Suicide Club
Dickie Villard walked into the grand banquet room of the Newport Yacht Club where many of his former college classmates and fraternity brothers were gathered for the annual alumni meeting. As he made his way to the club's cocktail lounge, the familiar faces that turned in his direction registered surprise at seeing him.
"Dickie!" exclaimed Stefan Lattimore, once the captain and quarterback of the university's football team. "It's good to see you. I heard a disturbing rumor last year that you were sick. You look as healthy as an ox."
"It wasn't a rumor. You're looking at a walking medical miracle. I was so far gone; I was practically brought back from the dead."
"You're all right now, aren't you?" Stefan asked with concern for an old friend.
"Perfectly."
Before Dickie was able to get to the bar and order himself a martini, he had approximately the same conversation with close to twenty other men and women. Finally, Sasha Haring, the former senior class valedictorian and current alumni club president, came to his rescue.
"Come with me," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'll take you to your table."
"You know where I'm sitting?"
"Right next to me, actually."
When Dickie took his seat beside her, he noticed with surprise that Sasha was not wearing a wedding ring.
"You're not married?" he asked.
"No. I was engaged once, but my fiancé was killed in Iraq."
"I'm so sorry."
"What about you?"
"Divorced. My wife tried to stick around when I got sick, but it just got too hard for her."
As other people took their seats at the table, conversation shifted to memories of their college days. Dickie listened politely to recollections of frat parties, football and basketball games and the occasional harmless pranks played on faculty members and the student body alike.
Once everyone had finally settled down, Sasha left her seat and walked up on the stage.
"Good evening, everyone," she said into the microphone. "I'd like to thank you all for coming here tonight. These alumni meetings are usually like class reunions when we get to see old friends. I know you're all hungry and looking forward to the meal tonight, so we'll put off our official business until after everyone has eaten. But while we're waiting for the servers to bring out our first course, I'd like to introduce a man I'm sure you all remember: Dickie Villard."
The sound of applause was deafening. Dickie had no choice but to stand and acknowledge the ovation.
"Thank you," he said and promptly took his seat again.
He was not to get off so easily however. Many people in the room called for him to speak. Reluctantly, he joined Sasha on stage.
"As most of you already know, I was very sick. In fact, I was dying. But here I am now, alive and well. I just want to say thank you for the kindness and support many of you have shown me in the past and for this wonderful welcome tonight."
The remainder of the annual alumni meeting went as planned. Everyone enjoyed the five-course meal, for which they had donated two-hundred and fifty dollars to the alumni scholarship fund. Dickie, as the evening wore on, began to relax and became more animated. Long before coffee and dessert were served, he had decided to see Sasha Haring again. His sudden attraction to her surprised him. Back in their college days, he would never have been interested in the intelligent and accomplished young woman. He had been far too busy chasing Geri Lynley, the shapely blond homecoming queen.
Shortly after ten o'clock, people began saying their goodbyes and heading home. As usual, there was a group of friends who wanted to stop at the local bar for drinks. Normally, Dickie passed on the invitation to accompany them, but this time he accepted since it was Sasha who invited him.
After two rum and Cokes, Dickie switched to straight Coke. When it came to alcohol, he knew his limit and stuck to it.
"Since when did you turn into such a Boy Scout?" Stefan teased him. "Back in college you could drink anyone under the table."
"That was then. I'm older and wiser now."
"I suppose if I had come so close to death, I'd change my habits, too," the former football player said. "I'd give up drinking, smoking and eating all those unhealthy foods I live on."
"Being that sick must have put the fear of God into you," Lincoln Duvall, a former fraternity brother, surmised.
"Do you want to know the truth?" Villard asked with a smile that was reminiscent of his younger, more mischievous self. "Those few months when I thought the end was inevitable turned out to be the best months of my life."
"How so?" Sasha inquired.
"When I was told I had six months to live, I decided to do all the things I had always wanted to do but for some reason or another put off doing. I lived my life in the moment, without a care for the future. It was only when I thought I was dying that I was truly alive! I can't tell you all how amazing that feeling is."
