This is for Cody.
“Me and all my friends, we’ve got nothing to prove, nothing to lose.”
All Jeremy ever knew how to do was leave.
He was born on April 25, 1923 to John and Margaret Fitzgerald; Irish immigrants who resided in Boston, Massachusetts. Jeremy was 7 pounds and 4 ounces and had eyes that looked like ice. He was the third son for John and Margaret. He had two older brothers, Toby and Peter. Toby was just two years older than Jeremy. Peter was five when Jeremy was born.
After living and breathing for two short years, Jeremy saw his mother give birth to a little girl. They named her Mary and Jeremy loved her. Just one year later the final baby for the Fitzgerald family was introduced to the world. Her name was Sara and she was just as adorable as Mary. The Fitzgerald family was now complete and seemed to be happy.
John and Margaret met in Ireland when they were just 17. They married two years later and decided they would not die in Ireland. They chose to move to America: the home of the free and the land of opportunity. After passing through Ellis Island, they made the decision that New York was not the place for them. They had heard about Boston and the large Irish community there so they went in hopes of finding work, affordable living, and a sense of comfort. They had Peter, the first son, when they were 23 in 1918. They were not yet financially stable, but Boston’s factory industry was booming in post-war America and Peter managed to take advantage of his opportunity with hard work and the street smarts he learned from his father. Even though this was a far cry from Ireland, they settled in.
Once they had had five children they decided to call it quits with the babies. John was a great father and husband. He would stop at nothing to care for his family. He put family first and everything else second. Unfortunately, drinking was second. John was an angry drunk. If there were times when he had a little extra spending money he would spend time with the bottle. Jeremy was only five when this habit developed into a problem. John began verbally abusing his wife and oldest son. Peter was now 10 and occasionally became the subject of his fathers drunken rants. At the end of the day though, John put food on the table and you would be hard pressed to find a better sober father. In his three boys he instilled qualities like respect, work ethic, pride, and passion. All three looked up to their father.
Then the depression came. John lost his job and was struggling to support his family. They lost everything. Their house, their clothes, and, most importantly, their sense of security. It was 1931 when Peter became severely ill from starvation and exhaustion. He was just 13 years old when he had to start working in a factory to help keep the family floating. The Fitzgerald’s couldn’t afford hospital bills and Peter began slipping. He died that year. Just another dead boy in another starving city. A snapshot of the time.
In great despair, John and Margaret decided to make a move. Tulsa, Oklahoma was considered the “Oil Capital of the World.” Using the same work ethic and street smarts that aided him in Boston, John hoped to take advantage of another booming industry. He was unsure if he would find work, but Peter’s death spoiled the American Dream for him. He hated Boston for what it did to his first son. He took the family to Tulsa and found work quickly. Unfortunately, with the realization that he would not let another son die in Boston, his drinking got worse.
Jeremy and Toby had a strong bond after Peter’s death. Toby’s personality was naturally charming and bright. He was a care taker and a giver. When he walked in a room he had everyone’s attention. He was outgoing, smart, and confident. Jeremy was the opposite. He was rarely noticed, very reserved, and hardly ever spoke. He did learn how to take care of people from his father and brother, though. Toby dealt with Peter’s death by becoming even more vibrant, while Jeremy became even more reserved. Toby and John had a special connection as well. Everybody loved Toby. Jeremy loved Toby, too. Jeremy was not a jealous younger brother, he played his role well. But what Toby was to Jeremy, Jeremy was to his younger sisters. They looked up to Jeremy for the way he dealt with tough situations. He was stoic and unflappable. He never faltered. He had that in common with John and Toby.
The train ride to Tulsa was long. Jeremy couldn’t sleep on trains. Once they arrived and got settled, the townspeople accepted them as a part of their community and life went on. Life in Oklahoma was a far car from the hustle and bustle of Boston, but they adopted a new way of life and adapted to their social environment. In small towns, one persons business is everyone‘s business. A big city has privacy. The Fitzgerald’s never told anyone about Peter, but John’s drinking visibly got worse. He became physically violent with Margaret. She had to hide the scars and the bruises.
John was working for an oil company and making pretty decent money. Once night after John had been drinking for quite sometime, he looked over at Jeremy who was just staring blankly ahead of him. John looked at him and said, “How come you don’t ever say nothing, boy?”
Thirteen year old Jeremy gave no response.
“Do you hear me, boy?”
No response. John pulled out a knife.
“If you don’t say anything, I’m going to cut your neck open wider than the Mississippi, do you hear me?”
Still no response. No fear in Jeremy’s eyes, and no fear in John’s. Jeremy’s eyes were filled with confusion.
This was not the father he knew.
“What are you some kind of fucking mute?”
At this point, Toby heard the voice of his father and went to see what was going on. He immediately came to the defense of Jeremy.
