"It's an honor just to be nominated."

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Igor had been practicing his speech in the mirror since he was six years old. An egotistical youth, he worried not about how his particular rise to fame would occur. The question of whether he might get discovered or if he actually possessed the talent necessary to propel him to stardom never entered his adolescent mind. He had only one thought: Oscar.

He spent years refining which tone of voice to use during each stage of the speech, emotional but stoic, strong but human. He worked endlessly on his facial expressions, refining every teary look, every touching smile—play to the camera, make the audience fall in love with you. He obsessed over which touchingly poignant stories to tell about childhood, his adoring family, his “journey” as an actor; which haircut to go with, which historic film references to insert that would make him sound like a star that was both thoughtful and profoundly respectful of his stardom. His stardom. Staying up way beyond his bed time to see who won, laying in bed buzzing with the afterglow of the glamour and spectacle that was Oscar, his young mind raced, imagining he’d wear Armani or Dolce and Gabbana—shawl collar, no vest. His lady would be in vintage YSL, of course.

Every inflection, every gesture, every movement, all practiced with precision and repetition.

He would be exceedingly humble on the red carpet, so humble he’d make headlines as “The Humblest Man in Hollywood,” a term he would later trademark. Arriving early, stopping to talk to the press, posing for a thousand flashbulbs, he would give the impression of a man trying in vein to take everything in. Polite, excited, honored by the nomination, overwhelmed by the attention, and deeply grateful to be in attendance with all the “amazing talent in the room.”

As he listened to his name being read alongside his fellow nominees, the camera would show him looking fresh faced with anticipation, giving a bit of a smile and slight eye roll to keep up the self-deprecation, masking his innate over-confidence. Glancing around he would see his “peers” nervous, smiling weakly with hope, gazing into the adoring eyes of their spouses who looked back at them with pride and admiration for the talent they possessed, as though this was the single greatest moment of their lives: being married to someone who was about to not win an Academy Award.

When the presenter fumbled with the envelope, cutting into his speech time with a pathetic attempt at witty banter, he would give a short laugh, which would be seen by the viewers at home as a welcome moment of tension relief. Please, take your time, you fucking total waste of space.

“And the Oscar goes to…” As his name was finally announced, he would sit motionless, expressionless for a moment, as though he hadn’t heard what was said, hadn’t heard the one goddamn thing he had been waiting to hear his entire life. “Oscar.”

Cueing his reaction he would begin to blink his eyes, looking around at his fellow cast members with shock and beginning to grin, selling it just so with an “aw shucks, me?” face. That’d hit em’ in Middle America where his box office numbers had sagged last summer. His girlfriend of the moment, a model/budding Indie star (who made a name for herself baring her toned torso and perfect breasts for the Axl Rose bio pic, Paradise Shitty) he had met while doing his time on Broadway—a “requisite” his manager had said for Oscar—would lean over and kiss him, hold for a second, then kiss him again, hinting at their steamy chemistry.

And then he would smile. Then he would fucking beam.

Standing up to raucous applause, for his was the performance of the year, he would start to make his way to the stage, stopping for two embraces: his co-star, whose heart wrenching performance had carried the entire movie (fickle Oscar hadn’t shined on her), and his director, a man who had been an insolent jerk-off everyday of filming, but whose “vision and storytelling” he would laud momentarily. Ascending the stage, he’d straighten his tie and smooth back the front of his hair, lest anything be out of place. He would hold himself back from yanking his statue out of the hand of the presenter, graciously giving her a kiss on the cheek before effortlessly taking it out of her hand, trying hard not to whisper something derogatory in her ear. And there he’d be. Him and Oscar.

His speech would begin with an adoring look at the statue, mouthing a quiet “thank you,” to the lingering applause. He’d pause for a few moments, appearing to take it all in, the glory of Oscar. Humble, thankful, lucky. Then, with a firm grip on Oscar, he’d begin. He would read from no notes, have no written remarks, nothing that would indicate he was expecting a win. Surprised, grateful, blessed. “I’d like to thank the Academy…,” he’d finally say, a given.

