The Life and Death of Jack Copely

Jack Copely smoked the last cigarette he would ever smoke. He held it between his forefinger and his index finger and inhaled the sweet smoke. He savored the taste of the smoke in his mouth and then let it out gently, almost as if he were kissing it. Boy, he would miss the cigarettes if it were possible. He leaned back in his brown leather chair, shifted to the side and put his legs on top of the table. He was satisfied to see his shoes were shining like always. To him, shiny shoes had always meant you were an important person and being important was important to Jack Copely so he kept them well shined.

Most men equate being important with having great power. Not Jack. No way. He equated being important with having money. Money gave you everything you desired. It gave you comforts, it opened doors, it provided women you knew you could never have otherwise, and yes it provided power too. But showing that you have money is always important. Jack knew the importance of dressing well, he always had all his suits tailor made. His shoes were always the best the Italians had to offer. His watch, the best the Swiss came out with that year. But his most prized possession was his car. His Caddy convertible. His very own personal door-opener. Thinking of the Caddy made Jack smile. He’d had fine times because of that automobile. He’d miss that too, if it were possible.

But Jack had not been born with such wealth. He was the son of a mechanic. A poor mechanic. When he was born, Jack contracted malaria. His father couldn’t afford to take him to a doctor. His parents tried to take care of him at home, and they did what they always did. They prayed. But against all odds, Jack lived. Ever since he heard his mother tell that story to him as a child, he thought one thing; regular people go to hospitals in such situations, but not the Copelys. At first he had difficulty understanding why. It all became clear on his first day at school. All the boys and girls had shiny lunch boxes, filled with sumptuous food. They all wore clean clothes and had hair that was so shiny it hurt Jack’s eyes. The first day really drew the point home. His parents had no money. They were poor. They were pitiable. Maybe it was that day, maybe it was after he got into that fight with Frank Granger who suggested he fetch other kids’ bikes from the school bicycle stand for a quarter; but Jack decided he would do something with his life. He would not remain poor. And he did just that. He ran away from home on his sixteenth birthday and never looked back.

He had fought life. He created his own rules and by hook, crook and everything in between, he became one of the richest men in the city. His parties were the most sought after. When he did people favors, they always owed him big. But he was like the highlight of the evening; come late night, everybody had to go home. And they went home. One by one they left him; old allies and new friends. The smiles on their faces were replaced be frowns, the brows furrowed, the eyes lost their twinkles when they saw him. Gradually, he became an outcast. Just like that lunchtime on his first day at school.

Jack glanced around his office. Sunlight from the window glinted on the glass case housing his honorary memberships of various clubs. The carpet in his office was the thickest of the Persians he could find. The hat and coat stand was made of ivory. The desk was polished oak. And on the desk there was another prized possession; his gold pen. It had been a gift from a wealthy banker who owed Jack a lot of favors. After the pen, he had considered all debts repaid. On the same desk, though, rested the Bernard file. Oh Bernard, he thought, you really ticked off the wrong congressman.

Bernard Watson had been found guilty of embezzling funds from the public coffers. A Congressional inquiry had found his broker, Jack Copely, also guilty. And thus it was that Jack was here in his office on a Sunday, reflecting on his wealth and achievements, smoking his last cigarette and thinking what his obituary would look like.

Jack picked up the pistol from his desk. Although it had been lying in the sunlight, it was still cold. As cold as death. Jack clicked the magazine into place, clicked off the safety, and weighed the gun in his hand. It felt light, almost as if it was telling him it was just a harmless piece of metal here to deliver salvation. He put it in his mouth. Jack Copely was not a religious man and it never occurred to him to pray to God. The cold steel helped calm him. He would never go to prison, he would never let the government take away his wealth and become poor again. He was born poor, but he’d die rich. He had promised this to himself long ago.

He pulled the trigger. The bullet entered his skull from the upper wall of his mouth and exited from behind his skull. Blood, bone and brain tissue were scattered all over the expensive Persian carpet and the curtains behind the desk. Jack Copely was born a poor boy, but he died a rich man. He had kept his promise to himself. When they found him later, the policemen swore his eyes had a triumphant look in them.

Miscarriage

They said it wasn’t her fault.
These things happen, they said.

She stared out the windows
to the playing fields ahead

she saw her son play ball,
he looked at peace.

She saw his first step,
she caught him before he fell,

she watched him grow up,
turn into a man.

But he still came running to her
like he had as a lad.

She saw him get married,
with sons of his own to have.

She saw them pick up his limp body,
she saw them shake their heads

This poem is based on an actual event. It may seem amaturish but the emotions behind it were hard to put into words.

Futile

The cry of a wolf pierced the night air
Cursed are all that hear

Darkness was all around him
Darkness and despair

He looked toward the heaven and cried
“O Lord! I tried

to forget all about her
but I had reached the height”

Why oh why, he thought
Should she die?

Wolves continued to howl,
The world went round

The sky then opened, and a voice pronounced:
“Till the heavens your cry was heard, but your plight denounced”

Su

Su didn’t love the sea. She didn’t hate it either. The sea was part of her life. Just like when you wake up in the morning and know that that the sun is shining, Su knows the sea is out there. Just beyond the little garden she had somehow managed to plant in the sand outside her house, beyond the little stretch of sand, its waves crashing on the shore every few seconds. To Su, the sea represented her life and all she had come to know. Just like she neither loved nor hated her life, she neither loved nor hated the sea. The waves on the sea were unrelenting, they crashed and they crashed but their life was completely sapped from them the second they crashed. They never even made it to the edge of the wall beside the road. Except in bad weather, that is. Such was the story of her life; she lived all the days as if she were declaring war on life itself. Never relenting until she died. But just like the sea sometimes got rough and splashed high against the wall beside the road, she had a few highs as well.