"I suppose when you stop and think about it," Lincoln mused, "we're all living under a death sentence. We just assume it won't happen for years to come."
"Surely not everyone can enjoy life during their final days," Sasha argued. "People dying of cancer or other horrible diseases are in far too much pain."
"That's where I was lucky," Dickie concurred. "My medication took the pain away."
Surprisingly, it was Stefan who posed the question that was to have a profound effect on all their lives.
"What would you do if you only had a year left to live?" he asked Moe Chessman, who had been voted the most likely to succeed in college but was now teaching high school during the day and tending bar at night to make ends meet.
"I'd cash in my 401k, sell everything I own and travel," the math teacher replied. "I'd start in London and then go on to Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Athens ...."
"What about you, Sasha?" Tori Gable, the other woman present, asked. "What would you do?"
"Nothing as grand as Moe. I've been a workaholic most of my life, first at college and then at my job. If I knew I only had a year left, I'd rent a house on the beach, maybe on a tropical island somewhere. I'd bring along a stack of good novels and a case of chocolate truffles, and then I'd be off to Nirvana."
"This was your question. What would you do?" Moe asked Stefan.
"In the summer months, I'd go to every Major League ballpark in America to see all the teams play. During football season, I'd go to the stadiums. Regardless of the price, I'd attend the World Series, the Super Bowl and the Stanley Cup playoffs."
"Sounds like a lot of fun," Dickie said.
"Yeah," Stefan replied with a sigh, "but it'll never happen. I'll probably never even get to see a game in Yankee Stadium."
"Why not?" Tori asked. "It's not like you can't afford a trip to New York."
"My wife would go ballistic if I went without her, and it would be no fun if I took her along. Of course, if I believed I was going to die, I wouldn't care what she thought."
"See," Dickie said, "that's the way I felt when I was sick. I didn't care what anyone thought, I didn't take into account any of the consequences of my actions. I told my boss to go to hell, quit my job without even cleaning out my desk and never regretted it. Even now."
"Did you get your job back once you were cured?" Sasha asked.
"Hell, no! I always wanted to open my own business, but I was always too cautious. What would I do if the business failed? How would I pay my bills? What if I lost my house? All the usual worries. Well, I did open that business, and do you know what? It's a success. I'm making more money now than I ever did working for someone else."
"Maybe we should all catch some fatal disease," Moe joked.
"Either that or we should all agree to commit suicide," Tori said.
"We could form a fraternity," Stefan laughingly suggested. "We could schedule a meeting a year from now, at which time we would all get together, have a good meal, a few drinks and a great time. Then we could finish off the evening with a Jonestown cocktail."
"You should have been a writer," Sasha declared. "You've got one hell of an imagination."
"We wouldn't all have to die," Dickie said. "One death would be enough."
"What do you mean?" Moe asked.
"The suicide club. Only one person has to die. Look, we hold an annual meeting like the alumni club does. At that meeting, a name is chosen at random. That person has one year to kill himself, or herself if such is the case."
"Then only that one person experiences the thrill of knowing death is coming," Lincoln concluded.
"True," Dickie Villard agreed. "But for everyone there's also the heightened sense of anticipation of the drawing. A person never knows if his or her name is going to be selected. Don't think it won't be on everyone's mind during the year: I could be the one whose name is called. I could be the one who has to kill myself at the end of twelve months."
"I'll drink to that!" Stefan said and ordered another round of drinks for everyone.
"None for me," Dickie declined.
"Not another Coke?"
"I've had a great time, but I'm going to head out in a few minutes. I've got a busy day tomorrow."
"Back to the salt mines, huh?" Lincoln asked.
"I'm afraid so. Far be it from me to correct Benjamin Franklin, but there are three things—not two—that are for certain: death, taxes and having to make a living."
"Here's to making a living!" Sasha cried, holding up her glass of wine in a toast.
The camaraderie and gaiety that had marked the evening came to an end as the former college classmates prepared to leave the bar.
"We've got to do this more often," Moe suggested. "We shouldn't have to wait until the next alumni club meeting to see each other."
