An Essay About Failure and Lessons… Kinda

Close-Calls and Candy

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The Duo of True Stories That

Helped Me Level-Up

(Brought To You In The Voice of Cleo Mosley:

Expert Thief and Agent of Absurdity and Chaos)

Author’s Note

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This essay was written in a distinct voice as a sort of creative challenge.

No, this is not how I actually speak, and no, this is not how I actually think.

I once wrote a novel, and the main character spoke in this same voice. I challenged myself to write in her voice for this essay (at much risk to myself, because she is a distinctly unlikeable character {in the beginning}, but cometh the hour; cometh the man) to try to spice this particular project up with her annoying narrative and biting sense of humor.

While I am acting the part for this essay, and the voice and narrative should be taken as farce, the details, stories and lesson are very much true.

This essay starts off in a very pretentious, haughty sort of voice, and then quickly starts to waltz down the spiraling staircase of madness—most likely while the building the staircase belongs to, is on fire.

Apologies in advance.

PART ONE

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Introducing: Me

For now, and only now, you may operate under the misguided assumption that—because I can write adequately and express my ideas in a way in which they are well received—that I am an effective learner when it comes to, what I like to call: Side Quests (I’ll explain this later, though for more immediate comprehension I will let you in on a little secret and tell you, that by this, I mean to say “Life Lessons”). More skepticism and less assumptions—please and thank you.

In fact, I shouldn’t be too hard on you and the likelihood of your hasty assumption. I am not a poor writer, and I use words like “skepticism,” “comprehension,” and (because I can’t find any other $5 words in this essay, yet, but need a third one to round out the list) “secret,” that may lead anyone who is unfamiliar with my obstinance and “thick-skull” to believe that—because of my learned vocabulary—I must also learn other things well—perhaps Side Quests. If this is the sort of expectation you find yourself walking into this essay with, I am sorry to tell you that you will arrive at the end, a very sorely disappointed reader. I do not easily complete Side Quests, and when I happen upon one, it may take me a disgusting amount of time to figure out the move-set, patterns and hit-boxes; in fact, at this point, my failure to complete Side Quests is prodigious—infamous even, within the inner-circle of innocent familial-bystanders who must watch from the lobby as I make the same mistakes over and over, again.

At this time, I must put this essay on pause—as I am realizing that—though there are likely a few among you that understand my gamer-lingo, there might be the uninitiated who are unfamiliar with terms such as “hit-box” or “move-set,” and while I will not explain what these mean—as they are not important for the purpose of this essay, I will explain one:

Side Quest: "A side quest is a player objective that is separate from the main plot-line of the game. Side quests are implemented to help connect the player to the world, introduce them to characters, and help them discover locations.” (Wright, Will)

Did I just copy and paste that from a random webpage? Yes, yes I did. Do I consider that plagiarism? No, no I do not. It’s in quotations (and cited at the bottom)—leave me alone.

*he says with a smirk*

Why do I call life-lessons, “Side Quests”? Glad you asked. I figure that most life lessons are really just little tid-bits (this might be the only essay in which a singular parlance allows for words like “parlance”, and “tid-bits” within the same assignment. I call that “cultured”) that we pick up along the way that allow us to level up to a certain point that will at least give us a chance against the final boss. Very rarely, have life lessons been part of the main plot-line for me.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, Rue! Can’t we just get on with the essay? Let’s get over this intro!”

To this, I say, “I hear you, I hear you. So, let’s jump right into the good stuff.

PART TWO

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I Get Fired

It was a soggy April day, and there I was, sweating bullets through my unnecessarily warm, polyester suit, before I almost accidentally kill someone and get myself fired.

Flashback

When I was sixteen years old, I got my first pro-musician job as a regular musician at the Bridgewater Bistro, playing for the dining service twice a week. First night? Success. Second night? I’m rakin’ in the money. Third night? I’m thinking, “I got this, man—I got this!”

I didn’t have it.

There’s something you should know about childhood Rue, and that is that he was a remarkably unobservant youth. I didn’t have a very good sense of self-preservation, and when it came to noticing my surroundings—I—uh, didn’t. In fact, I spent most of my time day-dreaming about what it would be like if I were in one of Tolkien’s books, or every now and then I’d think, “I could be best friends with Harry Potter… I could replace Weasley, for sure.”

