I am a Nobody. In fact, in the land of Nobodies, I may be king.
I drift back to the Arlo Guthrie song Alice’s Restaurant – the long version – wherein young Arlo describes his experience with the Draft Board during the Vietnam War and how he was found unfit to serve his country because he had been arrested for littering. He also waxed melodic about the crime fighting prowess required to uncover his heinous deed and speculated about how, no matter how bad you have it, somebody else has it worse. But, he said, there has to be a last guy, someone who has it worse than everybody else, and even for him – the ultimate Nobody – America’s Law Enforcement Might would spend millions to track him down should he ever do anything subversive. Probably even more so today than back in the 1960s when the song was written.
Now, I can’t claim to be the last guy. I’m not even close, but I can feel what it would be like to be that last guy from time-to-time. I’ll pick something up at the store and put it back down because I can get it a dollar cheaper someplace else. I’ll read something written by a skilled author that stuns me with wit and beauty leaving me heartbroken because I’ll never be able to write like that. I realize that, despite all of my efforts, my writing career could founder on the rocks faster than an Italian cruise liner, only without all the attention. I know that my becoming a highly successful writer with actual books, spokes-people, movie deals, and paparazzi is more unlikely than my winning the PowerBall.
Unlikely, maybe, but not impossible.
Even with this slimmest of actual chances, I feel that my success is pretty much assured. I get this feeling because the Universe keeps sending me signs to that effect. I’m constantly getting little hints that everything will work out fine and that my stressing, feelings of inadequacy, and anxiety over my bumbling, cumbersome prose is all for naught. While you don’t have any personal stake in my success, other than that the likelihood of me sleeping on your sofa decreases with each dollar I earn, you may derive some ancillary benefit from following my moon-shot career path from unknown blogger to household name. Right now, other than being able to be smug at cocktail parties, I can’t think what that benefit might be.
Regardless.
These hints the Universe keeps sending me really do help get me through the down times. If there were just one or two I would have written it off as coincidence long ago. But, as they say, the hits just keep on coming and, the more I pay attention, the faster they come.
Elsewhere in the U.S., right now, there are hundreds of thousands of struggling writers sitting in depressing studio apartments trying to figure out what they can write about. And failing. There are mere hundreds of successful writers sitting in their professionally decorated offices with their Scandinavian-twin Personal Assistants bringing them lattes and giving them shoulder massages in an attempt to release their creative spirit. And failing. Then, there is me who just sits around putting out about as much effort as a falling leaf does to make it to the ground while, all the while, the Universe is pummeling me with things to write about in an unending staccato barrage of ideas that border on the sublime.
Bullshit. You think.
Nope. While the rest of the writing world is desperately trying to figure out how to break through their writer’s block using various tips and tricks they got out of the twenty or so “How to be a Successful Writer” self-help books they have on their shelves, I am doing nothing. Okay, that’s not completely true because I’m writing what you are reading but I’m writing this while sitting in the passenger seat of a rented Jeep parked under an oak tree in a light-industrial park on the outskirts of Orlando, Florida, right next to the back door of a Circus School.
No. Really.
Like I said, “pummeling”. In any event, in addition to the endless stream of things to write about which the Universe tosses indiscriminately at me; I’ve also been getting a lot of lifestyle-type clues about what my future holds. The trip from Seattle that got me to the back door of a Circus School in Orlando, Florida provides several prime examples.
It all started when I received an email from Continental Airlines last week congratulating me on having earned enough miles for a free trip to Hawaii. I, being a Nobody, realized that this couldn’t possibly be true but I went to the website and checked, just in case. Nope, not nearly enough miles. Given that I only flew on Continental once in the past year I was not surprised. However, these little treats and teases which get dropped into my lap – in this case from Continental Airlines – I think is something along the lines of the Universe waving a flag to get my attention. So I perked up.
A few days later, my friend and I were standing in the boarding area at SeaTac Airport waiting for our turn to waddle down the chute and fly to Florida. The gate announcer started with the pre-boarding nonsense and progressed onto welcoming First Class and uniformed military passengers. She then moved onto the “Elite Access” group – people who travel zillions of miles a year and whom Continental wishes to reward by making sure they get an overhead bin and don’t have to sit with their roll-aboard pinching their toes all the way to Houston. They started with Platinum Elite and slowly worked through the Gold and Silver levels before starting in on the Rare Earth Elements. I think they had made it as far as Neodymium when my friend turned to me.
“Are we gonna get any respect on this flight?” she inquired. “Or are we just pedestrians?”
“Keep walking,” I said.
When they got to Gadolinium she pointed to our boarding passes. “What’s that say?” She tapped the paper accusingly.
I looked. “It says ‘Elite Access’,” I answered. “But it’s just part of the header,” I explained. “I’m a Nobody who flew once in the past year. I’m about as Elite as a McDonalds cheeseburger.”
Nevertheless, I started glancing around for somebody else who had a print-at-home boarding pass to compare ours with. I found her; a piece of 8-1/2 by 11 paper clutched in her hand as she tried to maneuver her crutches closer to the Jetway. I sidled over and stuck out my foot just as she clumped forward.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Here let me help you up.” I snatched the boarding pass from her bleeding fingers. “Elite Access” was not printed at the top. Yes! I let the paper flutter from my hand.
“C’mon.” I waved to my friend. “We’re golden.”
They had gotten to Ytterbium when we marched up the blue carpet reserved for the Elite Traveler and presented our documents.
“Welcome aboard,” the gate attendant told us. I thought I detected a little bow.
I could get used to this.
The flight to Houston was uneventful other than having to sit near an oh-so-not-Elite passenger who smelled like an old sneaker that had been used as an ash tray for about six years.
Once on the ground in Houston we wandered over to our next gate and snagged some seats. We had just gotten settled when an announcement came over the P.A. system.
“If the Ewing party is in the boarding area please come to the podium.” Click.
I walked up fearing the worst.
“Oh, good. You’re here.” She held out her hand. “Boarding passes please.” I handed them over and she gave them a quick glance. “Look, I can upgrade you to the exit row if you want. More legroom.” Again with the subtle bow.
“Sure.”
This was an upgrade that would have set us back eighty bucks had we chosen the seats at check-in, but for the newly-Elite Traveler: gratis. We walked up the blue carpet to the gate and the brusque guardian looked me over.
“You’re Elite?” he sneered.
“You betcha.” I handed over our boarding passes.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, sir. Welcome aboard.”
We clambered onto the nearly empty 737 and spread out in seats each with enough legroom to host a bocce tournament. It was another pleasant flight, other than the nearby passenger who thought that it took soaking one’s socks in a concentrated combination of Lemon Pledge, Brut aftershave, and garlic to keep the vampires at bay.
Safely in Miami, we waited patiently for our bags to arrive at carousel six. The claxon sounded, the red light started flashing, and the belt rumbled to life. The first two bags that appeared sported a brilliant red tag about the size of a coffee table that said “Priority” in prominent contrasting type. So did the third. And so did the fourth.
Which was ours.
Like I said, I could get used to this.
But I know I’m still a Nobody. Just, for some odd reason, a very lucky one. I can lose my Nobody status but first I’ve got to go write something that will sell a few million copies. There’s also a danger that Continental Airlines may wake up and realize what a terrible mistake they made. I need to get to work but, first things being first, I better go book that free trip to Hawaii.
Aloha.