The Christmas List: A Novel

“You know what they call those things?” Lincoln said to Kier over his second drink, the din of the pub forcing him to speak loudly.

“What things?”

“What the paper did to you.”

“Libel.”

“Well, besides that. They call them premature obituaries. It’s not an erroneous obituary, because everyone’s going to have one sometime. It’s just premature.”

“Yeah, that’s profound,” Kier said, uninterested.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened. I looked it up. It’s happened to some pretty big names: Paul McCartney, Queen Elizabeth, Ronald Reagan, Mark Twain, Margaret Thatcher. In fact, the death of Pope John Paul II was announced three times.

“The newspapers reported twice that Ernest Hemingway had died. They say that he read a scrapbook of his obituaries every morning with a glass of champagne.”

“Didn’t Hemingway commit suicide?” Kier asked. He sipped his beer. “Did people trash them too?”

“Of course they did. They were movers and shakers. You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs and you’ve made a lot of omelets my friend.”

“Omelets? I’m a freakin’ Denny’s.”

Lincoln laughed. “When do you give Brey the heave-ho?”

“Monday.”

“I’d like to see the look on that fool’s face when he sees you.”

“I’m sure it will be unforgettable.”

Lincoln set down his beer. “So how are you doing? Really?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good,” Lincoln said after a short pause. “That’s good.”

“You expected otherwise?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure. There were some pretty harsh things written about you. And you did just break up with your girlfriend.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Look what a waste Pam was, and I still gained twenty pounds after she left me.”

Kier grinned.

“What?”

“I saw Pam a month after you two separated. I asked how she was doing. She said, ‘Great, I just lost two hundred pounds of ugly fat.’ ”

Lincoln sneered. “Tossing that hen was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

“The trick, Lincoln, is to not let what other people think bother you.”

“Really, I wish I could do that. Beer helps.”

“It’s easier when you consider that three percent of the population are certifiably insane. And the rest of them are idiots. Why would you care what idiots think?”

“That’s the spirit, old boy,” Lincoln said, raising his drink. “To the idiot masses.”

Kier looked at Lincoln, his hand wavering with the upheld glass. He raised his own, “To the idiot masses.” Both men took a long drink.