The Pursuit of Gold

Ignorance and power and pride are a deadly mixture, you know?

I call it a beautiful recipe— ‘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’. It was never slow or peaceful, no. But who would want a boring and pleasant life anyways? Not when you can be the main character living in the fast lane. I guess it helped being good at it.

I remember my fathers words well. I was beginning University at Stanford—a Degree in Commerce, of course— and we were having a farewell meal. 

My old man, 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. I understood immediately. A slight nod of his head and a grumble at our silent agreement, told me he was proud of his achievements. He had come a long way himself from the days of being a penniless immigrant, and from bits and pieces I’d heard of his past, I came to respect him more and more.

How he got there though, well…that’s for others to contemplate.

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.

And the ‘now’ is a far cry from that world I once inhabited.

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, or was me, reminiscent of the great Gatsby himself. 

Except I have a higher headcount at my funeral, of course, than Gatsby had. Maybe he wasn’t as ‘great’ as they said. 

I make myself comfortable in the back row of the 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? Classic.

And the floral arrangements? Really…?

I can’t believe Macy hired the fool responsible. 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…yes, those were the days.

Yet, there was a cost, too. Playing the field has its merits. ‘There are plenty of fish in the sea,’ my father had said, and I embraced his philosophy, hooked a few good ones in my time.

Nothing 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 who cared, truly cared, 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. They left it on me. Not a sword, like a Viking warrior might have been buried with as he passed into the other side, but a symbol of my adventures, nevertheless, my riches.

A sigh of anticipation escapes me. 

When will everyone arrive? 

I await the speeches, those tinged with 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.

Perhaps it would come from the ones who mattered most, the ones I’d lost along the way. Or abandoned, to be more truthful. 

Empty marriages. A son and daughter who grew up without knowing me. Really knowing me. Yes, they’ll grieve, but more for what hadn’t been than what really was. For them, I was nothing more than 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 like it does for some at times like this?

I see the red-rimmed eyes and the smeared makeup and the babies crying and 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 Macy speaking. Macy— she with the burnished bronzed hair cascading across her shoulders, she with the one-name, her own brand, the undertaker to the rich and fabulous. Celebrity guardian of the grey beyond. 

An old flame of mine too, I must say. One of many. 

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, hallways 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.

What does it matter now? I am dead, after all.

There is no need now to impress anyone with posture, or charm, or wit, or my self-indulgent wealth. 

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 nothing, stripped bare of life and all its fineries and pretensions.

I'm ironically the slowest I'll ever be at this point in my life. It only took death to stop me.

Yet, the process proceeds nevertheless, that final act of a man’s life as the curtain descends, midnight beckons.

I hear the Biblical verses that mock the truth of my life. 

And what was it all for? What did I gain by leaving the narrow path and seeking wealth and vainglory?

What was the line from that old song again…? What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?  Words to that effect. 

Too late now for such refection, I realise. Too, too late.

It was a slippery slope I had taken, and now the reckoning time had come. 

I’m witnessing my own funeral, and the afterlife beckons. So too, the comeuppance, I guess. Time to reap the whirlwind I’d lived.

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. 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, grease the palm, manipulate reactions. He’s been there with me all the time— the business deals, the sleigh-of-hand, the trickery, the double-dealing, the dirty work. My right-hand man.

Surely, he’ll have something good to say.

Surely?

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins. ‘Ignorance and power and pride are a deadly mixture, you know…’

I shut my eyes.

It is what killed me after all.

Alas, the certainty of an eternal sleep beckons me. And slowly, but surely do i follow.