Usually this tendency to daydream didn’t get me into much trouble; that is, until the fourth night on my second week performing at the Bridgwater Bistro in my polyester suit.

Let’s break it down.

There I am, sitting on the bench at the piano, having just finished playing a Jelly-Roll Morton song called, “Big Foot Ham”, and I’m not doing so well—physically, that is—not musically. Musically, I was doing just fine, but for some reason that night, the restaurant was unusually warm and humid, and after two hours of playing, I’m beat and ready to go home. So, I stand up, take the $360 out of the vaguely hour-glass shaped glass jar that sat on the piano (not bad for two hours, eh?), moved the jar off the piano, and then moved the piano back against the wall where it belonged.

Mistake number one.

Then, without paying too much attention to my surroundings (because I was sixteen-freaking-years-old and was walking out of that restaurant with $360 in my suit pocket—I was elated, and probably thinking that I’d be the richer version of Ron Weasley if I went to Hogwarts, and was best friends with Harry Potter), I put the hood of the piano down against the top of the instrument.

Yeah, this one was the kicker. This one right-freaking-here was the one that got the ball rolling—metaphorically, of course; literally, I knocked a few thousand dollars worth of precious art off the walls.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, Rue! Art isn’t that big—how bad can this be? So, some paintings fell off the walls. Big deal!”

Okay. Allow me to take the glove off my hand, shake it around a bit for showmanship, and then slap you around with it until there’s a glove shaped red mark on that cheeky cheek. Learn from my mistakes, you silly person, you—this was a big deal!

Flashback

The walls of the Bridgwater Bistro are very high—probably around 40-50 feet, and these weren’t just small, Mona Lisa-sized paintings (that painting is actually pretty small. Weird, right?)—they’re massive-freaking paintings—behemoths, actually.

So, what I failed to notice when putting the lid of the piano down, was the fact that between the trajectory from point A: Upright position, and point B: Closed position—there was a painting. This painting knocked another painting down, which hit another painting, which hit the painting above that one, which hit the one above that one; and 50-freaking-feet in the air, this massive, beautiful, solid-oak-framed work of art comes tumbling down and the corner narrowly misses the head of a human child.

Yeah, I got fired.

PART THREE

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Poker? I Barely Know Her!!

Let’s take a brief 5-second pause from this essay, and by show of hands, how many of you suspect I learned the lesson from the piano-failure well enough to be more observant?

Great. Those of you who raised your hand, lower it and slap yourself. I’ve already told you I don’t learn lessons well, and there’s literally four more pages to read, so this shit ain’t over, yet.

Ya-huh, even after nearly accidentally putting an eight year-old in the emergency room, I had still not learned to be more perceptive and to stop daydreaming so much. So, when one day I was playing cards with my brother, we decided it would be a great idea to “spice things up”, a little. Not with money, of course—we didn’t have much of that. No, I’m talkin’ Turkish Delight.

Allow me to set the scene.

Christmas, 2016. Christmas tree lit, presents opened, stockings infiltrated, and wrapping paper everywhere. Christmas dinner had just been eaten, and we were all full and happy with the way the day had gone; that is, until I lost all of my Turkish Delight to my brother while gambling the sweets in a game of Five Card Draw.

This might not seem like such a big deal to you—if it seems to you like I’m overreacting here, slap yourself again. Turkish Delight is the most delicious, delectable confection that has come out of Eurasia—I will forever be grateful for the gum that those trees produced that led to those beautiful, genius people creating the world’s best snack, for me to enjoy, two-thousand years later. In fact? Hold on. Let’s set the record straight…

An Ode To Turkish Delight

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When she brought me my first bag of the sweet confection,

I was unaware of what I had been missing

The candy was wonderful and the weather was drizzling!

Oh, for this I must be sitting!

I tried my first one, an orange with dusted-sugar

Then my second—a pineapple cube, with nuts all inside

I tried another and then another again, but soon I would find

The bag was emptied! I ate them all

And sighed.

