The Jersey City Independent"

Editor’s note: This is the first installment of ‘You’re Welcome!,’ a column documenting Melissa Surach’s ongoing struggle to receive an award from City Hall.

Hello. My name is Melissa Surach and I am a writer/comedian/model/actress/filmmaker/artist/philosopher and waitress. A few weeks ago, I publicly threatened to hold a rally at City Hall to protest Not Having an Award. Sadly, no one would heed my badgering and give me one, so last Tuesday, I woke up around 5 am to make signs and paint my face gold.

My original idea of tapping on the mayor’s window with post-it notes on a broomstick was over budget (I couldn’t afford a broom). I would have to use my fists and dog. I shoved him into a sandwich board that said, “Give Melissa Surach an award … or I’ll give you fleas!” but he could just as easily threaten ringworm, mange and canine herpes. He is very sick puppy, and I should get another award just for loving him.

I asked Ward E councilman Steven Fulop to meet me there “for an interview for a newspaper,” but I was just going to demand an award in person.

He emailed back: “Anything for you Melissa,” adding: “Let’s do it naturally.”

“Oh great,” I sighed, “he’s in love with me.” I didn’t blame him, and it might make kidnapping him if my award was denied easier, but I worried about the media coverage we’d receive, and sometimes I get tired of everyone being in love with me.

I applied gold paint to my face as an emulation of the award I’d like to receive — one with my visage on it. The fumes from the gold spray paint I put on my hair made me cough and depleted some ozone, but it was worth it. I sparkled like a goddess or piece of jewelry.

When I arrived at City Hall, I was greeted by hundreds of my supporters. I smiled like the laureate I was about to become. My fans had started without me, and were shouting for Mayor Healy, council president Vega* and councilwoman Lopez to resign, probably because they hadn’t given me an award yet. All the love and support the townspeople showed for me melted my heart and the hatred I usually reserve for them disappeared, briefly.

My dog and I stood around chanting, “Hey! Hey! Ho! Ho! Give Melissa an award you monsters!” for a while with the crowd. But after a few minutes, I noticed that they weren’t following my lead very well and insisted on shouting out names that weren’t mine. “You’re all doing it wrong!” I screamed, “Idiots!”

Apparently, there was some sort of corruption scandal with bribes that broke out the week before, and some opportunistic beasts with their own political agendas tried to steal on my protest and brought their ugly “National Night Out Against Crime” banners. Some people brought brooms but they weren’t banging them against the windows like I ordered them to. Instead, they were “sweeping out corruption” when they should’ve been “sweeping in my award.” My hatred for everyone slowly crept out of me once again.

I accosted a WASPy woman with a baby and asked her to sign my petition.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asked. She was wearing a shirt that read, “Get drunk. Get naked. Get elected.”

“What’s wrong with your shirt?” I asked her. Why wasn’t my face on it? I was about to admonish her when I looked down and saw my dog eating his sign.

“BAD DOG!” I shouted. As I bent down to slap him, I accidentally hit the woman’s baby in the head with my sign.

“I’m so sorry!” I licked my lips, “Would you like me to kiss it?”

“Please leave us alone!” she shrieked and moved towards a police officer.

“What about my petition?” I shouted … along with several profanities.

A bunch of old people hissed at me and told me to be quiet because some nobody was giving a speech — the first of about a thousand boring, stupid speeches. “Shut up!” I yelled.

I started to think that maybe this rally wasn’t about me at all. The speakers did not mention my name or how stunning I am. I fell asleep waiting for someone to call me up to the podium, until I was woken up by all the applause and cheering as Fulop took the stage. This would surely be the time to present me with my award and I prepared to mount the stage. I eased my nerves by glaring at his pants, when my mom, who lives down the street, interrupted my ogling.

“Did you get your award yet?” she asked.

“Not yet. Sign my petition,” I said, passing the clipboard without breaking my gaze.

“Oh, and Grandpa would’ve wanted me to get an award. You should sign his name too. So would Lala,” I said, remembering her pug. “And I forgot my camera. Take pictures for my article.”

“I’m not signing dead people’s or animal’s names. That’s illegal and corrupt — and isn’t that what this protest is about?”

I rolled my eyes and walked away, grumbling, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

I stalked around for Steve after his speech, but I couldn’t get near him because he was being bombarded by old people. I swallowed my rage as another golden girl cut me in line. Every time I tried to approach him another geezer would pop up, and what’s worse, Steve seemed to enjoy it. He laughed and shook hands. It was gross, and I felt betrayed. Not only was he stealing my crowd, but he was also delaying my award by tolerating the crowd of people who were wasting everyone’s time by asking him for stupid things. I moped around stamping my feet waiting to ask him for my award.

“Hi Steve,” I took his hand in mine and all of my anger subsided as I looked into his dreamy brown eyes, “Do you have something for me?”

“Look Melissa, I don’t know if I can get the council to agree on this, but we can probably give you some sort of recognition,” he took his hand away from me, and my outrage flooded back.

“Well then who do I have to bribe to get an award? Because I’m unemployed, so I can’t,” I said as my eyes welled up and my voice affected an embarrassing high note. I braced myself to reject him as he asked me out to dinner, but he walked away.

After the speeches, most of the crowd dispersed without shaking my hand for organizing everything. I cried the entire walk home, and gold tears streamed down my face and onto my dog. Despite the fact that Steven Fulop tried to steal my rally, I’ll forgive him because he was the only one there who can give me an award — or was he? Maybe you can help. Feel free to write to your local government officials and nag. I will also accept awards from any and all other organizations. You’re welcome!

Disclaimer: Most of the events described in this essay did not happen.

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