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