"When are you gonna start writing something good?" the blustery Irishman bellowed as he lumbered out of a Marina District saloon.
Yes, his remark was directed at me.
Thinking maybe he was kidding -- perhaps he was -- I simply smiled weakly, and said, "There's always room for improvement."
I say that in contrast to my nature. You see, underneath this all-too-sensitive skin, deep down, I think I'm just great. Deeper down, I don't believe that at all.
"If I had the kind of nerve that most people have," I once said to Dr. Dean Ornish, "I'd be somebody."
Predictably, he shot back, "Knock it off, Bruce. You ARE somebody."
I knew he'd say that. I was spearfishing for compliments.
What's a somebody, anyway?
In the magnificent 1936 movie, My Man Godfrey" -- written by Morrie Riskind & Eric Hatch -- Godfrey, the Harvard-educated butler played by William Powell, is accosted by the master of the house, Alexander Bullock, played by Eugene Pallette.
"Say," Bullock growls to Godfrey, "who are you, anyway?"
"I'm just a nobody," murmurs Godfrey.
We know better. Godfrey's not a nobody. The future of many people will hinge on his success. He may have once been a "Forgotten Man," down-and-out in the Depression, but we know, deep down, that nobody has to be a nobody. Not until they're willing to accept the role.
Nobodies are often somebodies, even if they no longer believe it. Whether I'm a nobody or a somebody, I rarely took criticism well. I'm better about it now, almost amused to hear people try to rattle me with snarky comments. You see, I'm a bit claustrophobic. If I can kick my ego out of the way on occasion, I can find some room for improvement in these close quarters.
In times like these, it easy to believe that we’re not as valuable as we thought we once were. With staggering job losses, terrifying uncertainties, and with the hemorrhaging of hope, anger has replaced what was once construed as confidence.
A friend of mine runs an office at a big company. She had to give an employee a performance review recently. In the course of the ordeal, my friend suggested that the employee work harder, try to make improvements to her lackluster efforts.
Shocked and defensive, the woman said, "No one has ever told me that I have to improve. I've never heard anything like that in my life."
That's funny. I hear it all the time. That's all right. To me, it means that perhaps I should try harder, should write better, should pay attention to the world a little more carefully. And not get upset about the cascade of critics that the world graciously provides. It means there still might be time to make things better. It's like getting another chance.
I mean, if I thought there was no more room in my life for improvement, then I would really be a nobody. And nobody really wants to be a nobody.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. If he can't be found at the No Name Bar in Sausalito, accompanied by nobody, you may reach him at his e-mail: bruce@northsidesf.com
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