“Stop yelling at him, Dad, just leave him alone.”
In a moment of drunken rage, John said “Shut the fuck up, and mind your business.” He cut Toby across the face.
They never spoke about the incident ever again.
These incidents started happening more often. John became increasingly violent. Toby became increasingly popular around town and Jeremy became increasingly reserved. Life went on.
Four years passed. It was 1940 now. The Dust Bowl had been pestering residents of Texas and Oklahoma for a few years now, but nothing had been too bad in Northeast Oklahoma. Not until this day. A dust storm hit Tulsa like a brick. Houses got destroyed. The Fitzgerald’s house was a victim. The house collapsed. John, Margaret, Toby, Jeremy, and Mary made it out. Sara was crushed and killed. Just another dead girl in another lonely town.
The despair overwhelmed Margaret. The Fitzgerald’s managed to build their house back on the same property. Once it was built, Margaret couldn’t take it. She took John’s shotgun and killed herself in the backyard just three weeks after Sara was killed in the storm. Depression took John by storm. He drank more and more and became even more violent with his remaining family. Just another dead wife in her dead husbands arms. Just three dead children left behind in another dead town.
Jeremy and Toby became fixtures around the local hangouts. It was their only way of coping with the pain. They refused to sit around and dwell on their losses. Tulsa had managed to get back on its feet after the storm and the town was trying to recover. Bob Willis and the Texas Playboys began performing in Tulsa and the kids loved dancing. At one particular dance, Jeremy was observing a young lady named Elizabeth Stallworth. They were both 18 and Jeremy had fallen in love. He was far too shy to ever approach her and ask her out, but Elizabeth was interested in Jeremy as well. She approached him one night and asked him to dance. He agreed and shortly after they began dating.
Their relationship went well. They seemed to compliment each other very well. Elizabeth was just like Toby. Very outgoing, very popular, well-liked. Maybe sometimes opposites do attract. She didn’t know much about Jeremy’s past, and he preferred to keep it that way. Bottling up his emotions was just how he dealt with things. Elizabeth respected that.
Jeremy was 19 when his father died. He fell off the oil rig he was working on shattered his bone structure. Just another dead man in another dead town. A deadbeat father in a deadbeat world. No one ever really gave a fuck about him anyway.
At this point, Johns death was more of a relief for Jeremy, Toby, and Mary. They had grown tired of hiding the bruises. However, Toby and Jeremy were not making enough money to support their younger sister who was now 17 and becoming a young lady. They both worked for the company that was building Route 66, but they were young and inexperienced so they earned low wages. They did work hard, though. They learned that from their father.
Toby sat Jeremy down one night and said to him, “You know I love you, right.”
Jeremy said, “I know that.”
“Well, to keep you and Mary from going hungry, I have to make a sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I signed up to fight in this little war that America’s in. I’m set to leave in a week. Look, I’m going to be deployed for two years. You guys are going to receive my checks and I want you to take that money and spend only what you need and save the rest. When I get back, we’ll get the hell out of here and move to California where it’s sunny all year round. Take care of your sister because she’s all we have left. Keep working to stay busy, and make sure Elizabeth is okay. I’m not going to die here and neither are you and Mary. We’re going to get away from this shit. You understand?”
“I understand.”
Three years later when Jeremy was 21, a military officer came to his house and told him his brother, Toby, had been killed in action. He had been rewarded with a purple heart and it was on behalf of the country that Jeremy accept it. Jeremy did without a blink. He cried for three days and screamed for three nights. He lost his brother, his best friend. Just another dead boy in another dead bunker in another dead war in another dead country killed by another dead bullet from another dead gun held by another dead boy. They didn’t even know what they were fighting for.
A few weeks later he and Elizabeth were sitting in his kitchen, talking about Toby. Jeremy refused to say anything more than “It will be okay, I‘m going to be fine.”
Elizabeth became angry with his indifference.
“How come you just won’t open to me? How come you just won’t break down and show me emotion?”
“You have to understand that’s just not how I deal with things.”
“I can’t accept that. Do you even love me?”
“Of course.”
“Then say something.”
“I can’t.”
“I hate you Jeremy, I hate you.”
Jeremy got angry, “You don’t even know anything about me! I have two dead brothers, a dead sister, a dead father, and a dead mother. I have a history of violence. Everyone I have ever loved left me and I can’t open up to you because I’m afraid you’ll leave. I’m afraid of being the only one left.”
Elizabeth started to cry and Jeremy just walked away. Mary was all he had left. They began packing their bags for California. A day before they were going to leave, Jeremy decided to talk to Elizabeth one last time. He wasn’t sure if he was going to say good-bye or ask her to come with him. It had been two weeks since they had spoken. He sat in his house moments before leaving to talk to her when he decided he was going to ask her to marry him and leave for California.
