One of the many formative calluses of the Spectacular Failure is the ongoing pantomime of finding themselves around greatness, yet never becoming a part of it.
Perhaps this nearness — but never being part of — all began to rub raw when I was quite young. Standing next to my father: he was the great man. I had to stand in silence, well-behaved. Knowing this and striving to do as asked, my quiet demeanor and public politeness — to say it went unnoticed is an understatement — became one of my earliest failings. In my father’s world, which was “the real world,” to get noticed, you had to make NOISE. Be loud. If just to be seen. No risk, no reward. And standing near my father and his bolt action, full metal jacket, right hand, there was always a risk.
Often out with him — maybe at a restaurant, or at his workplace — so many times, to one of his many friends that always seemed to pop up wherever we were, he would introduce me as one of his sons. Not saying my name. Just “one of my sons.”
The onlooking glad-hander would look at me, scrunch their brow. Thinking they were charming — speaking more to my father than to me, hoping they could get back to brown nosing him as soon as possible — they would say to me curiously:
“Now. I know you’re not Nate (the eldest). And I know you’re not Davey (the youngest).”
Then with a genuine blank expression — “So…which one are you?”
This became quite the sport for my father, as he would howl with laughter every time. I came to believe he wanted to take me places without my brothers just to see what happens. He did love a good joke.
Learning early, the ordinary is usually pretty dull, uninspiring, and certainly not challenging. I knew I longed for the extra-ordinary. Not extraordinary, as most people imagine the definition. Sure, experiencing the better-than-ordinary is pretty cool, and I wouldn’t say no. I, however, preferred anything that was simply beyond the ordinary — the extra-ordinary. Good, bad, scary — didn’t matter as long as it was not ordinary. Or boring.
In my need for the extra-ordinary, I often found myself in the presence of, walking among, hanging with, and typically working in support of others exhibiting greatness of just about any kind. People pursuing their dreams with actual realization. I would make sure I was somewhere nearby: the photographer, or running the video camera, maybe. Manning the ticket booth, selling the tickets to greatness. Or the stagehand, the sound recordist, light board operator, or film editor. You know, the person, the great artists — as they receive their applause — say “I want to thank…” but nobody ever hears the names. The audience just claps louder. Not for the “people who make it all possible.” Nope. All that applause, all the time, is for and only for the greats.
Nobody, especially the other performers, ever remembers the Emcee — unless you’re Joel Gray. The impresario giving others their opportunity, their stage, their moment to shine, and become great — that is a role I also have had. Giving others the opportunity to be great, while I sweated the details, sacrificing the time needed for my craft for the sake of the “show.”
I have been the meeting note-taker, the supporting engineer capturing their greatness in prototypes for presentations to the even greater successes. I have been the driver, the concessions booth jerk selling milk duds to the audience who had no idea they were looking at the true dud.
On and on, in my life — striving to walk with them, not just beside, behind, or near them. Never acknowledged for what I wanted — only recognized with placating gratitude for how I supported them.
Every gut-punching reminder that you are not the reason the audience has assembled that night. Just that you were the one who set up the chairs. The meme that you only pushed the slider that brought the lights up onto greatness — while you sat in a booth, at the back, alone, grumbling in the dark.
Invited to meetings not to contribute but to capture. Not part of the team photo because they needed someone to take the picture. The film wrap party over long before you got there, because you had to break down the sets. These are the vestiges, the remnants, the undiscoverable fossilized record, of the “career” of the Spectacular Failure. The family photo that you’ve been cropped out of.
All that is left for you to do is smile. You will be thanked — genuinely — but painfully, because it’s not why you are there or what you want to hear. You will never hear those words, words that never enter the thoughts of those you support. You will never hear:
“Come join our group.”
No, they want you to stay right there. Over there. Off the stage. In the dark. Until they need you.
Not many can be Spectacular Failures. Those willing to take the pain of being a never-achiever, and still going back for more. They don’t want him to move on because he is useful, needed, appreciated, they tell him. Supporting them in all the ways they ask, they lead him — always — to believe just enough that he is welcomed and respected. So he keeps on.
Deep down, though, they all know. Know that he wants more. To belong. To be invited in. To be part of the selective team. Not just rubbing the elbows of greatness, but becoming part of the arm. Everyone knows it. It is so obvious to see that — while possibly being extra-ordinary — he is just not extraordinary.
The Spectacular Failure will continue to stick around long after it has become clear that there is nothing more for him there. He continues, even when the outcome of failure is certain. In time, the chummy greetings and arty handshakes cease, and the requests for help no longer contain encouraging hints — just the list of things they need. They have learned they no longer need to lie to him to get what they need. His disappointment is swallowed as he still, for some reason, continues to show up.
Everything then falls silent. The assumptions are ingrained, and his support is taken for granted. His servitude. His loyalty. His willingness to climb the extra ladder, any ladder, all the ladders. To do whatever they ask, as soon as they ask. He may still hope that there is a “one day,” but he knows there isn’t.
They know too — that’s for sure. They talk about it when he is not in the room. The occasional mis-spoken line that they didn’t intend for him to hear, breaking a confidence, followed by the schoolyard laughter that hits his ear like a falling star. And his heart, if it could, would sink lower.
Being the Spectacular Failure that I am — that you are — that I’ve always been — cannot accept the role of the never-mentioned supporting cast, the fast scrolling credits at the end of the show. For that is still too close to the success of other people. The notoriety of Nate, or the often talked about doings of Davey. The son not named.
Resentment builds, and your intelligence can only be channeled politely for so long. The scorned arrogance and self-righteous victimization eventually manifests itself in some personally insulting and eventually damning way, directed at the former greats you once longed to welcome you in. Instead, you find yourself eventually departing or slowly removed from the cusp of the inner circle, leaving you back with just yourself. Again. Then it all starts over. Somewhere else. Over and over. Until you learn to never join anything again.
Walking away — as always — whistling past the graveyard, you are not necessarily lifted but certainly relieved by knowing:
History only remembers the tombstones. Never the names written on them.
Regarding the topic of the article, your insight into the silent struggle for recognition, much like perfecting internal form in Pilates, is profoundly articulated.