Trophy Case
Some small towns have a witch’s home up on the hill. You know the one. That overgrown, worn out century house that is both far away from the rest of the town, yet somehow always within view, looming over the quaint landscape, reminding the rest of us of our relative impotence. It’s the house whose mysterious inhabitant’s comings and goings (or lack thereof) spark formative rumors about whatever it is that the townspeople think they need to be worried about at that time. Things like kids becoming satanic, kids becoming gay, kids becoming uninterested in living the same monotonous static lives as their parents all become attributed to that time twenty years ago when one little bugger went into the witch's house on a dare and stayed a little too long. What he said he saw changed every time the story was told and retold until what he saw was so gruesome and terrifying that the story could no longer be told at the grocery store and instead stayed locked away in people’s brains where it mutated and festered until it burst out around the campfire after a couple drinks.
The people in the town give the witch and her house a lot of power and orient their days and conversations (which become their lives) around her and her house. Either by avoiding it, being concerned about it, or simply thinking too much about it, the people in the town define themselves against the witch while they stew in their boring small-town lives, secretly wishing they had a modicum of the witch’s presumed self-determination or courage to spend their days doing as they please instead of spending 8 hours in a cubicle making money for someone else. The witch herself, usually just an older woman with niche interests, becomes known as some omnipotent force who controls the town by weaseling her way into the minds of kids or tampering with the value of people’s homes or their enjoyment of their neighboring properties.
Some small towns have a witch and her spooky witch house whose collective power, derived magically from their constant unknowableness, exerts too much influence on the town until one day, the town gets fed up with feeling powerless and someone—usually a man or a boy with something to prove—goes and swings open her creaky door and demands answers.
Some small towns seemingly subsist entirely on rumors about the witch and her house, and the influence of her gives the small town its identity and its sense of community. We are not the witch. Our houses are cleaner and nicer, our hair is brushed, and in this small town, the people are kind, and the lawns are mowed. You can trust that this is true because look over there, at the witch’s house. The contrast is indisputable.
Some small towns have a witch with a house with paint that peels off the walls as if the colour instinctively knows that it must debase itself, slit its proverbial wrists and reveal crackly innards to adequately contain the dark arts she dabbles in with reckless abandon. Or so the rumors go.
Some small towns have a witch with her house, the idea of whom incubates all the townspeople’s greatest fears and feelings of powerlessness until they are reborn as crying, sticky superiority complexes.
Some small towns are blessed with a witch and her house to rally around or against. My small town, on the other hand, is cursed by Ned and Nina’s Trophy Emporium.
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How did we get here, you might ask?
Well, the story goes that thirty five years ago, before The Trophy Emporium became the multi-million dollar business it is today, a young Nina and Ned were sitting in their modest living room watching a movie. As the credits began rolling, Nina turned to Ned and said she was thinking of getting into the medal business.
“I looked into it and everything! You get the aggregate shipped over from China and then for just a few thousand we can turn the trophy mold-making machines into medallion mold-making machines and then you get the special paint in bulk and ribbons are basically free and there you have it! 90% of medallions aren’t even real silver or gold. It would QUADRUPLE business! Medals aren’t like trophies – people give out medals for basically everything. For graduating 8th grade! For god sakes, Ned! And think of the reduced shipping costs! We just throw 300 in a box and voila! No more individual packaging and custom boxes. It’s really just good business to switch over.”
“Nina, I don’t want to hear it. The emporium has been in my family for 65 years. I’m a trophy person. We’re trophy people! Business is just slow right now, we’ll be back on the upswing in no time, honey.”
“You said that last year and the year before that! I want to go on vacations, Ned! I want to get my nails done and renovate the basement!”
“Neens, I’m telling you. Things will turn around soon.”
“Oh screw you! You always say that! I’m sick of waiting” Nina barked. She got up from the couch and left the room. “You have one month to come up with something or I’m out of here. I’ll move back to Smithson. I’ll start over. Fuck you and fuck the Emporium. I don’t need to rot here with you!”
