Wry Martinis (44 page)

I have gotten to say some of the big lines. Once, as I poured out the ashes of a friend, I said, “We now commit his body to the deep, in the hope of eternal resurrection, when the sea shall give up her dead.” I’ve said, from the top of a ship’s mast after crossing an ocean, “Land ho!” Melodramatic I admit, but it sounded better than, “Yo, Spain!” A few times at sea, I’ve uttered those goose-bumply syllables, “Thar she blows!” I’ve said, on my knees, “Will you marry me?” A few years later, I said until I was hoarse, “It’s a girl!” A few years after that, “It’s a boy!” So I’ve been lucky. I’ve gotten to say the best of it.

A friend of mine tells the story about the magistrate in Scotland. The town drunk was hauled in before him for the umpteenth time. The magistrate looked down on him and said, “You have been found guilty of the crime of public drunkenness. It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God Almighty have mercy upon your soul.”

The drunk fainted. As they were reviving him, the bailiff looked up quizzically at the judge. The judge shrugged and said, “I’ve just always wanted to say that.”

I know exactly how he felt.

C
HRISTOPHER
B
UCKLEY
is a novelist, journalist, and editor of
Forbes FYI
. He is a frequent contributor to
The New Yorker
. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his wife, daughter, son, and dog, Duck.