Jonathan Goldstein

‘I’m imagining all these Victorian rakes lying in bed for days on end, in their ruffled pyjamas, playing dead until true death finally arrived.’

2 p.m. The theme of this week’s episode of my radio show is “final words.” To get into the spirit of it, we put a call out on Facebook asking our listeners what they’d like their last words to be.

4 p.m. The responses roll in: “I told you I was sick.” “If I’m lying, may your god strike me dead.” “I don’t do seances.” “I lied when I told everyone in high school that Chase was my boyfriend.” “Pull my finger.” “I don’t know how exactly, but I bet this is all your fault (I assume I’ll be surrounded by my family.)” “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Before dying, Oscar Wilde was believed to have said, “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do.” What he said in fact was something less witty, something about how atrocious the wallpaper was. Plus, it’s likely he didn’t even say it on his death bed.

I suppose that when a wit like Wilde achieved the perfect mot juste, there must have been a temptation to just shut up and ride out the clock, never saying another word for fear of spoiling the closer. Perhaps at the time there was fierce competition for most resplendent last words. I’m imagining all these Victorian rakes lying in bed for days on end, in their ruffled pyjamas, playing dead until true death finally arrived.

4:30 p.m. Speaking of rakes, Howard has seen my Facebook posting and is now inspired. He calls up in order to audition some potential last words.

“At this point,” I say, “shouldn’t you mainly be worrying about your middle words? Why not leave your final words for the finale?”

“It’s like the story of the ant and the grasshopper,” Howard gently explains. “The ant prepares and, on his death bed, wows everybody. The grasshopper, on the other hand, minces around and leans heavily on his death rattle.” Howard rolls out some of his top picks: “Today’s a good day to die, but 50 years from now would be better.” “Take my life. Please.” “Chicken.” “Chicken?” I ask. “It’s enigmatic,” he says. “Like rosebud. Only tastier. And everyone sounds cute saying chicken.” “Though no one looks cute killing one.” Howard continues. “Good luck with your life, but it won’t be better than mine.” “That seems petty.” “Squashing one’s enemies isn’t petty,” he says. “And on the threshold of death, the living shall become the very worst of my enemies.” “This is a depressing conversation.” “I’m sorry,” he says, “I suppose the thought of losing me must be a difficult one; but you needn’t worry because with your eating habits and constitution, I’m pretty sure you’ll be dead long before me.”

Although I haven’t yet figured out what my final words in life will be, I do know what the final words of this conversation should be.

“Call waiting,” I say, putting the phone down and picking up a magazine. Come to think of it, those aren’t such bad final words, either.