Requiem

Ben Stein

WEDNESDAY NIGHT LATE

TO BEING AT WHAT MAY BE THE END, I am lying in bed. My lungs are on fire. I am sweating even with the air conditioning on. My head is spinning. I feel sharp shooting pains in my skin. I am sick, sick, sick. Is it pneumonia? Is it asthma? Is it flu? Is it all of them? I feel as if it's all of them.

How did I get this way? I don't know. I think it started when I had to do some voice work in a very hot studio in the San Fernando Valley about a week ago. Or maybe it was on the airplane back from Syracuse a couple of weeks ago. (I have to tell you the countryside between Syracuse and Hamilton, New York, where I gave my speech, is fabulous. And Colgate, where I spoke, is a gift from God.)

Or maybe it was because this very morning, up in Sandpoint, Idaho, my favorite small town, I foolishly let my traveling companion, Phil DeMuth, talk me into going for an aggressive bicycle ride across the Long Bridge while there was smoke in the air. I could feel that smoke searing my lungs for hours. Where was the smoke from? Grass growers? A forest fire? Who knows? Anyway, then I had a hellacious flight from Spokane to Seattle. Alaska Airlines is simply collapsing as a functioning entity. Too crowded. Too long a wait to get a gate. Loud, crazy passengers yakking into their cell phones. (Usually the Alaska fliers are the most polite in the world. Today was different.)

Then I did a stupid thing. When I got home, I swam in my pool. Not much, but enough to make me feel as if I had poured lighter fluid into my lungs and swallowed a lit match.

Now, I am lying in bed and thinking I am about to die.

As usual, I made a list of the best things in my life and thanked God for them.

First, as always, my wife.

Saint Wifey, as I think of her. The best person on earth. Can you imagine how lucky, how blessed I am to be married to the best person on the planet?

Then my father and then my mother, who did everything for me. Especially my father, but also my mother in her way.

Then my sister, who cleaned up after me when, as a high school junior, I vomited on myself in my sleep after my first night getting drunk on Hi-C and vodka. This was the single kindest act in the history of mankind.

Or at least in my life. (A close second was when my favorite dog of all time, Trixie, died and I had no dog. My wife gave me her dog, Ginger, a majestic German shorthaired pointer. What kind of person gives her husband her dog? A saint. True, she had two others, but you get the picture.)

Then, to my college girlfriend, Mary, who was the first woman who ever really deeply loved me. She just thought I was the greatest. That changed my whole life dramatically for the better. Once you have had a lovely, charming, witty woman (and wow, was she witty) fall in love with you, you have a better opinion of yourself forever. She's a lawyer now in New England and God bless her.

Then my college roommate, Arthur Best, world's quickest wit and a super roommate. He was kind, forbearing, generous, just a great guy. Mary used to make fun of him, but it was good-natured.

Then the brothers of the Alpha Delta Phi at Columbia in 1963-66. Every brother a great guy. The most fun parties on earth. Drinking. Smoking. Dancing. Great guys. Stuart Arthur Reynolds, Lawrence Hyde Lissitzyn, Radford Carter West, Grant van Allen Roberts (RIP). What times we had. You know, it's fun to be young and drunk.

My great econ teacher, Lowell Harriss, who pointed the way for my career in economics, such as it is. My great teachers at Yale, Larry Simon, Bob Bork, Henry Wallich. My mysterious pals Nan and Nancy. (Don't ask.)

Then, Pat, who was my girlfriend when I was at Santa Cruz. She insisted that we get a dog. That was where my first Weimaraner, Mary Margaret of Santa Cruz, came from. Pat was an incredibly wonderful human being. Kind, patient, considerate. And she brought dogs into my life. And dogs are—after my wife—my first love. I was not nice to Pat and I feel guilty about it every day. I haven't seen her for about, let's see, about 32 years. I wonder if she's still the cutest girl at American University…

And hovering above all of these people, our son, the handsome Tommy, who is now in South Carolina, God bless him.