Su had grown up near the sea. Every major event of her life had the sea in it. She had been born in the house that she lived in now. She had also lost her mother the same night. Then there was Pa. Pa had gone waving and smiling one day in his boar from the pier and had never come back. It was quite a storm, that day. All the fishermen had warned Pa the crests of the waves were white- the surest sign of an impending storm - but Pa never listened to anyone in his life, and he didn’t start then. Thinking about Pa made Su smile. Pa was the crusty sailor. Her fisherman father. He always told her the fish he brought them to eat was caught by him. “Just like God intended,” he would say. Being a fisherman was a sacred duty in his eyes.

Then there was her husband. She had met him near the surfer’s bar. He was an Australian and a damn good looking one too. They had liked each other their eyes met. Love at first sight. But John had left her, for a dimwitted blond some months after they got married. Thinking of John still made Su sad. But, well, it was another stunningly beautiful day, even though it was December. Another day beside the sea. Sometimes, she wished she had lived in a cold place near mountains where it snowed all year round. Then she didn’t have to look at the sea all day long. She had seen enough sunrises and sunsets to last her a lifetime. Oh well, she thought, time to get to work.

She hastily ate a breakfast of cold tuna sandwiches and went out to her car. Her musings had already cost her to run late. And the traffic at this time would be immense! Even though it was just after 10 o’ clock in the morning, the tourists were already out in force. She started her car and heard an odd rumbling sound coming from the engine. The last thing she needed right now was engine trouble. She quickly got out and opened the hood. Strange, she thought, the engine seemed to be fine. Then the sound got louder and people started screaming. Su turned around and for the first time in her life, was afraid of the sea. An unreal sight met her eyes. The sea was receding! It was as if Armageddon had come upon the world. So forceful was the sea’s receding that people and boats were being swept away into it; it was as if a giant whirlpool had opened up right in the middle of it. Then there was a deep rumbling sound. Everything, and everyone, stood still and simply stared at the sea, wondering what would come next. What came next made Su relieve her life in her entire mind. She felt as if she was watching it all in fast forward, she even felt the emotions all over again.

When the giant tsunami crashed upon everyone, some ran, but most stood rooted to the spot. It was the most spectacular thing anyone present that day had ever seen. It was as if the sea was mocking Su, telling her that it had possessed the strength all along; it just hadn’t shown it to her before. It was the most overwhelming scene Su had seen in her entire life. The last thought that passed through her head was, about the weather. How clear the day was, how brightly the sun shone, as if it wasn’t aware of what was going on beneath it.

Every major event of Su’s life had taken place near the sea. She had been born there, lost her mother near it and her father to it, met her future husband there, spent her whole life there. And she

died there too.

The Old Man

The old man thought he was old. Too old for this shit. But, hey, what can you do eh? Life and all that. He decided to wait a moment, though. He deserved it too. He looked down at his hand, as if trying to decipher his kismet. All caked with mud it was. And the lines! Well, mostly they were cuts and dead skin, but he did have deep lines on his hand. His hands had been deeply lined ever since he was a kid. A fortune teller once told him he would be big and famous some day. What a waste of ten rupees that was eh?

He looked around. There were quite a few characters there today. The car nearest him, the black one, had a young lad in it. The car was too big for him to ride alone, but he didn’t seem to be complaining about it. He was rocking to a beat from the radio. Or maybe it was the tape recorder playing. He had seen tape recorders play! Sometimes they shook the very ground you walked on.

The car just behind the young fellow’s was a white thing. A little white thing. In it were a man and a woman and two kids. They looked like a family. Well there’s kismet for you eh? Four people in a little car and a single person in a big car. Just goes on to show you, he thought. The man and the woman looked to be in a heated argument though. The woman was telling the man he should have paid the bill on time, that way they would have avoided the extra fine. The man was telling the woman – presumably his wife – that he was busy at the office and she should have paid the bill instead. The two kids in the back seemed to be deep in conversation with their windows. Oh, how the old man knew about conversations with inanimate objects! Whenever Baba would come home angry from work, and beat Amma up, he would always go into his little corner on the roof and have conversation with the walls and the three legged chair. They were his only real friends for quite a few years. Many more years than necessary, he grunted.

There was a rickshaw beside the little white car. In it were two ladies. Or rather, a girl and an older woman. The woman looked resolute, staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the red light. The girl was looking at him. At him! Why was she looking at him? Perhaps, she wanted him to tell the older woman the light only changes when it does and not a second before? Or maybe he reminded the girl of somebody. People told him he had one of those faces. Yes, he had paid the price of that. It was a dark night and he was coming to his house. The electricity of the entire locality had been cut; another effort of the government to root out the “enroachers”. There were four of them, four men. They had jumped him from behind, thought he was someone else. One of them had a meat cleaver. That one cost him his job at the tanning factory. Nobody wants some cripple working for them.

But he had accepted the fact now; he had to. Kismet right? You have to be born at the right place and at the right time. And speaking of time, it was time to get to work. The old man hefted himself up using his hand and began walking toward the rickshaw. Maybe the girl wanted to give him money. Maybe she was sympathetic. He walked toward the rickshaw; all the time keeping his eyes on the girl and making sure she saw the stub of his left arm. He came near and she held out a ten rupee note for him to take. He took it and muttered a half-hearted “Allah…” and went to the other cars. No time for idle thinking now. There was money to be made here.

About this blog

Hello everyone! My name is Kamran Zuberi and I have been writing both poetry and prose for quite some time now. I'm not very good it at, but I try anyway. I have created this blog so I can share what I write with the world, and get their "take" on it. Please feel free to comment, because your comments are valuable to me. They will help me improve my writing skills, and hopefully, I'll be a better writer someday!

Regards,
Kamran Zuberi