When he got to her house there was a car out front. He walked inside to see her and another man kissing on her couch. He was enraged, but instead of confronting the man or Elizabeth he just walked away, emotionless. His icy eyes didn’t dig into Elizabeth, they just looked away.
The next day he and Mary left for California. He didn’t mention what he had seen the night before to Mary. The pain and losses crippled him. Right before they went to the train station he stopped at the bank to withdrawal what was left of Toby’s military checks. Just after putting the envelope full of money in his pocket, two men pulled out M1918 Browning Automatic Rifles. Jeremy tried to run and they shot him. The men took all the money in that bank and ran. Jeremy was dead.
There was only person in Jeremy’s life who never left him and that was Mary. Maybe she just never had the chance. She collapsed when she saw her dead brother, the only family she had left, on the floor soaked in blood. She moved to California and started over.
When Elizabeth heard what had happened she cried and cried and cried and cried. One day Elizabeth died in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She took her regret to the grave.
And Jeremy was sprawled out in that bank. Just another dead boy from another dead town with another dead father and another dead mother and two dead brothers and one dead sister. When his heart beat for that last time, all he could take with him was what he’d given away.
WW
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Fear Of Failure Part Two
This story is based on some random true and fake events and is influenced by the movie “Guide To Saints and the album “Travels” by the band Defeater.
Some lines stolen/borrowed from the following songs:
“Big City Dreams” by Modern Life Is War
“Convectuouso” by Glassjaw
“I Can’t Go On This Way” and “Dear Self” by Beanie Sigel
“The Greatest Pac-Man Victory In History” by Aesop Rock
My name is William and I’m from the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. I’m 19, I dropped out of college, I feel like I’m working a dead end job, and I know that there is more out there than this. I just haven’t found it yet. Or maybe I have and I’m just too afraid to acknowledge it. I have a beautiful, restless mind. I like to cuss when it’s inappropriate. I’m a piece of shit. I am a leader. I make decisions from the heart and not the mind. I am a listener. I’m afraid of my fears. This is my story.
Life sucks, dickhead.
Every day is pretty much the same shit. I wake up, drive somewhere, see the same people, work the same job, text message the same people, take the same pictures, and say the same shit. I think we’ve all done a pretty good job of convincing ourselves that it’s the same everywhere, but that can’t be true. There has to be a place where the Sun doesn’t rise in the east. The grass has to be greener on the other side of the fence. Unfortunately, that place is neither here nor there.
People have never had a problem opening up to me about things. I think I’m a good listener and peoples actions have only made me more confident in that thought. And it’s not like I’m just pretending to listen. I really give a fuck about what people have to say… not everyone, but at the very least I’ll listen and digest what they are saying and attempt to help them. I like listening, I like helping, I’m attracted to the idea that someone is comfortable enough with me to talk about their emotions. That is a very attractive thought.
I’m the type of person that will share a shoe. If I trust you then I’ll do anything for you. That is very attractive to other people, but unfortunately some people take advantage of that quality in a person, so I have to be very picky with who I trust. I have more fingers than people I trust and that has made me a bitter and angry person. I can’t let people see that though. These fucking people will never break me.
It’s a quality that sucks sometimes. The talkers outnumber the listeners. You have to be careful with listeners. For as much as I like listening to people, sometimes I want to talk and the shittiest feeling in the world is when no body will listen. And when nobody is listening, you start going crazy. You start staying up later then you used to. You start thinking constantly and it starts eating at you. And you start resenting the talkers because you can’t be like them. And your thoughts become a cry for help but there’s no helping hand because no one is listening.
I just want to someone to listen for once. Just one time. Just once.
One day I woke up and decided I was going to make a list of things that I’m afraid of. I kind of got tired of that bull-shit tough guy “I’m not afraid of anything” role that the youth of today seems to be playing. I’m afraid of a lot of shit. But I’m most afraid of admitting to myself that I’m afraid of a lot of shit. Fuck opening up to people. I have problems just opening up to myself. I never wrote anything on that list because I’m afraid that they might come true. I’m trapped in a game of cat and mouse with myself. And there’s only been a few times in the past couple of months that my mind hasn’t been racing. I’m afraid that I might admit to myself what caused those times. I’m afraid to tell the people that were with me at those times that they helped me more than they know. I’m afraid of the responses.
All I want is for someone to listen, but at the same time, I’m afraid to tell someone what I’m afraid of. How fucking stupid does that sound? But it’s a sincere statement.
I stopped asking questions because I’m afraid of the answers. But at the same time, I’m still looking for the answers.
The day I didn’t make the list turned into another sleepless night. Instead of struggling I decided to go for a walk. I made my way to an area just outside the city. I saw a couple of bums with shopping cards and normally I would have been interested but tonight I was doing the talking. I was going to be selfish for just one night. Just one night. Just once.
