Third Place, Out of Three

We got third place, out of three.

My writing partner flew in from California to Michigan for the awards ceremony.

I wore a magenta dress like something significant might happen. The event was held at an Emagine movie theater.

We took pictures on the red carpet like people who believed they were on the verge of being discovered. On the precipice of becoming famous.

Other regular people were just there to watch movies; they had no idea that we were famous people who had everything but the fame. 

I remember thinking: this is it.

This was our chance to meet agents and producers. The kind of moment where someone pulls you aside and says, “We’ve been looking for you.”

Instead, we mostly found the popcorn stand.

I spilled coffee on my dress before we even got there, and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to blot the stain in the car like it was a medical emergency. I was also wearing what I like to call a slimmer—a glorified girdle. It was aggressively tight. Sitting upright felt aspirational.

My friend Geoff and I walked into the theater and immediately noticed that everything felt… relaxed. Not industry-relaxed. More like someone’s uncle put this together last night and said, “Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine.”

There were maybe forty people.

The guy running the show stood at the front—no mic—and started calling out categories like we were at a middle school assembly.

We had written a pilot episode for a sitcom about a group of friends living through COVID together.

This was just the beginning.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself as we waited to hear our names.

They announced third place first.

We won.

There was applause. Real applause. Not enthusiastic, but present. Geoff and I looked at each other—equal parts shocked and deeply unsurprised.

You may be wondering: are we any good?

I mean, as Einstein probably said in a slightly different context, everything is relative.

We happen to think we’re hilarious screenplay writers. Has this been confirmed by the general public? No. Has it been gently discouraged by a writing group? Also yes.

They said we were funny.
They also dismantled our plot like it had personally offended them.

But what is plot, really, when you have jokes? Structure is just a suggestion.

I had arranged for my father’s caregiver to stay all day so I could attend this life-changing industry event. So naturally, after winning third place out of three, we celebrated by getting a bucket of popcorn the size of a toddler and leaving.

There was a meet-and-mingle later that afternoon.

We chose to drive around instead.

We cruised through wooded neighborhoods, staring at million-dollar houses while doing aggressive car karaoke like people who were multi-talented and knew it. 

This is what Geoff and I do every time he comes into town. His parents live near me, so this is our thing. Although usually it doesn’t involve an award.

Or a girdle.

Or this level of emotional anarchy.

I was mainly focused on the popcorn. I have a history with popcorn. When I was thirteen, I went on what I can only describe as a popcorn-based diet. That was the plan. Just popcorn. Microwave popcorn at that. 

I lost a few pounds and gained a lifelong emotional dependency.

Movie theater popcorn with butter is not food. It’s an experience. The butter mingles with your intestines, causing a food coma like no other. 

But I was driving and drinking Diet Coke; the lack of sugar was supposed to balance out the butter. The caffeine would negate the food coma. 

So, as I’m eating like I haven’t seen food before, it hits me: we thought this would be the greatest networking opportunity of our lives.

And instead, it felt like we had accidentally wandered into a casual group project.

After an hour or two of mansion-gazing and self-reflection, we decided to double down and get pizza.

We went to a random pizza place in downtown Royal Oak and ate an entire large pepperoni like we were preparing for winter.

Then, finally, it was time to mingle.

We pulled up to the bar. It looked… pleasant. Suspiciously posh. Which felt off, given that nothing so far had suggested “nice.”

They said it started at four.

We got there at four.

People were paying their bills and leaving.

We didn’t know who anyone was.

Producer? Writer? Someone’s friend? The bartender?

Didn’t matter.

We treated everyone like they might

change our lives.

Just in case.

Inside, a small group remained. A cluster of men—mostly older, one around our age—and a woman with red hair who laughed like her life depended on her getting the joke. 

We started talking about our three screenplays. One guy seemed genuinely interested, which made us immediately suspicious but hopeful. He felt like us—another person trying very hard to seem like they knew what they were doing.

We subtly shifted our bodies toward two men who looked like they might be important. You know the look. Calm. Slightly detached. As if they had access to better snacks somewhere else.

They told us, “Good luck. Congratulations on your award.”

Geoff and I smiled.

And then we laughed quietly to each other.

Because technically, yes.

We had won.

We came back to my house, with my mother waiting as if we had just come back from the Academy Awards and we had swept all of the accolades. 

I told her we won an award. I left out one small detail: the number three. She hugged us and told us she was so proud. She woke up my father, who was probably better off sleeping. She told him that we were winners. 

Geoff and I stared at each other like we knew we were liars, and we didn’t mind a bit. 

My best friend came over especially to the house to congratulate us. I told her we got third place out of three. She laughed with us and told us she told her dad how cool it was that we won an award in a screenwriting contest. 

We started playing around in my basement and picking up a glass-blown vase as if it were an award, and I started giving an acceptance speech. 

I started thanking people who had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

“My team. My journey. The popcorn.”

Geoff was clapping like we had just secured a three-picture deal.

My mom was watching from the stairs, fully emotional.

At some point, I think we all collectively decided not to clarify anything.

And honestly?

For a few hours, it really did feel like we had won something.

Not first.

Not second.

But something.

And as I stood there in my basement, holding a decorative vase like it was an Oscar, still slightly constricted by the ghost of my girdle, I thought—

this is it.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/  or wherever you get your podcasts.

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