Aim Low: A Story About Lowered Expectations

By Paul Thompson

William Dunlop has set out to change the world through his ‘demotivational’ philosophical system and has lowered his own expectations for success. Angered by the wave of ‘self-help’ gurus peddling advice to a consumer market of folks looking for answers to life’s difficult questions, William sets out to correct the misconception that we need experts to tell us how to be happy. He believes we ought to expect less out of life, and then we will not be so disappointed when tragedy strikes. Though a bit off the mark, he is trying his best to make sense of his own suffering. His demotivational speaking tour takes him back to the city where the seeds of his new philosophy are rooted.

The Aim Low story is about one person’s attempt to come to terms with his own deeply personal tragedy. If there is any moral to this tale, it is that healing and hope often come from unexpected encounters and with family, friends, and even strangers. The remarkable thing about the tale of William Dunlop is how ordinary people can be extraordinarily remarkable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Thompson
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452478821

Paul Thompson

Paul Thompson was born in Altrincham, Cheshire in 1960. Educated at St. Bede's College in Manchester, the London College of Music and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, he has taught in the Department of Music at Southeast Missouri State University for more than three decades. Previously he taught at the Lady Eleanor Holles and Forest Schools in London, England, Colgate University in New York and Murray State University in Kentucky. With a life-long interest in British military history, he has recently had articles dealing with aspects of the Napoleonic Wars published in the Waterloo Association Journal, the Napoleon Series and the Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research.

Book preview

AIM LOW

A Story About Lowered Expectations

by

Paul W. Thompson

Copyright © 2011 by Paul W. Thompson

All rights reserved.

AIM LOW is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition: March 2011

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 1

The problem is we tend to look at the big picture instead of the small events of our lives. That is where our disappointment grows; the seeds of our unhappiness are sown upon the soil of our misperception. Seeds rooted in unrealistic hope. Seeds, which when opened, are zapped by the hot, dry sun of our reality, left to whither and die.

His voice carries in the room, empty but for a smattering of people scattered throughout the room. Actually, people would be too ambitious a word. It was more like individuals sitting alone. Seeds scattered by the wind, a couple of which have landed in this room.

Take you for example, all eight of you. You may wonder to yourself why did he rent such a large room? What was he expecting? Nothing, I was expecting only one, maybe two at the most. And look, eight of you are here! I couldn’t be more thrilled! His voice echoing off the fabric covered walls of the convention center room. It was the only feedback he was getting.

I am happy because my expectations have been exceeded. But this is not where my enthusiasm ends. I am grateful to all of you who thought enough of my topic to spend your hard earned money to attend my seminar. This makes me grateful toward you too!

A hand came up from the back of the room. Two people sat near each other; the closest thing to a group. The one with his hand up had been lying down across several chairs. The speaker hadn’t seen him before so he wasn’t counted among the eight.

Number Nine he exclaimed, It just keeps getting better! You have a question?

I didn’t pay to come here, said Number Nine. I got sick on the way to my room and fell asleep. Where the hell am I anyway?

Even better, he said but with a little less enthusiasm. You see, life has a way of keeping us humble, honest with ourselves and our expectations about the way the world really operates. I can adjust. One must be flexible. Life comes at us fast.

He paused for effect. Thoughtful, deliberate, hand on chin, eyes closed. He had practiced this technique many times in front of the small mirror on his medicine cabinet door, in the tiny apartment he can barely afford. It helped him gather himself for times when he lapsed. Times when he felt genuinely disappointed with things the way they are. When he expected more than life could really offer him. Or ever had. He had a lot of practice at it.

You see sir, I am grateful for you too. For you remind me that life is full of little lessons which helps keep things in perspective.

At that moment, Number Nine vomited on himself, the carpeted floor, and the chair directly in front of him.

Beautiful. he said, his tone dripping in sarcasm. It’s a good thing no one was sitting there!

Actually, he hadn’t meant to say this out loud. The microphone he was wearing was the kind that clips on your ear and wrap around to the front of your chin, just about the place where the corner of your mouth meets your cheek. He paid extra for this upgrade in the sound system when he rented the room. He thought it would make him look more professional. Instead it seemed to broadcast thoughts not intended for public consumption.

At that same moment, the crowd dispersed. The Eight Who Paid gathered their belongings and ran for the exits, several of them experiencing an all too familiar involuntary gag reflex that often accompanies such events. They ran past the table set up just outside the room, full of CD’s, pamphlets, and refrigerator magnets with quotes. One magnet read, When life gives you lemons, what were you expecting anyway; filet mignon? Another read, Aim Low, anything more will be a pleasant surprise.

Next to the tables, on a metal easel, the poster of William Dunlop smiled at them as they scurried out for fresh air or toward the restroom. William had it laminated at the local twenty-four hour print shop near his apartment just for this presentation.