I got into the heart of the city and it must have been around 5 in the morning at this point. I found myself one block past Delaware Avenue. I stopped right in front of a church. Fragments of a conversation I had with someone about religion started to flash in my head, but they were unorganized and out of place. I got down on both knees and started to pray, but I wasn’t praying to any God or Spirit. I was just doing it. It only takes a minute to pray and a second to die. And I felt nothing. No electricity rushed through my veins. No gold chariots raced around the city block. The wind didn’t even blow. All I had was blood flow and a heartbeat. Skin and bones. My heart was still beating. That in itself was enough of a sign for me to get my shit together and keep walking.
The commuters started to pour in. Men and women dressed in their business attire walked past me and I felt so much resentment towards them. I saw dead people. Not literally dead people. Just people walking around and acting like they were alive, but they weren’t. They were lifeless on the inside. No heart, no passion, no soul. They were just going through the motions and it was fucking disgusting. Just faces. No identity, no free thought. Silence and apathy.
The men and women asking me for some change was who I felt connected to. I didn’t have time to converse today, though. The Sun broke the darkness.
I found inspiration in a man that has nothing, never had anything, and will never have anything. He stands on a corner in the middle of the city and sings songs to God everyday. That is true love, something I don’t know anything about. After seeing him I immediately felt positive. I had energy like I’ve never had before. The city came to life and I walked home.
I started writing down my biggest fears. Right afterwards I started writing down the names of people that I would allow myself to open up to. Just a couple names of people that I would tell that type of shit to. It takes a strong person to show weakness. But it takes an equally strong person to accept another persons weakness as strength. It wasn’t a very long list. For the record, I burned both pieces of paper.
Not one person on that list is a fucking listener.
It’s easier for me to tell people what I’m not afraid of. I’m not afraid of death, I’m just afraid of what’s going to be written on my epitaph. I’m not afraid of living. I’m not afraid of talking in front of large groups. I’m not afraid of what people think about me. I’m not afraid of love. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of failure.
I do not fear failure. I do not fear success. I don’t want to change the world, but if you give me a chance I swear you’ll never meet anyone else like me ever again. I just need one chance. There is nothing about me that is average.
When I got home from my walk I decided to read the letter that I wrote to myself. It meant nothing to me. I think you definitely meet the people you do for a reason. I can’t think of many other people that would do some of the shit that we did. I can’t believe we weren’t afraid. I sat back down on the couch and tried to wrap my head around what I was thinking and these words popped into my head:
“Who is the meat and who is the butcher?
I am the fucking butcher and you are not there.”
ww
Some lines stolen/borrowed from the following songs:
“Big City Dreams” by Modern Life Is War
“Convectuouso” by Glassjaw
“I Can’t Go On This Way” and “Dear Self” by Beanie Sigel
“The Greatest Pac-Man Victory In History” by Aesop Rock
My name is William and I’m from the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. I’m 19, I dropped out of college, I feel like I’m working a dead end job, and I know that there is more out there than this. I just haven’t found it yet. Or maybe I have and I’m just too afraid to acknowledge it. I have a beautiful, restless mind. I like to cuss when it’s inappropriate. I’m a piece of shit. I am a leader. I make decisions from the heart and not the mind. I am a listener. I’m afraid of my fears. This is my story.
Life sucks, dickhead.
Every day is pretty much the same shit. I wake up, drive somewhere, see the same people, work the same job, text message the same people, take the same pictures, and say the same shit. I think we’ve all done a pretty good job of convincing ourselves that it’s the same everywhere, but that can’t be true. There has to be a place where the Sun doesn’t rise in the east. The grass has to be greener on the other side of the fence. Unfortunately, that place is neither here nor there.
People have never had a problem opening up to me about things. I think I’m a good listener and peoples actions have only made me more confident in that thought. And it’s not like I’m just pretending to listen. I really give a fuck about what people have to say… not everyone, but at the very least I’ll listen and digest what they are saying and attempt to help them. I like listening, I like helping, I’m attracted to the idea that someone is comfortable enough with me to talk about their emotions. That is a very attractive thought.
I’m the type of person that will share a shoe. If I trust you then I’ll do anything for you. That is very attractive to other people, but unfortunately some people take advantage of that quality in a person, so I have to be very picky with who I trust. I have more fingers than people I trust and that has made me a bitter and angry person. I can’t let people see that though. These fucking people will never break me.
It’s a quality that sucks sometimes. The talkers outnumber the listeners. You have to be careful with listeners. For as much as I like listening to people, sometimes I want to talk and the shittiest feeling in the world is when no body will listen. And when nobody is listening, you start going crazy. You start staying up later then you used to. You start thinking constantly and it starts eating at you. And you start resenting the talkers because you can’t be like them. And your thoughts become a cry for help but there’s no helping hand because no one is listening.