Then, I thanked God for all of the men and women who fight for this country and for freedom. To think that men and women from small towns in Mississippi and Kansas and Louisiana and Idaho went off to fight and die for us lazy slobs back at home in World War II and in Korea and Vietnam and now in Iraq and Afghanistan. This is an act of mind-numbing generosity of spirit. I pray for them and their families on my knees all through the day, and wow, do they deserve it.

I don't want to die, though. I just bought a lakefront condo in Sandpoint, at a fabulously beautiful place called the Seasons. The views are not to be believed. The amenities are fabulous. There is a spa my wife will like. In a way, it's the perfect place. I want to live to enjoy it.

I had better get to sleep.

Barry, my best friend in junior high school. How miserable I was there at Monkey Hills, and how lucky I was to have Barry as my friend. He was the first person I knew whose parents had a foreign car. I think it was called a Hillman.

Then Al Burton, who took care of me when I came to Hollywood and took care of me more than anyone I have ever worked with. Then Barron Thomas, who threw himself in front of a speeding train of insanity to save me. Then Phil, my genius, witty friend and traveling companion.

I have too many friends to die. Wlady. Bob Tyrrell. Russ Ferguson. Julie Capretta. Daniella Capretta. John R. Coyne, Jr. Aram Bakshian. Karl Rove. I still have a lot to say to them and to hear from them. I don't want to die. I want to live at the Seasons and be happy.

My favorite spot on earth is wherever my wife and the dogs are, but after that, it's the dining room of Hill's Resort in Luby Bay, Priest Lake, Idaho. Have you ever seen the movie with Bing Crosby, Holiday Inn? It's sort of like that. Forties style architecture. Big picture windows. They have a staggering view of the water through the trees, tasty food, and a loving golden lab called Molly. I don't want to die. I want to spend more time with Molly. I want to see the speedboats curling out in the still evening towards the immense, endless water. You really cannot know how perfect North Idaho is unless you go there. It's heaven on earth.

I don't want to die just yet.

Plus my tall friend Peggy. I want to see her again.

And of course, my dogs. I keep thinking that when I die, the only ones to notice will be Alex and the dogs. Then life will just go flowing on.

I think I'll take another Tranxene and go to sleep.

THURSDAY

HEY. I'M STILL ALIVE. It is a close run thing but I am still alive. So, off to dinner tonight with Lt. Col. Dave McCarthy, USMC, just back from his third year in Iraq, and his beautiful wife, Carie. He's a fine figure of a man. Tall, stands straight. Great sense of humor. Also did a year in Afghanistan. He lives near the airport.

What do you think he's planning? Yes! Going back to Iraq. Not writing a book about his life. Not going to work on Wall Street. Yes, he wants to go back and fight America's enemies and the enemies of all the decent people on the globe. How can we ever thank him? And yet he's just a friendly, cheery sort. He does not brag at all. Never. He tells about life and death in Iraq in matter of fact terms. I wish I had one-tenth his courage.

Now, think of all the lucky things that happened to you today: Your car started; you have a job; you can pay your bills; it didn't rain; your lunch was good.

Then think of the most blessed, fortunate thing of all: There are men like Dave McCarthy, Lt. Col., USMC, who will leave their wives and their kids behind to fight in 135-degree heat (yes, 135-degree heat) to protect total strangers. There are people who will risk getting their heads blown off for men and women whom they will never meet. They will risk losing their most precious possession—their lives—for us slobs sitting back at home on our fat asses. Well, maybe I am mistaken here. They have a more precious possession: their self-respect and their patriotism.

How on earth did we ever get the gift of these men and women? Angels from God. So are their families. The military family is the marrow in the backbone of the nation.

While the rest of us are whining and feeling sorry for ourselves (especially me), while the powers of finance are trying to get rich quick, Dave McCarthy and those like him are watching for their buddies on the left and on the right and in front and behind—and we, the whole nation—get to be their buddies.

God bless them for all eternity.

SATURDAY

IT'S SATURDAY. I still don't feel well. I am lying on my bed at our house in Malibu. A pleasant sea breeze is blowing through the room. The dogs are sleeping. I am listening to Mozart's Exsultate Jubilate on my headphones. This is living. All thanks to Dave McCarthy and those like him.

Ben Stein is a writer, actor, economist, and lawyer living in Beverly Hills and Malibu.

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