Charles stood just like a dime store mannequin with beautiful clothing on the outside, but empty inside. Charles had perfected the print glossy, but had failed to integrate his personality to be authentic.
He had inherited a considerable amount of money. Through gambling, drink, and women, he had gone through it all and now was indigent. He had grown up wealthy with servants and Summers at the Jersey seaside. He had every toy a boy could want including several expensive bicycles and tennis equipment. He ranked each Summer of his youth as one of the highest accomplished tennis players for each of his age group.
Charles became dependent for support from others and he had no compunction for responsibility of his own behavior. Charles had no conscience. He was, in actual fact, a sociopath.
He had grown up abused and belittled by his father. He was made to feel insignificant and worthless. He believed his father’s assessment of him and never seemed to be able to reduce the sound of his father’s voice. Every waking moment Charles heard that raspy, critical, voice. That’s why alcohol helped dull his senses just enough to make quiet that voice, if only for a short while.
He met a girl once. Thought he fancied her enough to ask her for lunch. Because the outside pretend Charles was so put together and attractive, she agreed, which led to an abusive, critical, relationship for several months. When the girl refused to loan him money, he threw a temper tantrum and left her.
His next relationship was the same and the next and its following one. Charles never accepted his part in all this relationship gone bad. It was always someone else’s problem. Because he now lived on his modest Social Security check, he continued to ask others to pay for meals, gas in the car, and other of his expenses. Again, he expected to be taken care of without any contribution from him. A taker. A parasite. A liar. Carefully hidden behind the glossy image.
His days became months which turned into years. He was now 63 and rented one room from an acquaintance. It was all that he could afford after a lifetime of nomadic spendthrift habits of years. He was one room away from being homeless and he knew it. He had regrets.
He had, in fact, redeeming qualities. He could comport himself as a gentleman and he could be an attentive listener. But it was always to profit by it, somehow. If being a gentleman brought him dinner, he was all in. If listening meant free football tickets, he could listen. It was always about him and his needs.
With the stress of financial worries, his heart gave up and he passed a quick death at age 65. He was buried in a pauper’s grave after no one had claimed his body. So much promise that never materialized. So much unhappiness he had fostered on so many. So little empathy. So little contrition. Charles, who thought he could not die, had in fact left the stage at a young age.
Shakespeare wrote for Macbeth, Act V, Scene V:
“Out, Out, brief candle. Life’s but a walking shadow. A poor player who struts and frets his hour on the stage. And then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.”
The life of Charles, heir to a modest fortune, ruined by drink and other vices, ended quietly on an early Autumn morning. Yes, he had failed. He had failed himself and he had failed so many others.