I just want to someone to listen for once. Just one time. Just once.
One day I woke up and decided I was going to make a list of things that I’m afraid of. I kind of got tired of that bull-shit tough guy “I’m not afraid of anything” role that the youth of today seems to be playing. I’m afraid of a lot of shit. But I’m most afraid of admitting to myself that I’m afraid of a lot of shit. Fuck opening up to people. I have problems just opening up to myself. I never wrote anything on that list because I’m afraid that they might come true. I’m trapped in a game of cat and mouse with myself. And there’s only been a few times in the past couple of months that my mind hasn’t been racing. I’m afraid that I might admit to myself what caused those times. I’m afraid to tell the people that were with me at those times that they helped me more than they know. I’m afraid of the responses.
All I want is for someone to listen, but at the same time, I’m afraid to tell someone what I’m afraid of. How fucking stupid does that sound? But it’s a sincere statement.
I stopped asking questions because I’m afraid of the answers. But at the same time, I’m still looking for the answers.
The day I didn’t make the list turned into another sleepless night. Instead of struggling I decided to go for a walk. I made my way to an area just outside the city. I saw a couple of bums with shopping cards and normally I would have been interested but tonight I was doing the talking. I was going to be selfish for just one night. Just one night. Just once.
I got into the heart of the city and it must have been around 5 in the morning at this point. I found myself one block past Delaware Avenue. I stopped right in front of a church. Fragments of a conversation I had with someone about religion started to flash in my head, but they were unorganized and out of place. I got down on both knees and started to pray, but I wasn’t praying to any God or Spirit. I was just doing it. It only takes a minute to pray and a second to die. And I felt nothing. No electricity rushed through my veins. No gold chariots raced around the city block. The wind didn’t even blow. All I had was blood flow and a heartbeat. Skin and bones. My heart was still beating. That in itself was enough of a sign for me to get my shit together and keep walking.
The commuters started to pour in. Men and women dressed in their business attire walked past me and I felt so much resentment towards them. I saw dead people. Not literally dead people. Just people walking around and acting like they were alive, but they weren’t. They were lifeless on the inside. No heart, no passion, no soul. They were just going through the motions and it was fucking disgusting. Just faces. No identity, no free thought. Silence and apathy.
The men and women asking me for some change was who I felt connected to. I didn’t have time to converse today, though. The Sun broke the darkness.
I found inspiration in a man that has nothing, never had anything, and will never have anything. He stands on a corner in the middle of the city and sings songs to God everyday. That is true love, something I don’t know anything about. After seeing him I immediately felt positive. I had energy like I’ve never had before. The city came to life and I walked home.
I started writing down my biggest fears. Right afterwards I started writing down the names of people that I would allow myself to open up to. Just a couple names of people that I would tell that type of shit to. It takes a strong person to show weakness. But it takes an equally strong person to accept another persons weakness as strength. It wasn’t a very long list. For the record, I burned both pieces of paper.
Not one person on that list is a fucking listener.
It’s easier for me to tell people what I’m not afraid of. I’m not afraid of death, I’m just afraid of what’s going to be written on my epitaph. I’m not afraid of living. I’m not afraid of talking in front of large groups. I’m not afraid of what people think about me. I’m not afraid of love. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of failure.
I do not fear failure. I do not fear success. I don’t want to change the world, but if you give me a chance I swear you’ll never meet anyone else like me ever again. I just need one chance. There is nothing about me that is average.
When I got home from my walk I decided to read the letter that I wrote to myself. It meant nothing to me. I think you definitely meet the people you do for a reason. I can’t think of many other people that would do some of the shit that we did. I can’t believe we weren’t afraid. I sat back down on the couch and tried to wrap my head around what I was thinking and these words popped into my head:
“Who is the meat and who is the butcher?
I am the fucking butcher and you are not there.”
ww
Monday, February 16, 2009
Already?
Rest In Peace Mrs. Calvetti. At least you weren't separated for long.
"Fear Of Failure: Part Two" coming whenever I feel like it.
Shout-outs to all my visitors who got referred from SilentWrytes.
Happy Valentines Day from the sweatshop.
WW
"Fear Of Failure: Part Two" coming whenever I feel like it.
Shout-outs to all my visitors who got referred from SilentWrytes.
Happy Valentines Day from the sweatshop.
WW
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Fear of Failure Part One
Rest In Peace Mr. Calvetti - if there is a Heaven then I'm sure God is enjoying your pizza. This is for you
For 19 years, 237 months, 12,325 weeks, and 86,869 days I’ve looked in a mirror. It wasn’t until the 86,870th day that I finally saw something. I don’t mean that in a bullshit teenage “I don’t like what I see in the mirror” or “I finally saw myself” way. Or in a Donnie Darko “a rabbit is telling me what to do” way. I mean this in a different way.
