Ignorance, power and pride are a deadly mixture, you know?
A beautiful recipe I call- ‘My Life’. It was grand, overflowing with triumphs and perfectly executed business deals with little use of my, how shall I say, felonious talents that my parents were ‘so fond of’.
I remember the words well. I was beginning College—a Degree in Commerce, of course— and we were having a farewell meal.
My father, aged and past his prime, by all means - still had that spark of ambition in his eye that men of enterprise have. He looked me in the eyes.
‘Anything it takes, son,’ was all he said. ‘Anything it takes.’ It was their mantra; and it became my anthem.
Getting ahead, he meant. He didn’t have to say it, though. It was understood. A slight nod of his head and a grumble at our silent agreement, told me he was proud. He had come a long way himself from the days of a penniless immigrant, and from bits and pieces I’d heard of his past, I came to respect him more and more.
And so, it went, with me. A bit on the side. A few under-the-table deals give or take. Exaggerate. Drop a nought here and there or add one when it mattered.
Anything it took.
But that was then, and this is now.
The symbols of my perfect life are obvious— the Italian all-wool suit, the Burgundy tie that screams ‘executive’, and the ubiquitous, black metal briefcase embossed with a gold signature that sums me up.
Yes—a shrewd and extravagant tycoon, that’s me, reminiscent of the great Gatsby himself.
Except I have a higher headcount at my funeral, of course.
I make myself comfortable in the back row of leather seats, observing the formal black and grey decorations sporadically placed around the stage and podium.
Black and grey? I wince. Black and grey for a funeral?
I can’t believe Macy hired this fool. It's only my funeral for God’s sake.
Then, there’s the faint melody of Carly Simon’s You’re so Vain wafting overall, and I’m suddenly reminded of my playboy days where I would make a game of stealing a woman's virtue. A wink, a kiss of the fair lady’s hand and a svelte, ‘Hello Darling.’
Ah…those were the days.
Yet, there was a cost, too. Playing the field has its merits. ‘There are plenty of fish in the sea,’ as they say, and I hooked a few good ones in my time.
Not anything of lasting value though. Not that one woman who would walk the hills and valleys of life with me. No son, or daughter to leave behind, and who might mourn me? There is a price to pay for the pursuit of gold.
I glance down at my Rolex watch, aureate and splendid on my wrist. A sigh of anticipation escapes me.
When will everyone arrive?
I await the speeches, those of sadness, those of long-gone, distant days full of happy memories, and even those of lost loves shedding tears for what might have been, or what actually was— depending on who was doing the shedding.
I would enjoy it all.
And then it settled on me, the idea that there would be those who would cry for me with an all-consuming grief I may not have deserved. It was a profound thought— that my death could elicit such grief.
The ones who mattered most, but the ones I lost along the way. Or abandoned, to be more truthful.
Empty marriages. A son and daughter who grew without knowing me. Really knowing me. Yes, they’ll grieve, but more for what hadn’t been than what really was. An empty void floating delicately in the air.
Would it be the sort of grief that splintered time, that could make the earth appear to stand still?
I see the red-rimmed eyes, and the smeared makeup, and the babies crying, and the thunderstorms, and sad symphonies with the classic little violins…
.
But then, there is a chorus of laughter and the chime of clinking champagne glasses.
Laughter? At a funeral? Champagne?
Probably just another stage of grief, a coping mechanism. I reassure myself, brushing what I thought was going to be an awful realisation off my shoulders.
‘Good Afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am your funeral director for this evening.’ It is the funeral director for the privileged— Macy. She with the burnished bronzed hair cascading across her shoulders, her with the one-name, her own brand, the undertaker to the rich and fabulous. Guardian of the grey beyond. An old flame of mine.
She tugs at the sides of her pantsuit, fashionably gunmetal-blue. Let the performance begin!
I straighten up out of habit. No slouching. No elbows on pews. Reputation is everything, to be sure, especially one as admirable and sought after as mine. Most wouldn’t risk leaving the safe confinements of a home if they had inherited the same notorious last name as I. But growing up in a mansion of lies and manipulation, every hallway echoing with whispers of infidelity and betrayal, with the high expectations and legacy of generations to uphold as a mere child- you become well acquainted with the evils of this world and what it feels like to dwell in the shadows.
Then the realisation hits me.
I am dead, after all.
There is no need to impress anyone with posture, or charm, or wit, or my self-indulgent wealth anymore.
I am but a permanently sleeping man with a toothy grin on his face, encased in an ornate sarcophagus to be sure, but a wooden box, nevertheless.
Here, I am stripped bare of life and all its fineries and pretensions.
Yet, the process proceeds nevertheless, that final act of a man’s life as the curtain descends.
I hear the Biblical verses that mock the truth of my life. What was it all for? What did I gain by leaving the narrow path and seeking wealth and vainglory?
What was the line from the song again…? What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul? Something like that.
Too late now for such reflection, I realise. Too, too late.
It was a slippery slope I took and now the reckoning time had come.
I’m witnessing my own funeral.
Yet, I chuckle. I’m bored.
Let the speeches begin. Let there be no dry eyes at my funeral.
Macy is already on the job.
My friend begins to speak. It’s Richard. My right-hand man. He’ll have something good to say, I’m sure. That’s why I hired him in the first place. His job is to please the crowd, manipulate their reactions into something valuable and promising. He’s been there with me all the time— the business deals, the sleight-of-hand, the trickery, the double-dealing, the dirty work that I’d dust under the rug.
Surely, he’ll have something good to say.
Surely?
“Ladies and Gentlemen…Ignorance and Power and Pride are a deadly mixture, you know?” He professes, doleful eyes casting an all too familiar gaze at the audience. The beginning of another business deal. “It is…what killed him in the end.”
And they laugh.
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