contest image thumb Medians
Mark Miklosovich

They are three of the thirty seven who came here by chartered Greyhound bus some two hours ago; they sit in their pale costumes of lunacy: a gray wig, a Dr. Seus cap, a plastic party hat too small for its owner’s head, and to go along with their half-assed attempt at performance art, on this the night of New Year’s Eve, December 31st, 1999, they have the look of non-complacency; they are the ones who swim in the deep end while trying to keep their soft perms dry and the ones who never raise their hands in class or boardroom alike, lest someone might notice how ethereal they are. This is the 2nd annual meeting of the Medians, the men and women who serve as the in-between of everything in this world: the speechwriters, the crossing guards, the ones who watch the dials at the power plant – working and living behind the scenes in ever possible way. Except for this night, tonight they celebrate their existence with an achy sense of relief for another year notched on the bedpost.

So you see then why they look like a watercolor in this photo; it is no mistake of photographic development, it is real – they are the primer between wall and paint. People simply cease to see them as existing. So tonight, they rejoice, with costume, party favors and pitchers of mango juice they will not drink, so as to not disturb the imperfect fold of the napkin in each of their glasses. They will hardly stir from their seats and will not speak short of the initial order with the waitress. And when the clock strikes midnight, they will breathe a sigh of relief ... it’s been a long night of partying ... time to go home, shut the curtains, peruse the internet under the protection of pseudonyms and decide which hoary suit they will wear tomorrow. The Medians are there, every minute in our lives. Notice them the way a blind man is bothered by the grayness of a morning day; notice them like a shadow that crosses your path. Notice them, they are standing beside you, close enough that you should feel their breath on your collar; that is, if they weren’t holding their breath.

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