He would start with the director, the “epically talented writers who wrote an ingenious film,” his “lovely” co-star (now tearing up out of jealousy and regret for that fling they’d had on set that had ended in her fit of rage at his flirtations with her mousey assistant), the producers who “championed this movie from the beginning,” members of the crew who “worked their damn asses off every day.” A mild curse word always played well with the fans. Next would be his “team.” His team who couldn’t get him a decent part to save their lives three years ago. Now they’d be riding his coattails, signing the next big thing for a decade.

Next would be the girlfriend, with the requisite mention of deep affection despite the three month tenure of their relationship, “Baby, you bring out the best in me.’’ Then came his family. Mom first, winning the hearts of moms everywhere with his teary eyed, “You’re the greatest mom a kid could ever have.” Then his father, in heaven, “I love you, Dad. I wish you could see this… I know you’re with me tonight,” before segwaying into a story of the school play his parents had video taped, watching the video over and over, telling everyone how his teacher, Mrs. Alfie, told them he’d be a star. “Thank you, Mrs. Alfie. You taught me about life and told me there was nothing I couldn’t do.”

With his nearest, dearest and necessary out of the way, he’d move into the “I’m a film lover” section of the speech, “John Ford, Orson Welles, Cassavetes.” Inspiration. Genius. Film. He knew movies, he was cinema. Finally, he would pause, looking out into the sea of faces once more, gazing up to the rafters, preparing the audience for his final words, his piece of heartfelt wisdom to impart on them. He, Oscar winner, he would wow them, inspire countless generations to come, etch his name in Oscar history. His would become the speech.

“I just want to say one more thing. To all those kids out there watching tonight, thinking that they love movies, thinking that one day, they could be on this stage, here with all these talented filmmakers who give so much to the world… Don’t let anyone ever tell you can’t. Don’t let anyone stand in the way of your dreams. Trust yourself, trust the gifts that god gave you.” Good, way to work in a god reference. “Because you can do anything you put your mind to. Anything at all. Believe in yourself… (wipe tear) Thank you, good night.”

And then he would be done. He’d thrust Oscar into the air, give the crowd one last look at him, the star, the winner, the Academy Award winner. Then he would turn, pausing to collect the bitch presenter before exiting stage left with a slow, steady pace. Every fiber of his being just waiting for a moment alone with Oscar.

Oscar.

But somehow the night hadn’t turned out that way. Somewhere between the humble red carpet interviews and the envelope being read by that twit, he’d lost. Same stunned, motionless reaction, only in this version, no Oscar.

Standing in the living room of his Spanish colonial, four-bedroom with pool and adjoining guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills, he stared into the distance like a zombie version of himself. He’d lost. Worse, he’d lost to that lame sack, Tim Monty. Never trust a guy with two first names. A haze engulfed his memory after the moment his name was not announced, but this morning’s text messages indicated he had been very public in his displays of less-than-gracious losing at the after-parties. In fact, the evening had deteriorated into various horrific scenes—horrific for his ego and his reputation.

How could he have lost? He was a star. People were obsessed with him. He’d practically saved Africa single handedly with his movie idol smile and safari chic wardrobe while traveling with the UN. He had launched the careers of numerous directors, writers; everyone attached to him was golden. He’d gone through countless starlets. He had done Broadway. He had done fucking television. And now what? He wasn’t “Academy Award winner, Igor Boss.” He was “Academy Award nominee, Igor Boss.”

Moving towards the mantle, he lifted his hand and brushed a thin layer of dust off the spot where Oscar was to live. Beside him, his tuxedo jacket lay in a rumpled ball on the floor. Jesus Christ, what would Joan Rivers say?

Fuck it. He still had Octopus Apocalypse to shoot in Paraguay next month. And that indie shit in Serbia in July. He was a star. A star.

And it had been an honor just to be nominated.