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.