What’s not to like? he said when looking at the poster.

The older I get, the more I look like my mom.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his mother. He had inherited his mother’s smile. It’s the kind of smile always accompanied by a question mark.

Have you finished your homework William?

William, did you wash your hair today?

Or when older, William, are you having sex with that girl you’re dating?

Right now, the smile was saying, Aren’t you going to buy any of my son’s nice things? Or, William, get them to come back here so they can see your magnets.

As he stood on stage near the speaker’s podium, William caught sight of his image just outside the conference room now that the door was wide open.

Go help the poor man, his mother’s smile commanded.

William Dunlop walked to the rear of the conference room and fought back the urge to let loose a string of obscenities. The stench of vomit was tinged with the telltale odor of alcohol. Number Nine was wearing a nametag which bore the logo of a heavy construction company who had been holding their annual convention at the hotel were William’s conference had just abruptly ended. William figured Number Nine had been out drinking all night. Surprisingly, very little of the actual barf had gotten on him.

The man could hardly walk, but with William’s help he made it through the doors toward the lobby. He turned to say something to William but paused instead.

See. He’s going to thank you, his mother’s smile declared.

Number Nine let out one last burst, emptying the few remaining remnants of last nights dinner including several shots of whiskey. William stepped out of the way in time to avoid this final insult only to have it spray across his table, his books, and his magnets. Of the poster, everything was covered except the one feature, which seemed to him the least sincere, his smile.

Aren’t you glad you had it laminated? his mother’s smile asked.

Chapter 2

Have you gotten prettier over the last twenty minutes or have you been this pretty all your life?

What kind of stupid question was that?

Her date had looked attractive to her even as he started down the road of inebriation during their dinner. Up to this point, she had convinced herself she could have sex with him, mainly because as he drank he became less obnoxious, even a little funny. A sense of humor might help her get past the fact she didn’t really like the man she was having dinner with and was considering having sex with later. She hadn’t laughed or had sex in quite a while. The old adage of two birds with one stone made sense to her then, but that was at mid-drunk. He was past that stage and fast approaching blind-drunk.

She had discussed with herself the pros and cons of her decision. If she could have, she would have taken one of the paper table napkins, folded it in half, and written down the yes reasons for having sex on the one side and the no reasons on the other. She had no pen in her purse so instead, she visualized such a list, which required intense concentration; causing long pauses in their conversation.

At first her date asked, What is so interesting about that damn napkin anyway?

But after a while, he stopped noticing much about her. Most of the conversation became about his life. At first he was full of bravado, conquests of contractor bidding wars, profit margins for the past ten years, and that he was a self made man. The more he drank, the more the conversation turned to his ex-wife, his ungrateful sons, and tears of regret for not marrying his high school sweetheart.

The list had to be edited constantly over the past hour and a half. The pro side of the napkin shrank while the con side had simply gotten longer with each arriving cocktail. His one redeeming feature had long since flown the coup with the other remaining bird being flushed out and shot dead. This final statement sealed the deal, although unsealing the deal would be a better representation as she was going with the pro list anyway.

Megan. What were you thinking?

Earlier in the day, Megan had eyed her date from across the convention floor. He hadn’t noticed her until he had made his way through the myriad of product displays to her booth. Insurance sales were not as eye catching or glamorous as the newest skip loader or backhoe. Megan believed it was necessary to consider the risk of digging large holes or pouring concrete steps for people to walk up. Buying insurance was as practical as investing in the latest and greatest arc welder or trencher. No matter how careful one was when working with tools of any sort, injuries happened.

The small insurance office had been her father’s and he had passed it on to Megan when he retired. Business was slow though and the need to diversify seemed the best response to the current economic conditions. Megan was trying to create a niche market to provide insurance for small construction companies and contractors. Her father had already established some clients before he retired. Megan was attempting to expand her customer base. Like malpractice for doctors, construction insurance is an indispensable product in a litigious society.

The banner advertising her product, which seemed like a practical sales pitch to Megan at the time, was written in large red letters against a white background and spanned across the front of her booth. It read:

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN, EVERYONE NEEDS PROTECTION,

The statement garnered much attention but not for the reason Megan was hoping. The almost entirely male crowd, imagining some special service being provided by the convention center hotel or the city’s public health department, would find their way to her display. Megan though, was perplexed by their reactions as the men approached her booth and began to understand the true nature of the advertisement. With disappointed faces, they would turn away, shaking their heads mumbling to themselves as if this unremarkable looking woman was playing a cruel joke on them.

Maybe it was some sort of Freudian slip. If so, Megan was very much unaware of it, which makes a strong case in favor of a slip. Regardless of how one chose to interpret it though, the statement was still no less accurate.