Ned sighed, sinking deeper into the worn-out couch. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll work on it.”
He listened as her footsteps grew fainter. Ned knew Nina would never actually leave, but the frequency of this argument had recently increased, and he was beginning to feel a sense of urgency to grow the business. The problem was less the product and more that the Trophy Emporium had, for many years, a monopoly on the trophy business in Ontario, Quebec, and a few of the northeastern United States. There was no competition, which, as you are probably thinking, is quite ironic since competition is the reason trophies exist in the first place. Locally, the Emporium already sponsored most competitive leagues in town, which meant that everyone who needed a trophy already knew exactly where to get one.
The market was saturated. The Emporium and the trophy industry in general had stagnated, with technology and designs virtually unchanged since Ned’s grandfather started the Emporium 65 years ago. People’s attitudes towards trophies were similarly static. Trophies are symbols of accomplishment, but they aren’t essential. They’re runners up, so to speak, an unnecessary accessory to success that most people are fine to go without as long as there are cash prizes or a tangible legacy marker, like a framed portrait in a community center.
So, as Ned listened to the creaks in the floor that indicated Nina had put herself into bed, he reached over and grabbed his little red notebook off the coffee table. He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and opened the book to a blank page. Lately he’d been brainstorming new competition ideas that might require trophies. This wasn’t the first time Ned and Nina tried to improve their business. Six years prior, they tried to increase prices by a measly ten percent, hoping to boost their dwindling profits. The result, however, was disastrous. Customers balked at the higher prices, deciding that trophies were a luxury they could do without. "Who needs them?" they said, opting instead to DIY prize ribbons for a fraction of the cost. The Emporium’s sales plummeted, and Ned and Nina were left scrambling to salvage their business. They quickly reverted to the original prices, and after some time, customers slowly returned, restoring a semblance of normalcy. Raising prices was out. The only solution, it seemed, was to increase the need for trophies.
Ned’s current plan was to create a competition with a quarterly season so they’d sell 4 times as many trophies. Of course, the competition would need to quickly sweep the nation in popularity in order for it to have the desired effect on his business. So far, his best idea was a game that combined disc golf with track and field competitions so there could be many consecutive events per competition, each with their own winners. By adding in the disc golf element, each event would need a team of people, rather than just the one as is the case in a traditional track and field meet. Ned looked over his notes in the little red book and felt a glimmer of hope as he fantasized about teams of 30-50 athletic teenagers playing this new game in the field behind the high school. In his mind, he panned over the field to the adjacent parking lot where a spotless Trophy Emporium van had just pulled up. He imagined him and Nina hopping out of the van, swinging open the back door to reveal rows and rows of shining trophies, set up all nice in the van’s bespoke mobile trophy transport shelving unit. In the fantasy, a well-dressed young teacher with stiff, combed-over hair runs over to the van and greets them warmly with an infectious smile and a firm handshake.The teacher pointed to a large table to the right of the van, covered in a thick pleated burgundy tablecloth. “Here,” the teacher explained. “This table is for the trophies”. As fantasies go, the regal table is instantly covered in a sparkling pyramid of trophies, and the teacher beamed with appreciation to Ned and Nina who stood triumphant, beaming themselves because of a job well done.
“Ned! Come get ready for bed!” Nina yelled from upstairs.
Shaken free from his fantasy, Ned closed his notebook and put it back on the table before climbing the stairs to end the day.
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As you can imagine, disc golf track and field never took off. None of Ned’s ideas did. How Ned and Nina actually sold more trophies and made their fortune was really quite simple. They invented the Participation Trophy™. Here’s how it happened:
The high school hired a new teacher and as was the custom at the school, she was tasked with picking up the big trophy for that year's spelling bee. While waiting for Ned to go get the order from the back, the teacher was lamenting to Nina at the cash register about how she wished every kid could get a trophy because they all worked so hard and had the courage to compete. Nina nodded and agreed sympathetically, all while the wheels were turning in her head, her hands shaking with excitement as she rang up the order on the register and handed the teacher the card machine to swipe. The two minutes it took for Ned to put the trophy in her car and make the requisite small talk before returning to the store felt like two hours. Nina was vibrating with anticipation. She had finally figured out how they were going to make more money.
