This is a eulogy for our dear friend, Pride.
That’s what you’re supposed to say. That the deceased was dear. And beloved. And will be missed.
Poppycock.
His absence will be noticed. His presence won’t be mourned.
Nobody was more right, more often, than Pride.
Everybody knew it. He made sure.
Pride knew that he didn’t come just before a fall.
Pride came before everything. You can’t blame him. He had to.
He was Pride.
Pride loved a good joke. Or, as he called it, a “knee slapper.” Especially at your expense. It was an elixir for his ego.
Pride owned a lot of stuff. It wasn’t always the best. But it was always better than yours.
Pride was a perfect driver. Though, if he was in the car, he was riding shotgun. You’d do the driving, he’d tell you how to do it better.
Once in awhile he made you feel good about yourself. You’d feel that jolt of a “job well done.” We all shared the same thirst for his approval.
Pride’s hearing sucked. He claimed it was from sighting in shotguns without adequate prophylaxis. But I knew Pride. His hearing always sucked. He was always running his mouth in his mind. About “how he”, “who he”, “why he”, “what he” and “where he.”
Pride was a judgment factory with a round-the-clock operation.
Pride had no blind spots. But how expert was he at identifying them in others? And that grin when he did? (Sigh) He found a twisted comfort in reminding others they weren’t perfect. The most twisted part? We heeded it.
When Pride was having a bad day, especially when he was having a “few bad days”, he’d become even more intolerable. He believed all things naturally considered him first. He never saw that wasn’t true, and that it didn’t need to be.
His vision wasn’t much better than his hearing. He never could see past himself. And neither could those that called him, “Friend.” I’ll admit I ran in that crowd. Some days it seems like I still do. Just remembering him gives me a contact buzz.
But all of that is innocent in comparison to the high crime of challenging him. This was the unforgivable offense. As unaffected as Pride appeared, his skin was a vale. He couldn’t take criticism. I suppose he thought he was shielding. In the end he isolated himself.
Pride died alone. I can only assume he was muttering his own name as he faded.
When I first heard the news that Pride had passed, I was relieved. And melancholy. And skeptical.
They say you only live one life.
In Pride’s case, I hope that’s true.