Megan’s date seemed unaffected in the same manner as the rest of the men. He smiled broadly when he met Megan and chuckled as they talked as if some private joke had passed between them. Their conversation went well enough and he seemed interested in buying insurance for an excavator he had his eye on. Megan had not sold any policies as yet and the invitation to have dinner with him was the best offer she had had all day.

Now, her evening winding down, Megan began looking for an exit. She didn’t have to wait long.

He’s fallen asleep! she said loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. She was angry he had fallen asleep and relieved he was no longer completely conscious.

The best and worst of both worlds when it comes to men.

Chapter 3

Megan O’Conner had her morning cup of coffee hot with an extra shot of fear mixed with a non-dairy packet full of self -doubt. This was the drink that got her out of bed, out of the house, and off to work each day. It’s what motivated her to place the key in the lock of the office door, turn that same key, and walk through that same door day after day to make calls to strangers who will most likely tell her they have no use for her services; some politely, and others with crude indifference to her choice of beverage.

This morning was different. Megan slept through the alarm, which was unusual for her.

Oh shit!

I’ll be late.

The exhibits had already opened for business and today was the last day of the convention. Megan showered and dressed quickly and exited with such focus and purpose she gave no thought to last night’s disaster. In good time these memories will likely creep up on her later in the day, leaping back to her consciousness right about the same time another potential customer walks away saying No, not today sweetie.

Megan was in such a hurry she didn’t think through her choice of clothing. Megan usually obsessed about what to wear, making several attempts to find the right wardrobe for the day even down to her underwear. She had panties for different moods, and different needs. For Megan, it was the same as starting your day on the right foot. Only in her case, it was starting out in the right underwear. Given time she would have picked out her confident unmentionables; the ones more likely to help her make a sale. Conservative in appearance, tight, but not too, they would stay in place and not bind or creep up at the wrong times creating such a distraction she couldn’t close a deal. No, today she threw on an old pair destined to bunch, annoy, and distract.

Megan exited the elevator and made her way toward the exhibition hall. She spotted his poster next to a table with books, pamphlets, and what looked like refrigerator magnets.

What a kind face. she said to herself. And a lovely smile too.

Megan stopped to investigate further. Living Happier Lives by Expecting Less, read the caption under the picture.

If that isn’t the story of my life.

William Dunlap: De-Motivational Speaker in smaller letters just below.

De-motivation struck Megan as an on odd concept. Being in sales, motivation was essential. The first thing Megan saw in the morning when she woke up, after her cat and the annoying alarm clock, were a set of goals she had laid out for her business. She had written them on newsprint and pinned them to her wall. On her nightstand was a list of things to do today, to do tomorrow, by Friday, by next month. She had a six-month plan, a five-year plan and a thirty-year mortgage.

Megan had learned this technique from a book she had read. She went to see the author at a conference for business executives where he went into great detail describing a system, which, if followed faithfully, would lead an individual toward untold wealth and happiness. It was this system that kept her going over the past several years, trying hard to make her business work.

Megan reached for one of the brochures on the table next to the poster. Nothing fancy, a simple goldenrod tri-fold with information about the speaker, the time and day of the event, and the cost of registration. Megan also noticed several paragraphs describing a system of philosophy of life.

There is a story in the ancient Sanskrit about a man looking for true happiness and fulfillment in life. He is told that if he crosses this immense desert, fords this treacherous river, and climbs to the top of this impossibly tall mountain, he will find a solitary, wise monk who will tell him the secret of being happy.

"The man sets off on his journey, faces down death by dehydration, is almost drowned in the rivers’ rushing torrent, and arrived at the summit of the mountain after nearly falling to his doom. He looked for the monk but found no one. After searching further, he spotted a piece of paper folded under a rock. With bloodied, trembling hands, he reached for the paper and carefully unfolded it. His eyes widen. Slowly, a grin appears on his haggard face, tears stream down his cheeks. The note reads:

Out to lunch. Be back soon. Leave a message.

And, by the way, the happiness you were looking for, you passed it up about twenty miles ago.

Intrigued, Megan sneaked into the back of the room. There were very few people in the seminar. She counted seven others. He was standing on the small stage at the podium adjusting a headset microphone.

He’s a bit taller than I had imagined, was her first thought immediately followed by, If he was holding me close my cheek would fit nicely against his neck with his arms around my shoulders. Struck by this spontaneous notion of intimacy, Megan blushed. She then became warm to the point of believing she was having a hot flash mistakenly brought on by early menopause.

I’m too young to be going through the change. I will have to make an appointment with my doctor.

Megan imagined adding this errand to her do-to list.

He was starting his talk now. Megan heard a low moan just to her left. There was a man lying across several chairs. It looked like he was just waking up and may have slept there for most of the night. He smelled of alcohol.

My god, he is raising his hand and going to say something.

At that instant, she recognized