“Neens, what’s going on? You look-”
“EVERY KID GETS A TROPHY”
“What?”
“EVERY. KID. GETS. A. TROPHY. YOU HEARD ME”
“But that doesn’t make sense. They can’t all win”
“Yes, sure, of course. But they all try! The teacher had it right! She said they all deserve trophies for trying! Ned, do you know what this means?”
“I…I… hold on- how would they all get a-”
“Ned, for god sakes think about it! There are 45 kids competing in the spelling bee tomorrow. We sold ONE trophy today for the winner. If every kid got a trophy for simply attempting the spelling bee we would have sold FORTY FIVE trophies”
Ned couldn’t argue with that.
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It took a little while to sort out the logistics. Ned and Nina figured the Participation Trophies™ should be smaller than the winner’s trophies, but not so small that they seemed worthless. They decided to upgrade the machines and molds to handle 25 different designs and sizes, ranging from two inch plastic trophies to four foot metal ones, so that people could choose how they wished to celebrate their winners and participants. That was a sizable upfront cost. Then they had to update their catalogue with the new offerings, which involved hiring a graphic designer to create appealing layouts and printing thousands of new brochures. Another sizable cost. Next, they had to revamp their advertising strategy. Updating the newspaper ads required negotiating with local papers for prime placement, and the TV commercials needed a complete overhaul with new scripts, filming, and airtime purchases, all of which wasn’t cheap either. They spent nearly their entire life savings bringing the Participation Trophy™ into existence.
Once they established all the infrastructure needed for their new product though, the sales started rolling in immediately. The schools that usually ordered one trophy now ordered at least twenty for every event, recognizing not just the winners but every person involved. Local organizations that used to order three trophies now ordered sixty, ensuring that everyone from little league players to community volunteers received recognition. Participation Trophies™ were suddenly everywhere, becoming a staple at events from bake-offs to science fairs. Ned and Nina became the talk of the town, hailed as innovators who transformed the trophy industry and brought a new wave of inclusivity and encouragement to their community. Their business thrived and soon they were expanding their operations into the biggest warehouse in town and hiring more staff to keep up with the growing demand.
Of course, the expansion of the emporium was not without controversy. While some hailed Ned and Nina as champions of childhood development and proponents of equity, others vilified them, claiming they were making kids soft and unambitious. Parents and educators were divided, sparking heated debates at PTA meetings and parent’s groups. Ned and Nina were invited on talk shows and newscasts from all across the political spectrum, where they were alternately praised for their progressive approach and reprimanded for undermining traditional values of competition and achievement.
There were, naturally, lawsuits as well. Nina was quick to patent “Participation Trophy™” as soon as the first couple of cases sold out, which was smart considering that as the concept took off nationally and then globally, there were copycat Participation Trophies™ appearing in stores and online marketplaces around the world. Ned and Nina then assembled an in-house legal team, who spent their days tracking down and suing other trophy manufacturers for copyright infringement. Court battles ensued, with some cases settling quietly and others becoming public spectacles the town could rally around. Soon, they became the exclusive manufacturers of the Participation Trophy™ for all of North America. The revenue from these lawsuits began to rival the money they made from actual trophy sales, adding another lucrative dimension to their business empire.
At the beginning of the emporium’s rise, the town was buzzing with excitement. The expansion of the business created numerous job opportunities, from factory workers to administrative staff, significantly boosting the local economy. The press coverage from all the TV appearances Ned and Nina did brought national attention to their small town, giving everyone a renewed sense of pride and excitement for their community. The mayor even got council to approve a repainting of the town welcome sign, to read, “Home of the Participation Trophy™!”
