Obituary

The world of old people is a sad and depressing place. It is a place of disease and infirmity. Has there ever been another demographic that breaks so easily?

    I can’t help but be reminded of that old issue of JSA, where Jay Garrick, also known as the Flash, is about to chase down the villainous Vandal Savage. Instead, he slips on some ice. Savage just shakes his head and strolls away, and all Jay can do is lay there with a broken hip. Stargirl shows up and calls an ambulance while Garrick cries out “Curse these old bones of mine!“

    Now the elderly community sends word of a new tragedy. There is one less of them in the world. Normally, I go the Vandal Savage route, and just shrug at their misfortune. This time the latest development struck a bit closer to home than I‘m used to. On Wednesday morning, my Uncle Gerry, 73, passed away quietly in front of a speeding bus. I was pretty fond of him, so I hope you’ll indulge me just a little while I wax eloquent in his memory.

    Reginald Hamilton Luxton II was born to Jamie S. Luxton the First, and Adeline Bosephone Luxton (nee Constantine), on  August 31, 1939 in a shallow depression on the banks of the river Thames in London, England. Named after his grandfather, “Reg” became known as “Ger” due to his mother’s dyslexia.

    When he was only one day old, the second world war broke out. In later life, he would claim to have tried to enlist, but was disqualified by the recruitment officer for being “too young”. Whether there is any truth to this unverifiable hearsay is lost to the ages. However, My grandmother Adeline did tell me that, at that age, my uncle was quite literally a "cry baby". One night, as they squatted in the burned out ruins of the tenement that was once their home, Uncle Gerry kicked up such a fit that it woke the entire family. Fortunately, this was just in time to hear the familiar sound of an incoming V-1 “Doodlebug” flying bomb, and allowed them to escape without a second to spare.

    After the war, the family immigrated to Canada, and took up residence in London, Ontario. Finding it to not at all be what they expected, they later moved to New Westminster, British Columbia. It was here that my uncle fell in with Leon Mandrake and his crowd. One can easily imagine that it was under such an influence that he developed his taste for sleight of hand, duplicity, and half truths.

    Although my grandfather, a stern and unforgiving man, sought to curb these tendencies, Gerry could not, or would not, resist being drawn into the seedy underworld. Finally, grandfather felt he had no choice but to disown his son, after which Gerry simply disappeared. Gerry never sought to share with me what happened to him during the next twenty years.

    Apparently, he wasn’t seen by any of my family until just after I was born. Even then, after inspecting the newest member of the family, and borrowing some money, he disappeared again. I was twelve before I met my uncle under circumstances I can remember.

    I was lodged somewhere in the branches of our cherry tree, when a man who looked like a fatter, more intelligent, version of my father came out of our house and approached me.

    “Nephew! We have met before. Do you know me?” He said.

    “No.” I replied.

    “I’m your uncle. Should have clued in when I called you ‘nephew’.”

    “What of it?”

    “Nephew, I have come to give you some advice. Don’t grow up to be like your uncle. Or your father. Or your grandfather. Or your mother or your grandmother. Or your aunt, for that matter.”

    “Didn’t know I had an aunt.” I said.

    “Fair enough.” he said.

    “Who shall I grow up to be like, then?” I asked. He considered his response carefully.

    “Bruce Springsteen.” he answered finally.

    Even at that early age, I saw the wisdom of this, and I wondered what other truths he may have to share. For a few years, I became his protege. He took me places and showed me things that not a lot of other kids my age went to or saw. He became sort of a surrogate father to me, especially whenever my real dad was in jail. During these times, my mom would also say that Uncle Gerry was quite good at filling dad’s place. I didn‘t know what she meant by this, and I didn‘t care, either. All I knew is that any night he was over, I was encouraged to have the TV on really loud.

    By the time I was fifteen, and it was clear I was not following in the footsteps of “The Boss“, he became disenchanted with me, and swiftly faded out of my life.

    A decade went by before I started to notice an old man tooling around town in his Rascal scooter. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got lots of guys like that around here. But this one always made me think “He sure looks a lot like my Uncle Gerry.”

    It wasn’t until one day I was walking down the street and he pulled up beside me and said “Hey, Nephew!” that I realised how right I was.

    We spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on the past ten years. He told me how he’d stumbled onto an incredible niche market of selling OxyContin to the retirees of the old folk’s homes. OxyContin is a powerful painkiller that goes for $20 a pill and, if you know what you‘re doing, gets you wicked high. It also has a host of side effects and unpleasant withdrawal symptoms.

    All he had to do was visit a few retirement homes once a week, which he was going to do anyway. That’s where all his friends were living. Then it was just a matter of meeting up with a particular nurse, or whoever, and exchange cash for goods. The nurse took care of the rest. This allowed Uncle Gerry to take home over $3000 a month doing almost nothing he wouldn’t have been doing anyway.

    I was equally repulsed and impressed. I wasn‘t sure why he was telling me this, though. I asked him if he wanted me to help him. He looked at his watch and said he had to go.

    I never really spoke to him again. I saw him scooting around all the time, and he’d wave at me as he sped past. He waved and shouting greetings at everybody.  He never stopped to converse to me, though.

    The last time I saw him was just last Monday night. I was standing at a crosswalk when a voice called out to me.

    “Hey, nephew! Check out these sweet moves!”

    I looked over to see my uncle waving at me, in his scooter, going around and around in circles. Then he peeled out of there and, though I didn’t know it at the time, out of my life.

    The funeral is today. I don’t know what to expect, exactly. I don’t know if I will have to say something or even if I want to say something.

    This is what I can tell you about my uncle... I didn’t exactly dislike him.

    In my family, that’s high praise. Maybe I’m saying this because I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe it’s just too early to speak ill of dead. Maybe later, I’ll have more to say about him.

    For now, it's probably best to leave it at that.