8. Autobiography of a Nobody




• I've often wondered what the outside world looks like to a fish in an aquarium. Or better yet, what if fish were intelligent creatures that could speak their own native language? With what prose would they express their dilemma, being forever trapped in the glass prison of fake ocean flora and dollar-store knick-knacks?
  
  It's not hard to imagine them peering out through the glass with their sad eyes, perpetually darting around with fish tank fever. Or to imagine seeing them trapped, weaving through plastic rocks in the cell of a twenty-gallon tank with the same cellmates and the same pitter-patter sound of the bubble jet until they died. It would be cruel and bitter loneliness.
  
  But, if we didn't know how to speak "fish" we would never know how they really felt; they could only commiserate amongst themselves. Without a way to communicate with us, they would have to abandon all hope of ever leaving behind their legacy. We would never realize their hopes and dreams.
  
  My life has felt just like that, one big aquarium since my birth in 1952. My native language is "fish". And like the fish, it seems no bipedal speaks my language.
  
  I was born a prodigy, however. Most people couldn't accomplish what I had done at the age of eight in their entire lives. At the precocious age of eight, I was partially responsible for Kennedy's election in 1960. The Civil Rights Movement, the Apollo Program, even The Doors, none of this could have happened without me. And the tragedy is that I didn't get even a smidgen of acknowledgment for it, not even a pat on back.
  
  All I've ever wanted out of life is a little recognition, plain and simple. I'm simply not credited for any of my work, and when I complain to anyone about it I'm completely ignored. I'm not saying that I want wealth; hell, I'm made of money. The child prodigy Mozart was never wealthy either; everyone knows he died in a pauper's grave. What I'm saying is that they at least recognized him for who he was. They realized he had talent at an early age. His father even carted him around before emperors and kings to toot his little clarinet, at the age of thirteen. As the old saying goes, you'd have to live under a rock not to know who Mozart is, even if you hate his music.
  
  But not me. I'll be the Unknown Soldier. My name will never go down in the archives of history.
  
  My life has been just one big, paradoxical extreme to the next. Even since my birth people have used me, discarded me like a bedpan, then begged for me to come back the next day. It seems that my friendship with them is only ephemeral, changing hands like a game of speed rummy. I feel like some drug they use to make themselves feel happy, only to be quickly let down and forgotten with the same fervor as when they first sought me. Then, next week they're dragging me back to their houses for drinks again.
  
  I've never even been called by my real name; no one's ever even asked me for it. They only have nicknames for me and it's never the same. That's the paradox; everyone knows me but no one knows me. People need me, but they hate me. I'm unique, but I'm also like the Xeroxed copy of a hundred million anonymous faces. I'm just a phantom helper, a ghost without a title, a nobody. And this is my dilemma.
  
  My life has never gotten any better. In fact, life paid me back for all of my philanthropy like this: I was held hostage on my twentieth birthday in a cockroach-infested motel in Indianapolis with a Vietnam vet named Jeff. This was one of the worst moments in my life I can recall.
  
  He was a proper thug, living off of prostitutes, whiskey and coke. Jeff would keep me prisoner until he died. There was no escape. He had a gun. The only thing I could do was think of all of the other terrible things that had happened that year, to make myself feel better about my own circumstance. John Lennon was shot and killed; the Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham choked on his own puke cocktail and Ronald Reagan was elected president. But this kind of therapy never worked for me before, and I thought at that time, why should it work now? You can't wallow in someone else's misery to forget about your own. And there was no Zen meditation that was going to save me. I was Jeff's prisoner and there was nothing I could do about it.
  
  That is, until he was eighty-sixed by a massive heart attack, clutching his chest and falling beneath the burning pink, neon motel sign, lying there motionless, as if he were painted there. Next thing I know the cops were raiding the room and escorting me to the county precinct.
  
  I wasn't there very long. Officer Lockwood held me for a few hours then turned me loose. They didn't even listen to my story, about how the psycho abducted me from the 7-11 down the road at gunpoint. They didn't even take me in for questioning. Officer Lockwood gave me a silent tour of the facility and then dismissed me as if he'd never seen me before, without even so much as a word. I felt like the phantom again. But I wanted to leave that cement and steel dungeon as soon as I could anyway. That was the only time in my life in which it was an asset to be a nobody. In spite of all I had done throughout my life, no one knew me. That day was the only time I cherished my anonymity.
  
  As I mentioned earlier, my life has always seemed oscillate between completely opposite extremes. My circle of friends has always changed from day to day. One day I could be hanging out with the most notorious gangsters (I once spent the weekend with Erminio Capone in Chicago), and the next day I would be at a gala dinner laughing with senators drunk with double entendre jokes. It was a catholic church and the Eucharist one week, and the occasional prostitute the next. My life couldn't be anymore double-sided. And what made it worse is that everyone pretended not to know me, brushing me aside and stuffing me in corners after they'd used me like a cheap hooker for whatever they could get out of me.
  
  On my fortieth birthday I wanted to commit suicide. I grew tired of swimming in circles and peering out of the tank at the world, knowing I could never be a part of it. If I couldn't find acceptance or even a modicum of affirmation, then I reasoned it just wasn't worth it anymore. You can only give so much charity. You can only help so many students produce their films and become famous. You can only help so many presidents get elected and do so much for humanity until you hit a solid wall.
  
  Year after year of dealing with unthankful crowds gnawed at my heart. I would have even been happy if they showed the utmost disdain for me and for my work, instead of just ignoring me. At least then I would have actually felt real. But I would never be graced with such kindness as animosity. Everyone has their limits and on January 9th, 1992, I had reached mine.
  
  The fact is I could never hurt myself. Not because I'm afraid, but because I'm crippled in a way. I would have ended it a long time ago if I had the capacity to do it. I've eavesdropped on a thousand conversations that have centered on unspeakable crimes of murder, drugs, molestation, and the dirtiest secrets ever told, simply because I was crippled. They never acknowledged my presence, as if I were invisible. They even referred to me in third person, as if I were an ottoman or some other random piece of furniture in the room. If they knew I had been listening and understood everything, they would have done the job for me. Then I wouldn't have to search for a Kervorkian to finish me off.
  
  I'm not sure exactly how many of you have been in my position. The overwhelming desire to end it all without the capacity to do it is the same as living in your own personal hell. But I've finally accepted it. You can eventually learn to accept even hell if you know it's your only option. But the truth is I haven't really come to terms with my predicament. I'm only bidding my time, longing for that day to come when I'll be snuffed out, burned, ripped up and gone for good.
  
  But recently, I've had an epiphany of sorts, a self-realization. Not that I don't want to die; I do indeed. But I've come to realize that humanity is not perfect and neither am I. What I have been doing my entire life is blaming other people for my personal problems. Most of the problems I have had stem from the pure naivety of humanity. After pondering this for quite some time I've decided that I can almost forgive them. Presently, I can offer no more than an "almost", but at least it's a step in the right direction.
  
  Also, I've been comparing myself to other people in a display of childlike one-upmanship, inflating my ego by bragging about my accomplishments, my super nova résumé. Maybe I have done this to compensate for my secret low self-esteem caused by lack of recognition? But no one wants to sit and listen to someone toot his own horn and so I will cease with the conceited ranting. I can't expect people to acknowledge my every achievement. And to my defense I can only add this: I admit that I'm the most irritating and pretentious one-hundred-dollar bill you will ever meet, so please be easy on me. I'm not the root of evil.