I received a letter when I was 16 and didn’t open it until today.
Until recently, it’s been hard for me to see two sides of a story. I feel like showing maturity is having the ability to accept an idea or action that you don’t agree with because you understand the difference. There have been differences throughout history. It’s usually good versus evil. Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, Sharks and Jets, Democrats and Republicans, God and the Devil. It’s about choosing a side. Not necessarily the right side, but a side.
If knowing is half the battle, then understanding is winning the war. To really understand where you stand you have to understand where you don’t stand. Someone I know understands. She understands in a way that I probably never will. Whether it is real or fake is a different argument, but there is no denying traces of God and the Devil in our world. Good versus evil.
The Devil feeds on our insecurities. Apathy is the devil. Jealousy is the devil. Envy is the devil. Hate is the devil. Death, love, birth, spite, these are all products of idle hands. My idle hands will never be the Devils play thing.
God feeds on our innocence. Hope is God. Naivety is God. Patience is God. These are all products of diligent hands. My machinists hands will never be Gods play thing.
Everything I just wrote I don’t really believe. I don’t believe that when we die we get judged and are sent to either heaven or hell. I don’t believe that anyone is waiting for me when I die. I believe that good things happen and bad things happen, but sometimes things happen and they are more than just a coincidence. I believe I met the people I have for a reason. I believe there is more out there.
On my 86,870th day I decided to open the letter. There was no return address. Only the recipients, which was clearly mine.
I’ve seen things happen. Maybe for a reason, maybe not, but I did see myself get goose bumps for twenty minutes on a Friday night and then again on a Monday night and there was a reason for that. She meant every word she said. Sometimes people say things to you with a conviction that makes you believe what they believe. For a little while that night I believed because as pretty as she was, the most beautiful thing about her was her mind. And after hearing her speak, I couldn’t help it.
She told me really personal stories and I couldn’t believe someone would open up about those types of things to me. She told me why and how. It was weird because normally when someone tells me things like that I don’t care. But this time I paid attention to every single word because for one reason or another she was comfortable sharing something that she loved and I can’t explain that and I’m not going to try to. That whole conversation happened for a reason. Thank you.
On my drivers license it says I’m an organ donor. I volunteered for that the day I got the letter and at the time I didn’t think about it. I have thought about it since then and I hope that when I do die in a car accident that they somehow manage to give my heart to someone that needs it because there is only one like it. I’ve only met a few people with drive like mine and I can tell they have it because I have it. That girl has it.
Like I said, when I looked in that mirror something was definitely different. It wasn’t my physical appearance. It wasn’t the background. It wasn’t the silence. There wasn’t anybody on the other side of the mirror. No tenth dimension. Just a reflection. I touched the glass and it was just glass. I opened up the letter with sweaty palms and shaky hands.
I finally saw two sides. That is what was different. I saw the Cowboys and Indians, the Democrats and Republicans, the Cops and the Robbers, the Sharks and the Jets, God and the Devil, the good and the bad all in my eyes. What I finally realized was that my drive to succeed was greater than my fear of failure. There is a difference.
If your fear of failure is greater than your drive to succeed then you will be afraid your whole life.
I tried reading the letter like you normally read a letter but it was in a language I didn’t understand. It made sense that I was standing in front of a mirror. In my hand writing was words and sentences written in reverse. I held it up to the mirror and this is what the letter said:
The Golden Gate Bridge
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word.
They were happy together. Genuinely happy. They lived in San Francisco, on Kersey Street; right next to the bay and in walking distance of The Giants’ stadium. They stayed in her parents house. They were struggling financially, but that was fine. It was spring now, and the flowers were blooming. Everyday she looked out her window she saw the perfect postcard. He did not. Not on most days anyway, but who could hate a day like this? The sun was shining, the Giants were playing, it was paradise. He answered the phone at 9:30 a.m. on Saturday May 18. He was on the phone for 15 minutes and 22 seconds before he hung up. She asked who had called and he said it was an old friend. It began to rain while they were walking home from the game. It was around five. After they ran inside giggling, he felt sick to his stomach. He looked at the clock, then ran to the bathroom and threw up immediately. She asked what was wrong, he said it must be food poisoning. At 8:00 he walked into the den.
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know.
She didn’t know much about him. All she really cared to know was his name, and where he came from. He told her he came from New York. He said after living his whole life on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, he wanted to see the Pacific. They met one night on the very street they lived on. She was going home, he was going nowhere. Love at first sight is the saying someone would use for this meeting.
He, on the other hand, knew all about her. She was 24, currently attending the University of San Francisco with a major in mass communications and a minor in creative writing. She was interning at the San Francisco branch of Cingular Wireless twice a week. He knew exactly when to run into her. She lived her whole life in the Bay Area. She never had great luck with guys, until he walked into her life five years ago.
