About Time

When I make it big...

I don't imagine there will be a deluge of congratulations. There will be some hugs, a couple phone calls. The website will take a few more hits, and perhaps people will write more comments.
E-mail. Yay.
Maybe some more people will acknowledge me in the streets. More guys will posture nervously and more girls will bat me an eye when I walk by. My family and friends will be glassy-eyed, faces stuck in a smile.
I will get sick of the phrase,
"I am so proud of you!"
This will happen. But it's not that much. It's just Step 2 to my Step 1.

This, I imagine, will happen more.

There will be an immediate line of people, single-file. Each of them wear angry faces, sharpened eyebrows and upturned lips. One-by-one they step up to meet me.
A slap on the back.
Another slap on the back.
Hands smacking my back. A couple land on my head. My shoulders. Chest. Cheek. Someone punches. Hands grasp and grab. Throttle me. Choke. A slam to the gut. Fist in my balls.
Some heel strikes the back of my knee and I go down. And then the kicking. Base of the spine. Foot up my ass. Knocking the wind out of me. Their endless faces seething, fright wigs of disbelief.
I'll never stop hearing the phrase,
"It's about damn time!"

This won't happen. But I'll feel it. It's what keeps me from taking that step.