Pride by E. P. Lande

“You must have read about Irwin; it was all over the news,” John told me during dinner.

John had invited me to visit him at his cottage on the Maine coast. We hadn’t seen one another in over 70 years, since we spent summers together at Camp Wannatoo in Maine, nor had we spoken over the years. As my wife died several years ago and I was retired, I had the time, and I was curious as to how John had spent his life.

“Suicide,” John said, as he cleared the salad plates.

John’s cabin was quite isolated, peaceful with Atlantic Ocean waves crashing into the cliffs a couple hundred yards from where were having dinner.                                           

“I remember something about it in the International Herald Tribune. I read the paper religiously when I lived in France, as it was my primary source of news from home,” I told him.

“Irwin was a complicated person,” John said when he returned from the kitchen with the roast chicken. “I can still hear him boasting to all of us in the cabin, about the car his father drove — as if a car was something to be proud of.”

“Yeah, he was always telling us that what he — or someone in his family — had was better or worth more than anything any of us had,” I said. “It got to be annoying. The chicken is excellent, John. But tell me, how did he commit suicide? I don’t recall that part in the article in the Tribune.”

“We would visit each other from time to time.”

                                                         ***

“I’m driving to your place for the weekend,” John texted Irwin.

“Great. I’ll stock my wine cellar and have plenty of booze on hand,” Irwin texted back. Afterward, Irwin speculated about John’s reason for his visit. It was true that over the years they had been accustomed to seeing one another, but somehow John’s text seemed rather strange — abrupt; he wondered what his friend wanted.

                                                   ***

“On my last visit to his place, he began telling me how he regretted all his boasting; Irwin had always been a braggard, even after we left Camp Wannatoo. We were sitting in his living room when he began sobbing and asking me to forgive him.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“I guess he thought of me as a close friend. As I said, we would see one another, as old friends do, but I never confided in him and I always thought that whatever he told me was a stretch from the truth. I would read his daily postings on Instagram and Facebook and laugh; I knew they were far from his reality, but that was Irwin.”

                                                            ***

“What brings you here?” Irwin asked, refilling John’s wine.

“Nothing special. I needed a first-hand fix of telling you about my life. Instagram isn’t the same as hearing it directly from my mouth,” John laughed.

Irwin smiled, for he knew his friend. He himself liked to boast, but John’s Instagram postings gave pride a bad reputation. They spent the remainder of the afternoon bragging, John recounting about his investments — double-digit returns on the stocks he purchased; about his travels — he recently returned from fishing in Bariloche where he landed the largest fish ever caught in Argentinian waters; about his art collection — he just bought the finest Fauve Derain. Irwin told John about the latest addition to his rare automobiles — the Lamborghini SC18 Alston he picked up for a ‘song’; the George 1 flatware service for 12 with the king’s monogram.

                                                  ***

“I don’t believe in social media, so I never read any of his postings,” I said. “I hope you’ll share your recipe for this chicken; it’s simply the best I’ve ever eaten.” John cut a wing and a leg and placed both on my plate.

“From his postings, the world must have thought Irwin to be the most generous, loving, considerate, and charming individual on this planet,” John continued. “But I knew better. You know, he had to leave the University of Pennsylvania for plagiarism, and his first wife took him to court for nonpayment of child support?”

            “From what I remember of Irwin at camp, he wasn’t all that smart, and definitely not generous,” I recalled. “He would never share any of the packages of candy he received from home, unlike the rest of us.”

            “As I was telling you, he invited me to his home, principally to absolve himself of his boastings over the years. I felt I was being asked to act as his father confessor.” John sat back in his chair, and watched as I sipped the wine. “Irwin also liked his wine — and his whiskey, too. I think that all his boasting caused him to drink.”

            “What do you mean?” I asked, placing his glass of wine on the table.

            “Drinking, to Irwin, was his penitence. He drowned his boastful pride so that he didn’t have to hear himself. Over the years, he became an alcoholic. He married several times, and each wife divorced him. His children would have nothing to do with him. I was probably the only friend he had left.”

                                                                        ***

“Glad you stocked up,” were John’s first words when they greeted one another on John’s arrival.

“I had Sherry-Lehmann ship me a case of Kistler Chardonnay, and I have the Macallan triple cask 15-year-old Scotch you always drink. They were out of the 18-year-old,” Irwin told his friend.

“Let’s have a starter, shall we?’ John suggested as they walked into Irwin’s home.

“Excuse the clutter,” Irwin said. “My housekeeper didn’t come in this week; family emergency.

"Neat?” he asked.

“One rock; it’s the first ....”

“Since breakfast,” Irwin added, mirthfully.

“Okay; since breakfast. Anyway, you know I always have it on one rock before noon.”

Soon the two friends were drinking the Kistler Chardonnay, John having had three shots of the Macallan, Irwin nursing his first to which he had added a fistful of ice.

                                                  ***

“He must have been miserable,” I said.

“He was, and that was probably the reason for him to commit suicide. I knew that he took morphine ....”

“Morphine? That’s a pretty powerful drug.”

“He told me sometime earlier that he needed to take a small dose to sleep. To me, he took it to forget. The last night I was with him we had a couple of drinks with our meal and afterward he told me he just wanted to get some sleep. I said goodnight. That was the last time I saw him alive.”

                                                            ***

“Can you let me have a few of your morphine pills?” John asked. “I think I need one. I’m all hyped up.”

“Help yourself. They’re in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” Irwin told him.

“Let’s have a nightcap,” John said when he returned to where they were having their drinks. He went into the kitchen and brought back two glasses of Macallan, handing one to Irwin.

“Here’s to us,” John said and drank his shot. “Drink up, my friend.” He watched as Irwin tilted his head back and drank.

“Wow, this stuff is strong,” Irwin said. “I feel woozy, like I’ve had a few ....” He didn’t finish. He tried to rise but sat back down. “What did you give me?” he asked, his head in his hands.

“You just had 250 milligrams of morphine,” John told him.

“Whaaat?” Irwin slurred.

“You heard me. I’ve had enough of your bullshit. All you ever do is talk about yourself, filling your fuckin’ Instagram postings with garbage. Boasting is a sin that is rooted in pride.”

Irwin slumped in his chair, unconscious. John dragged him to his bedroom, undressed him and placed him sprawled across the bed. He brought Irwin’s glass and placed it with the now empty container of morphine pills on the bed beside him, wiping them both clean of his own fingerprints. He then left the room, shut the door, and walked into his own bedroom and went to sleep.

                                                  ***

“The following morning when I got up and went to his room, I found him sprawled across his bed, an open bottle of morphine pills on his night table next to a glass of water. I called an ambulance immediately. The doctor in the ER at the hospital pronounced him dead and an autopsy confirmed my suspicion that he had overdosed on the morphine. Do you like the wine?” John asked, pouring me another glass.