People were genuinely happy that nice, down-to-earth folks like Ned and Nina were successful. Everyone thought it was well-deserved when they moved out of their modest townhouse and into a sprawling mansion on the edge of town. When they saw the couple driving around in a sleek, new luxury car, they might have felt a twinge of jealousy, but ultimately they viewed it as the result of the magical confluence of good ideas meeting good luck and hard work. Their vacations became the stuff of local legend—elaborate and luxurious trips to exotic destinations, from private islands to ski resorts. They would return perfectly tanned and refreshed, regaling everyone with tales of their adventures. Ned and Nina joined the exclusive golf club, donned sparkling jewelry, and always looked impeccably coiffed and put together. Their social calendar was filled with galas, business luncheons, and high-society events, cementing their status as local celebrities. The town watched as Ned and Nina moved up the social ladder, dropping their long-time poor friends, in favour of mingling with other successful business owners and the fortunate beneficiaries of generational wealth. This was, perhaps, unadmirable, however for the most part understandable as the natural trajectory of business owner’s whose business grew exponentially.
When word got out that they had redesigned their backyard pool in the shape of a trophy, townspeople couldn’t help but roll their eyes at the extravagance. But even this ostentatious display was seen as a charming testament to their passion for their trade. The pool became a quirky landmark, a symbol of their earned success and dedication.
For the most part, the town retained a general understanding that some people get to live the dream, and there was a consensus that Ned and Nina deserved it as much as anyone else. It helped that they were also moderately generous with their wealth, sponsoring charity events, donating a wing to the hospital and rebuilding and restocking the library after a pipe burst and damaged the H-N Non-Fiction and Architecture sections, respectively.
As Ned and Nina’s wealth and renown became commonplace, and the town’s identity as a trophy mecca solidified into the general consciousness, something else happened. The town became trophy crazy. At first, people simply had more trophies because of the whole Participation Trophy™ thing and because they were made right here, in our town, people felt the need to display them. It started innocently enough—proud parents showcasing their children's awards on mantels and shelves. Then, as the Emporium grew its capabilities to manufacture all different types of trophies—larger than your average toddler, smaller than a can of soda, gold, silver, platinum, wide, thin, tiered bases or no bases at all, just to name a few—people started collecting them.
And these were not casual collections like souvenir mugs or cool rocks. No, these were rabid collectors, intent on proving themselves with their collections. It makes sense, when you think about it. Trophies are symbols of success, so it follows that the more trophies you have, the more successful you are. Parents started signing their kids up for extracurriculars every single day of the week. Parents and childless adults alike joined all sorts of leagues and teams. For a while, all this extra socialization and physical activity was good for everyone. Until it barreled past the point of healthy interpersonal activity and arrived at full-blown obsessiveness.
People stopped caring about the activities they were doing—they just wanted to get a new trophy. The dinky participation trophies wouldn’t do. They wanted the newest, shiniest, most innovative trophies the Emporium was pumping out. Homes were soon outfitted with elaborate trophy cases and display shelves to showcase their winnings. Some people even carried smaller sized trophies in their purses and briefcases, stuck them on the dashboards of their cars, hung them on their Christmas trees, and used them as all manner of decorations throughout their houses.
And, as these things go, eventually the haves and have-nots splintered. The excessively trophied turned their noses up at the trophy-deficient, establishing a sort of class system in the town. Lifelong friends split up, families fought, and children were disallowed from visiting houses that didn’t have enough trophies, lest they lose their ambition. The west side was known as significantly more dangerous than the east, solely because the people there worked longer hours and couldn’t participate in as many trophy-awarding hobbies. In other words, trophies became a currency, and Ned and Nina became something like a mint.
They perpetrated this class system by constantly churning out new types of trophies and strategically selling them to certain competitions over others. For example, when they unveiled the Swimmer Trophy™ – a multi-paneled, chrome-plated three-foot cup filled with blue resin and miniature swimmers inside – the middle school swim team thought it should be their new big prize. The Emporium strung them along, assuring the coach they’d deliver the trophy, along with several smaller Swimmer Trophies for all participants. The excitement was palpable, and the team trained harder than ever, imagining their victory cemented by such a grand prize.
