"Well then, how about a martini?"

In the wake of Robin Williams' death I’ve been thinking today about my good friend, Egg. I wrote this post about his death in November, 2004. 

I lost a good friend last week.

His name was Ed but all of us in our fraternity pledge class called him Egg. He was one of the few friends from my youth I made a point to stay in touch with. 

Though Egg grew up in a well-to-do family, he was the most down-to-earth guy you ever met.

After college Egg landed a job at a radio station in a sleepy southern town. To everyone’s amazement, he never left. He married local women, became active in regional politics, even developed a southern accent. He was managing a chain of radio stations when he died.

Egg committed suicide. Turned a shotgun on himself. Didn’t leave a note. Nobody saw it coming.

I learned about it from a message his wife left on our answering machine. His brother, when I called, said he couldn’t bear the thought of standing up in front of a room full of people and delivering a eulogy. He said he would be grateful if I would. So I did. And I’m glad I did.

I wanted people to remember the guy in the polished wood casket for his sense of humor – one of the best of anyone I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing – rather than his exit strategy. I wanted to tell funny stories that would make them laugh, the kind he always told.

So I told them how Egg loved to tell about the time a computer glitch caused his company’s pre-programmed gospel station to start broadcasting vulgarity-laced gangsta rap that was supposed to be playing on the urban station and vice versa, making the phones ring off the hook in his Bible Belt town. He thought it was hilarious. And it was.

I told them about the ancient Shelley Berman comedy album he played so often he not only memorized the dialogue, he nailed Berman’s delivery. His favorite bit was a sketch about a nervous airline passenger who summoned the stewardess (Berman said the plural was “stewardeye”):

Passenger: “Uh, miss … the wing is on fire.”

Stewardess: “Coffee, tea or milk?”
Passenger, becoming agitated: “We don’t have time for coffee, tea or milk. We’re doomed.”

Stewardess, perking up: “Well then, how about a martini?”   

I told them about the time I sent Egg a copy of my book, a compilation of columns written for the local paper. A few weeks later John Grisham came to a bookstore in Egg’s town to promote his latest novel. While Grisham’s back was turned, Egg placed my book atop the stack of books Grisham was signing and took a picture. It made it look like people were lined up to get a copy of my self-published book, not Grisham’s best-seller.

I told them about our national fraternity’s member directory that had mistakenly listed Egg as deceased and how he milked that for all it was worth, telling fund-raisers who called he couldn’t very well donate to the national chapter since he was dead. 

I said I wanted to address Egg directly in case he was listening. I reminded him about the only time I could recall he annoyed me. He had returned from spring break complaining about a rash that itched. Turns out he had measles and passed them on to half the fraternity, causing us to have to cancel our annual formal.

I told Egg that, this time, he had annoyed me again. In fact, he had gone light-years beyond annoying all of us in that room: He had broken our hearts. Then I told Egg that we forgave him.

And while I had no right to speak for his stricken family or friends, I do forgive him though I can’t understand why he did it and never will. Nobody will. 

I’m writing this on the plane coming home from his funeral. In a minute stewardeye will be coming through the cabin with a choice of soft drinks, as well as beer and wine for $5 and cocktails for $6, exact change will be appreciated.

Assuming airlines still sell those miniature bottles of premixed cocktails, I believe I’ll have a martini. Maybe two.