across the stage, swinging my solid gold broadsword above my head and charging directly toward the huddled group of terrified producers.

The next day, there was a lot of disagreement in the various tabloids about whether my actions at the Oscars were clever and hilarious, misdirected in a good-natured way, or career-stoppingly irresponsible.  All of the victims declined comment when asked, and Rolando, who continues to call me at least twice a day, refused to speculate on my intentions.  Thus far none of the producers has elected to file a lawsuit naming me as defendant.  The important detail, overlooked by the media, is that I arrived home still in possession of my two hundred pounds of pure gold.  The armor stands in the corner of my elegantly-appointed den, and I could easily cash it in and retire from the public view with no fear of disappearing from the news-papers.