The Endless Streetcar Ride into
the Night, and the Tinfoil Noose* (1966)
Jean Shepherd

     Mewling,  puking babes.  That's the way we all start.  Damply clinging to someone's shoulder,  burping weakly,   clawing our way into life.  All of us.  Then gradually,   surely,  we begin to divide into two streams,  all marching together up that long yellow brick road of life,  but on opposite sides of the street.  One crowd goes on to become the Official people, peering out at us from television screens;   magazine covers.  They are forever appearing in newsreels, carrying attaché cases,  surrounded by banks of microphones while the world waits for their decisions and statements.  And the rest of us go on to become 
.  .  . just us.

They are the Prime Ministers,   the Presidents,  Cabinet members,  Stars,  dynamic molders of the Universe,  while we remain forever the onlookers,  the applauders of their real lives.

Forever down in the dark dungeons of our souls we ask ourselves:  "How did they get away from me?   When did I make that first misstep that took me forever to the wrong side of the street,  to become eternally part of the accursed,  anonymous Audience?"

It seems like one minute we're all playing around back of the garage,  kicking tin cans and yelling at girls,   and the next instant you find yourself doomed to exist as an office boy in the Mail Room of Life,  while another ex-mewling,  puking babe sends down dicta,   says  "No comment"  to the Press,  and lives a real genuine Life on the screen of the world.

Countless sufferers at this hour are spending billions of dollars and endless man hours lying on analysts' couches,   trying to pinpoint the exact moment that they stepped off the track and into the bushes forever. 

[Jean Shepherd,  from In God We Trust--All Others Pay Cash.  1966.  Rpt.  New York: Dolphin, 1972.]