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know. While they walked to the car, a 1996 Nissan Altima with a scratch under the left rear-view mirror, he fiddled nervously with some change in his pocket; her with the car keys. The ride was silent. They fidgeted in their seats, checking the clock frequently and talking less and less often. The trip was awkward at best. It was as if they were in two separate cars under the same roof. When they arrived he told her to stay in the car, and to turn on the high beams. She did as told. Not knowing what to do, her mascara began to smear. At 9:22 he climbed to the top railing, the one that was slightly bent inward, and held onto one of the enormous beams. He felt on top of the world.
She said “Wait.” She was already out of the car by the time he looked to his right. She was 15 feet away and closing in. She said she could borrow money from her parents, anything but this. He told her it was not the money. She asked the question he expected, but had no answer to. He looked into her eyes and told her there was a lot of things she didn’t know about him. He told her he would love her forever, and maybe he would come back and visit when she had a real family. She didn’t understand. She could only whisper that she loved him. He leaned over and ran his fingers through her hair. She was still crying. She held on, but he jumped anyway. He hit the water traveling 200 miles per hour. He did not die. He did not resurface. He swam and swam. For 56 minutes and 45 seconds he swam. He was 86.3 miles underwater when he reached the gates. He could almost see the fires, and hear the screams. The war had started. Gills flapping, he said the word, and the gates opened.
She stood there for 14 minutes when she realized that he was gone. She figured he died on impact, and his body floated now on top of the water somewhere. She thought about calling the police, and her parents, and her friends. But she didn’t. She just looked at her cell phone, ready to dial his number. Maybe he’s not dead, she thought, maybe he’ll pick up and say he had a wonderful trip, but he was lost in San Diego. She called his phone 32 times. By the 6th she was crying hysterically, by the 15th she was screaming his name, by the 28th she was on the top rail bent inward ready to jump after him. The 32nd time his answering machine whispered a sweet nothing into her ear, she stepped down from the rail. She opened her purse, grabbed a tissue and wiped away her tears along with the memory of him. At 10:13 she got back in her car, and drove away with a smile on her face.
After I read the story I knew where it came from. I’ll never understand. The difference between you and me? I’m done asking questions.
Fear of Failure Part Two Coming Soon.
WW
For 19 years, 237 months, 12,325 weeks, and 86,869 days I’ve looked in a mirror. It wasn’t until the 86,870th day that I finally saw something. I don’t mean that in a bullshit teenage “I don’t like what I see in the mirror” or “I finally saw myself” way. Or in a Donnie Darko “a rabbit is telling me what to do” way. I mean this in a different way.
I received a letter when I was 16 and didn’t open it until today.
Until recently, it’s been hard for me to see two sides of a story. I feel like showing maturity is having the ability to accept an idea or action that you don’t agree with because you understand the difference. There have been differences throughout history. It’s usually good versus evil. Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, Sharks and Jets, Democrats and Republicans, God and the Devil. It’s about choosing a side. Not necessarily the right side, but a side.
If knowing is half the battle, then understanding is winning the war. To really understand where you stand you have to understand where you don’t stand. Someone I know understands. She understands in a way that I probably never will. Whether it is real or fake is a different argument, but there is no denying traces of God and the Devil in our world. Good versus evil.
The Devil feeds on our insecurities. Apathy is the devil. Jealousy is the devil. Envy is the devil. Hate is the devil. Death, love, birth, spite, these are all products of idle hands. My idle hands will never be the Devils play thing.
God feeds on our innocence. Hope is God. Naivety is God. Patience is God. These are all products of diligent hands. My machinists hands will never be Gods play thing.
Everything I just wrote I don’t really believe. I don’t believe that when we die we get judged and are sent to either heaven or hell. I don’t believe that anyone is waiting for me when I die. I believe that good things happen and bad things happen, but sometimes things happen and they are more than just a coincidence. I believe I met the people I have for a reason. I believe there is more out there.
On my 86,870th day I decided to open the letter. There was no return address. Only the recipients, which was clearly mine.
I’ve seen things happen. Maybe for a reason, maybe not, but I did see myself get goose bumps for twenty minutes on a Friday night and then again on a Monday night and there was a reason for that. She meant every word she said. Sometimes people say things to you with a conviction that makes you believe what they believe. For a little while that night I believed because as pretty as she was, the most beautiful thing about her was her mind. And after hearing her speak, I couldn’t help it.
She told me really personal stories and I couldn’t believe someone would open up about those types of things to me. She told me why and how. It was weird because normally when someone tells me things like that I don’t care. But this time I paid attention to every single word because for one reason or another she was comfortable sharing something that she loved and I can’t explain that and I’m not going to try to. That whole conversation happened for a reason. Thank you.