When the day of the race arrived, anticipation was high. An Emporium worker showed up but, to the dismay of everyone, delivered only the regular Multi-Column Trophies™, dropping them on the table and leaving before an explanation could be given. Despite winning the meet, the swimmer's spirits sank. Later that week, the swim coach discovered that the coveted Swimmer Trophies™ had actually been given to the decathlon. Furious, the coach called the Emporium to complain. The customer service representative, highly trained for this exact type of interaction, simply apologized for the mistake, offered a conciliatory Swimmer Trophy™ to the coach, and forwarded a contract to ensure they all got the next edition of swimmer trophies the following year—at double the cost. And so it went, over and over again.
It should be noted that the wealthy people Ned and Nina had associated with were not immune to the trophy craze. They too desired the newest and most unique trophy creations and grew bitter when Ned or Nina wouldn’t give them or their various leagues first dibs. The wealthy firmly believed they deserved all the best trophies whenever they wanted, and when Ned and Nina did not indulge these whims—whether due to a steadfast moral compass or to avoid compromising their power by appearing easily swayed—nobody knows. Ned and Nina we’re accused of being cheap and power-hungry. They were now seen as not generous enough, not team players, and ultimately, as suspicious. It was as if the other rich folks could no longer ignore the fact that Ned and Nina seemed to be playing some sort of real-life game of chess with who got what trophy and when. Their resentment, distaste, and, let’s be honest, jealousy of Ned and Nina grew until their social circle simply fell apart.
Their ostracization began with oft-gossiped-about outbursts at the upscale restaurants the upper echelon were known to frequent. Then the charities Ned and Nina donated to, mostly helmed by their former friends, started demanding more and more money and more and more elaborate trophies for volunteers and other donors. When Ned and Nina could not or did not deliver, they found themselves uninvited to the prestigious galas where they were once honored guests. They were blamed for various slights, real or imagined, as the town chalked up any misfortune to the fact that Ned and Nina, by now the wealthiest people for hundreds of kilometers, refused to solve the issue with money or trophies. Invitations to events stopped being sent, and existing engagements were abruptly canceled. They were deleted from group text message threads, and people they once considered close friends began ignoring them in public.
Eventually, Ned and Nina found themselves in their trophy-filled mansion, utterly alone.
There came a time when Ned and Nina, once revered and beloved by the town, became so abhorred, so shunned from society, that they essentially became totally reclusive. The factory more or less ran itself at this point, with its designers, production managers, and round-the-clock workers, so Ned and Nina stayed in their mansion and, for lack of a better word, let their brains rot. They posted unpopular and offensive opinions on social media, alienating themselves further. They left nasty voicemails for their former friends, berating them for perceived wrongdoings (recordings of which were then posted on social media, to the angry commenters’ delight) and, supposedly, cut their once supportive siblings out of their massive will. From the outside, it seemed as though they spent all day complaining about the town, the people, and the world at large—a world in which they no longer really participated, but seemingly still controlled.
Their lives became tiny, shriveled, and bitter. The opulence of their surroundings stood in stark contrast to their miserable existence. Their anger festered until, as the rumor goes, they started taking it out on each other. Neighbors reported hearing shouting matches echoing from the mansion, arguments that seemed to grow more intense with each passing day.
The story of what happens next differs depending on who you speak to. All I know is that while, occasionally someone might catch a glimpse of Nina smoking by the grandiose street-facing bay window or walking slowly and hunched around her meticulously maintained garden, nobody ever sees Ned anymore.
The most persistent theory about where Ned might be is that he is dead, bludgeoned to death by Nina during one of their notorious arguments, with one of those 5ft emerald titanium figure trophies they briefly sold in the late 90s and buried somewhere on their expansive property.
