I’ll call him Pip, for that was sort of his real name. Magazine circulation was his game, but his heart lay elsewhere. He was a patron of the arts, chiefly music, the theater, and literature, with the kind of enthusiasm that only a frustrated singer-actor-storyteller can possess. Frustration was something he knew, despite a warm and cordial nature, a ready smile and laugh, and a genuine pleasure in people.
He had a helluva lot of friends, actors, musicians, businesspeople, misfits. He also had the loneliness of the failed romantic. He had had “the one” in his life, years before, and she didn’t pan out. Never married, no kids. The stats aren’t great for guys like that. And he didn’t exactly live for work. He got and lost a lot of jobs. And he liked a drink. Actually, he liked a lot of drinks. Lately I’d heard he was drying out. He looked to be doing it, too. Then I’d heard less and less from him.
Today a call came. A mutual friend. See, Pip hadn’t told anyone, but his liver was shot. Cirrhosis. The booze. Another friend came by to visit New Year’s Eve. Pip looked bad. Really bad. He offered to take him to the ER. Pip wouldn’t go. Said his insurance had run out, and besides, he felt like he might be climbing out of it. Next morning was New Year’s Day. Pip didn’t answer his phone. They went over and he was dead. He was 52. He was a good guy. He deserved better.