Nobody Reads This Page – “Success”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do.” – Bob Dylan

 

The concept of success is one that I comprehend well as an individual, particularly when enjoying a quiet evening alone with a good book and a brew. Yet this word often gets twisted and turned backwards on itself, when being used by friends, siblings, and neighbors. The lofty character of its meaning is diminished quickly, through offering impulsive definitions. What manifestation of this achievement gives evidence that cannot be disputed by others? The common answer is counted out in bits of silver and gold. Money equals success. Poverty therefore, representing the inverse condition of having wealth, is failure in the flesh.

 

Fame and fortune matter. Anything else is considered to be beside the point.

 

On a personal level, pondering this term made me reflect back to the days when I was a salaried business manager. My career involved supervising retail stores for various employers. Ultimately, I worked for five different chains, at both corporate and franchised locations. The yield of this labor was considerable. I had a comfortable standard of living and took care of family needs at home. I was able to vacation at interesting spots on the map, and collected all sorts of printed volumes and music recordings. Our garage always boasted at least one Harley-Davidson motorcycle. I had a new pickup truck in the driveway. I felt certain that a higher power had smiled on my existence.

 

Creative writing was the passion that warmed my soul, after hours. But it did not satisfy creditors, or fill my belly. Therefore, I felt glad to be upwardly mobile.

 

But as calendar pages disappeared, and my body bent under the weight of fatigue, I began to realize something unexpected. Though I was well-fed and stylishly attired, what lingered inside of this superficial shell was a kind of emptiness that could not be filled. Nothing I did for my benevolent masters mattered beyond the lure of a weekly check. I did not carry the value of having made a difference by being present. In truth, I was simply a cog in the machinery. A useful component to keep the lines of production in motion.

 

Over and over, I relearned this lesson as each company was bought and sold. My worth evaporated when names on the paperwork changed. Yesterday, I might have been a hero. But today, I would inherit something wholly dissimilar. Redundancy, an open door to the parking lot, and silent exile. Eventually, the truth became clear.

 

Success was not simply a number in my bank account. Or a tickle of sickly-sweet compliments, falling on my ears. After stumbling unwillingly into early retirement, I turned to my primary interest, without the inhibition of needing to see a bottom-line benefit as a result.

 

That choice, made out of necessity, changed everything for the better.

 

I thought about the meaning of success once again, when a friend from days spent living in New York called, to report about his own good luck. After pleasantries were exchanged, he launched into a breathless burst of reminiscences about seeing live concerts, spending disposable cash on vinyl artifacts, and organizing his home library. Every tidbit of information was interesting and noteworthy. This breezy banter kept me entertained for an hour or more, until he paused to ask what I had been doing, during the interlude between our last over-the-wire conversation, and today.

 

The query stalled my thoughts and left me momentarily speechless.

 

“What have I been doing? Well, not much really. Reading and writing. Is there anything more?”

 

My answer made him laugh out loud. Perhaps I should have waited longer before trying to form some kind of plausible response.

 

“Rodney! That’s all you do every day? Sit at your desk and pound the keyboard?”

 

My face burned red hot. I had become terribly self-conscious while thinking.

 

“Well yes, of course! What else did you expect?”

 

My compadre from the Empire State whistled like a teakettle.

 

“I’ve gotten dozens of autographs over the past year. Can you imagine meeting so many famous people? It’s a thrill like no other! And, I have hunted down lots of limited-edition releases, really rare items. I’ve got a knack for finding them wherever I go. You should see the stacks around my stereo system! There are hundreds of albums waiting to be filed! It’s an amazing pursuit, I never quit discovering! It keeps me young and in motion. I’m more up to date than any of the kids here, they can’t match my knowledge, or enthusiasm! They say I am a music maestro!”

 

I did not know how to answer his confident declaration.

 

“You sound just like the fellow I met in 1978. Well done, brother! I salute your endurance!”

 

He snorted over the link, then whispered at his handset.

 

“You don’t visit record stores anymore? Or go out to see shows? How is that possible? I’d be climbing the walls around here, believe me!”

 

My gut began to tighten. Yet an honest answer seemed to be my best defense.

 

“Look, I don’t have much to work with now. Being sidelined from retail operations meant making sacrifices. My actual income is less than a youngster would earn slinging burgers and fries at McDonald’s. But what doesn’t show up on a monthly statement is the freedom I’ve gained...”

 

There was a huff of befuddlement over our connection.

 

“FREEDOM? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? YOU WERE ALWAYS FREE TO WRITE IN YOUR SPARE TIME! HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT?”

 

I nodded while cradling my cell phone in one hand.

 

“True, I plodded along for years with wordsmithing as a virtual hobby. Real work came now and then, but rarely on a full-time basis. When it did, during my stint as a local editor, it paid too little. The difference today is that I finally have an ability to follow my own schedule. I decide when to begin, and when to pause. I choose my subject matter, and move along in my own direction, at my own pace. Stated in plain language, I do what I want! For me, that is the genuine meaning of success.”

 

My distant friend brightened with comprehension. At last, I had explained the mystery of being broke but satisfied, properly. I could hear him sorting through discs, while our interaction was coming to a close.

 

“Good deal, Rodney. Good for you! We’ll keep in touch, I promise. Talk at you later!”