After such a salacious reveal, I assume you are wondering who I am and why I am telling this story. Well, my name is Terry Branobol, and I’m 26 years old. I have worked at the Emporium for ten years, since the day I turned sixteen and could legally join the workforce. I started out on the molds and within three years, I worked my way up to electroplating. It was my job to make sure the trophies glistened and shined and had all the desirable qualities you’d want in a quality trophy. Because of my job, I had prolonged exposure to chromium, nickel, and cadmium, and now I’m heavy-metal poisoned. It started with some gastro issues—nothing I couldn’t handle—and now I’m told my organs are shutting down and my brain is deteriorating. The nurses told me I’ve begun hallucinating frequently, and while I have no reason not to believe them, I can no longer distinguish what is a hallucination and what is simply my new reality. I’m hooked up to all these tubes and things and I can’t breathe on my own anymore. I’ve been here for three months, mostly declining, although some days are better than others.
The Emporium offered my family an exorbitant sum to keep quiet, and I urged my family to take it. My parents visit me twice a week, which was nice at first, but lately I’ve been finding their tears and prayers exhausting. I can tell they’re already grieving, and I don’t think they’ll ever forgive themselves for accepting the cash, but what else could they do? Nothing can be done to save me now. They may as well make a profit.
The Emporium put me up in a private hospital suite with round-the-clock care and everything I could ever need. I’m not sure how many more there are like me out there, but presumably there are many, perhaps right next door in their own suites. In my final days, I wanted to give my own abridged history of the town and offer a little of my own perspective on our local trophy dynasty. It is said that history is written by the winners, but in a town where everyone won all the time, I believe history will have to be a living, open source document, rewritten every time a new trophy is awarded.
By the way, I’m leaving behind 33 Participation Trophies™, 2 platinum 3-footer Winning Cup Column Trophies™, 17 Figure Trophies™ with heights ranging from 10 inches to 4 feet, one Single Column Championship Trophy™ with citrine inlay, a Second Edition Swimmer Trophy™ with sodalite inlay, 1 Gold Trophy of Honor™, 2 Holographic Star Performer Trophies™, 1 LED Innovation Trophy™, 1 Roaring Lion Championship™, 5 Novelty Keychain Trophies™, 3 interactive Rotating Globe Trophies™, 1 Musical Note Trophy™, and a one-of-a-kind, custom-designed Trophy Emporium Founders Award Trophy™ for 10 years of service.
I think I’ve said everything I need to. For now, I’m stuck in the hospital and, as far as I know, Nina is stuck too in her giant house, where she may be alone, maybe not. Sometimes I think about her thinking about us. If this were a movie, a rags-to-riches story about regular people from a small town making it big before a spectacular downfall, here is how I would depict the final scene:
Nina leans against her bay window that looks out onto the street and takes a long drag from her cigarette. She slumps a few inches downward so her left butt cheek is supported by the ledge and exhales slowly, allowing her usually rigid spine to unfurl against the window. Two teens walk by holding colorful icy drinks, their chatter momentarily stifled as they glance up towards the house to see if any blinds or lights have been left on, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s inside. Nina knew the young people in the town were scared of her. She could see it in the way they pointed and stared at the house and playfully pushed each other onto her lawn, as if breaching the threshold between sidewalk and private property instantly placed them in mortal danger. Sometimes they’d stand there for many minutes watching the window. When she came around to close the blinds she’d catch glimpses of them screaming playfully and running away.
Once, a young girl and her father were walking by the house when the father noticed his daughter’s shoe was untied. As he bent down to help her, the girl looked up and saw Nina wandering in her garden. Nina waved at the girl, who promptly burst into tears. The father, having noticed the cause of his daughter's cries, quickly grabbed her hand and rushed her away from the house.
Nina's eyes lock with one of the teens, and both quickly avert their gaze, not wishing to be recognized in such a vulnerable way. While looking down, Nina notices a scuff mark on the two-foot Winning Cup Trophy™ beside her on the ledge and wraps her sleeve around her thumb to try to buff out the impurity. A tiny piece of the metal chips off and lands beside the wordless plaque at the base. Nina doesn’t notice. She exhales as she presses her cheek against the cool window and absentmindedly ashes her cigarette into the trophy. The teens sip their drinks, giggling and glancing back nervously at Nina’s window as they turn the corner away from her house.
Lauren Prousky
2024