On my drivers license it says I’m an organ donor. I volunteered for that the day I got the letter and at the time I didn’t think about it. I have thought about it since then and I hope that when I do die in a car accident that they somehow manage to give my heart to someone that needs it because there is only one like it. I’ve only met a few people with drive like mine and I can tell they have it because I have it. That girl has it.
Like I said, when I looked in that mirror something was definitely different. It wasn’t my physical appearance. It wasn’t the background. It wasn’t the silence. There wasn’t anybody on the other side of the mirror. No tenth dimension. Just a reflection. I touched the glass and it was just glass. I opened up the letter with sweaty palms and shaky hands.
I finally saw two sides. That is what was different. I saw the Cowboys and Indians, the Democrats and Republicans, the Cops and the Robbers, the Sharks and the Jets, God and the Devil, the good and the bad all in my eyes. What I finally realized was that my drive to succeed was greater than my fear of failure. There is a difference.
If your fear of failure is greater than your drive to succeed then you will be afraid your whole life.
I tried reading the letter like you normally read a letter but it was in a language I didn’t understand. It made sense that I was standing in front of a mirror. In my hand writing was words and sentences written in reverse. I held it up to the mirror and this is what the letter said:
The Golden Gate Bridge
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word.
They were happy together. Genuinely happy. They lived in San Francisco, on Kersey Street; right next to the bay and in walking distance of The Giants’ stadium. They stayed in her parents house. They were struggling financially, but that was fine. It was spring now, and the flowers were blooming. Everyday she looked out her window she saw the perfect postcard. He did not. Not on most days anyway, but who could hate a day like this? The sun was shining, the Giants were playing, it was paradise. He answered the phone at 9:30 a.m. on Saturday May 18. He was on the phone for 15 minutes and 22 seconds before he hung up. She asked who had called and he said it was an old friend. It began to rain while they were walking home from the game. It was around five. After they ran inside giggling, he felt sick to his stomach. He looked at the clock, then ran to the bathroom and threw up immediately. She asked what was wrong, he said it must be food poisoning. At 8:00 he walked into the den.
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know.
She didn’t know much about him. All she really cared to know was his name, and where he came from. He told her he came from New York. He said after living his whole life on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, he wanted to see the Pacific. They met one night on the very street they lived on. She was going home, he was going nowhere. Love at first sight is the saying someone would use for this meeting.
He, on the other hand, knew all about her. She was 24, currently attending the University of San Francisco with a major in mass communications and a minor in creative writing. She was interning at the San Francisco branch of Cingular Wireless twice a week. He knew exactly when to run into her. She lived her whole life in the Bay Area. She never had great luck with guys, until he walked into her life five years ago.
He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know. While they walked to the car, a 1996 Nissan Altima with a scratch under the left rear-view mirror, he fiddled nervously with some change in his pocket; her with the car keys. The ride was silent. They fidgeted in their seats, checking the clock frequently and talking less and less often. The trip was awkward at best. It was as if they were in two separate cars under the same roof. When they arrived he told her to stay in the car, and to turn on the high beams. She did as told. Not knowing what to do, her mascara began to smear. At 9:22 he climbed to the top railing, the one that was slightly bent inward, and held onto one of the enormous beams. He felt on top of the world.
She said “Wait.” She was already out of the car by the time he looked to his right. She was 15 feet away and closing in. She said she could borrow money from her parents, anything but this. He told her it was not the money. She asked the question he expected, but had no answer to. He looked into her eyes and told her there was a lot of things she didn’t know about him. He told her he would love her forever, and maybe he would come back and visit when she had a real family. She didn’t understand. She could only whisper that she loved him. He leaned over and ran his fingers through her hair. She was still crying. She held on, but he jumped anyway. He hit the water traveling 200 miles per hour. He did not die. He did not resurface. He swam and swam. For 56 minutes and 45 seconds he swam. He was 86.3 miles underwater when he reached the gates. He could almost see the fires, and hear the screams. The war had started. Gills flapping, he said the word, and the gates opened.
She stood there for 14 minutes when she realized that he was gone. She figured he died on impact, and his body floated now on top of the water somewhere. She thought about calling the police, and her parents, and her friends. But she didn’t. She just looked at her cell phone, ready to dial his number. Maybe he’s not dead, she thought, maybe he’ll pick up and say he had a wonderful trip, but he was lost in San Diego. She called his phone 32 times. By the 6th she was crying hysterically, by the 15th she was screaming his name, by the 28th she was on the top rail bent inward ready to jump after him. The 32nd time his answering machine whispered a sweet nothing into her ear, she stepped down from the rail. She opened her purse, grabbed a tissue and wiped away her tears along with the memory of him. At 10:13 she got back in her car, and drove away with a smile on her face.
After I read the story I knew where it came from. I’ll never understand. The difference between you and me? I’m done asking questions.
Fear of Failure Part Two Coming Soon.
WW
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