The moreish feast was something I relished,

but then it was all gone

I loved it so much—for it I longed

So, now I am now writing this song!

Oh, Turkish Delight, I love you, your sweet and gentle flavor,

You are my favorite candy, which I have now learned to savor

More slowly, for when I get a box, a bag or a jar of you

It’s you, I’ll have for dinner.

Okay, back to the story.

I had lost all of my Turkish Delight in a battle of wits. Had I been smarter I would have spent the last ten years building up an immunity to my brother’s bluffing—but… okay, there is no “but”. I was actually really good at reading my brother, and I just wanted to follow the “battle of wits” remark up with a Princess Bride joke. But this is the point I’m trying to make—I knew how to read my brother; so well, in fact, that I knew exactly whenever he was bluffing in a game of poker. I got so good, actually, that I once knew the cards he had—or close enough to the mark, that is.

But you see, this was the year I discovered the BBC show, Merlin (for those of you unaware of the show and it’s plot line, it’s a show about Merlin; Merlin has magic; magic is banned; he hides his magic; let comedy and adventure ensue), and I was mostly paying attention to the show and—I remember this vividly—laughing at Merlin spitting pea soup all over his uncle’s face (on accident—he’s not a jerk). That laugh very quickly turned into grimace when I looked down and saw my brother had placed down his full house: three aces and two eights. He held out his hand for the sweets.

Okay, some of you have probably never been an older sibling, but there is this something that older siblings do, when they know their younger sibling has a one-up on them, and that is to try to talk them out of it—usually with bribery—but I’m too classy to immediately stoop as low as buying off my brother, so naturally I opted for the significantly more nuanced approach:

Tactic #1: Begging

“Bro, I just got this candy! Come on, it’s just a game… I mean, you don’t even like it as much as I do! Come on, we weren’t serious about the gambling, anyway!”

Mission unsuccessful. Initiate Phase 2.

Tactic #2: Threats (I escalate quickly when it comes to chewy Turkish snacks)

“I’ll do something! I dunno what, yet—but I’ll do it! Ever hear of tar and feathering?? No? Okay, well look it up. That’s what’s going to happen! I think the law would be on my side!”

Nothing says “Christmas” like good ol’ torture in the streets, huh? Just adds that much extra holiday-cheer. Though, my brother was like a hound on the scent of a very pungent fowl; a dog on a bone; he had a one track mind…

He said no.

Tactic #3: Bribery

“You can have my desserts for one—no, TWO weeks! No? Okay, uh, five bucks? Ice cream? Drive you to school? No… okay… back scratches?”

Getting this kid to relinquish his claim upon my delicious Turkish Delight that Christmas was like… something that’s also really difficult—but the point here is that none of my devilishly-clever tactics worked, and I instead spent the rest of the evening glaring at him across the living room, hoping he could feel the injustice across the sibling-bandwidth that is extended when one sibling is trying to make the other sibling’s head explode with his mind-powers.

PART FOUR

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It’s Like That Montage Scene In A Movie When

A Character Sees Development…

Usually With An AC/DC Song Pumping Everyone Up

So That When The Character Faces Off The Bad Guy, We’re All Like,

“Oh, yeah! They’ve Got This!”

I’m not necessarily sure it’s a good thing that almost accidentally killing someone in a restaurant after they just finished off their Kids-Menu chicken strips and apple slices, didn’t teach me the lesson to pay attention to what I am doing in the moment, but losing an $8 bag of Turkish Delight to my brother in a game of poker convinced me to change my boyish-ways quite effectively. Do with this information what you will… I was sixteen, alright?! Get off my back.

This all being said, I got there in the end. I completed the Side Quest, I’ve leveled up, and have become all the better for it. I am now much more attentive, and I dedicate the moment’s needed time on the task at hand.

Unless there’s Turkish Delight. If so, I’ll be ignoring you, you, you, you, and you until I’ve had my fill, and then I’ll be ordering more off Amazon after realizing my addiction had been reignited.

Works Cited:

Wright, Will. “How To Write Side Quests For Video Games.” Masterclass.Com, 7 June 2021, www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-side-quests-for-video-games.