By:
Gonzo
In the foul time of President Clinton, the winter of 1995 to be exact, I found myself sitting in the Rite Aid parking lot in Wantage, N.J. As I was sitting there in the car waiting for my then girlfriend to come back with a Christmas gift for her deranged father, I was watching other people going about their business, and I wondered, out of all of them, who was going to live the longest, and out of them, who’s story would be worth telling.
Keep in mind I was in Sussex County, and the county can’t claim all that much in the way of success stories, but the point I’m trying to make is how do we determine success.
Right now, in that county, there is an average, hard working couple who did their best to send their child to college. When their kid graduated, he/she went on to do quite well in life, and the only way their offspring showed gratitude was by humbly saying “Thanks, guys.” When the parents did die, they made their peace with God before they were called home, and were famous only once by having their name in the local obituaries.
No one is accountable for their own behavior anymore, and no one takes blame for our collective attitude being materialistic. People say if you can count your friends on one hand in your life, you’re lucky. I have friends all over, and I’ve never bothered to count how many I have. I consider my friends to be my family, and even when I’m not with them, I think about them at least once a day. They’re only a thought a way.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be famous. I have a certain shade of it now, but if I never really make it, so be it. Maybe, if I’m lucky, after my story is told and I’m put back on the shelf, my story might worth retelling. When all is said and done, all I need is a plot of land six feet by four feet.