Even as the others expressed agreement with his sentiment, they all knew no one would take the initiative to organize a social get-together; and even if someone did take the time and trouble to do so, most of them would not be able to attend due to conflicting schedules. When Dickie Villard stood outside the bar wishing the others well, he firmly believed he would not see them again for another year.
* * *
A week later, Dickie was at his computer writing a proposal for a potential new client when the telephone rang.
"Hey, buddy!" the caller greeted him when he answered.
"Stefan?"
"The one and only. I called to find out what you were doing next Friday night."
Dickie glanced at the calendar on his desk. All he had scheduled was a meeting at nine in the morning. The remainder of the day was free.
"Nothing that I know of. Why?"
"We're holding our first meeting of the suicide club," Stefan laughingly replied.
"Very funny! Now what did you really want to talk to me about?"
"I'm dead serious—no pun intended."
Dickie's first instinct was to laugh off the idea, decline the invitation and hang up the phone. It was the sensible thing to do, and he was first and foremost a pragmatist—at least he had been before he thought he was dying.
I'm reverting to the man I was before I became sick, he thought with grim realization. Have I learned nothing from my experience?
"Who else is going?"
"Everyone who went out for drinks after the alumni meeting," Stefan replied.
"Sasha Haring, too?"
There was amused laughter on the other end of the line.
"Sasha Haring? I never would have thought she was your type."
"Oh, no? What type of woman do you think I like?"
"One with a great body, not a great brain."
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a frat boy anymore."
"None of us are, my friend," Stefan declared in an uncharacteristic moment of gravity. "None of us are."
After several minutes of silence, Dickie repeated his question.
"Is Sasha going to be there?"
"Yes. So, can I count you in?"
"Yeah, just tell me where and when, and I'll be there."
* * *
Stefan Lattimore, who had assumed the role of host, waited at the bar of Luigi's Ristorante until everyone had arrived. Then he led them to a private dining room he had reserved for the evening.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, standing up as he addressed the group. "Since we all know each other, we'll dispense with the introductions."
"This is beginning to sound like one of your board meetings," Lincoln teased. "What do we do now, read the minutes?"
"No, I think we should discuss the rules and then vote on whether or not to accept them."
"What rules are those?" Sasha asked.
"I've been giving the matter some thought ...."
"There's a first time for everything," Moe heckled his old friend.
"As I was saying," Stefan continued, "I've been giving the matter some thought and have come up with two proposed guidelines for our club. One, we keep the meetings a secret."
"I get it," Lincoln said. "This is like Fight Club: the first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club."
"That's right. Or for those of you who have never seen Fight Club, you can think of it in terms of the old cliché, whatever happens in suicide club stays in suicide club. I'm sure none of us wants to be hauled off to the sixth-floor psycho ward if someone learns we're contemplating suicide."
"True enough. We all have a lot to lose if word gets out," Sasha agreed. "What's the second rule?"
"No one is to attend these meetings unless he fully plans to kill himself at the end of the one-year period. There is no changing your mind seven or eight months after your name is chosen."
"And how do you intend to enforce this rule?" Lincoln inquired. "How can you stop someone from changing his mind in a year's time?"
"We're all responsible people here," Stefan replied. "Sasha is a doctor, Moe is a teacher, you're an investment banker, Tori is a lawyer and Dickie and I are successful businessmen. I propose when we leave here tonight, we really think about the commitment we're being asked to make and the obvious consequences that membership in this club will bring. Next month those who want to join will return to this restaurant and take an oath. At that time, we should also be prepared to draw our first name."
"And if we don't come back?" Lincoln asked.
"No harm done. I certainly won't hold it against anyone for not wanting to slit his wrists or take an overdose of sleeping pills."
There being no objection to the proposed rules, for the remainder of the evening, the six friends ate, drank and enjoyed each other's company.
One month to the day later, Dickie Villard returned to Luigi's. When he pulled his Jaguar into the parking lot, he was disappointed at not finding Sasha Haring's Lexus there.
I don't really blame her, he thought. She's got a lot to live for. Why would she want to throw it away?
When he walked into the restaurant, he was stunned to see her already there, sitting at the bar, deep in a conversation with Luigi's wife, Luciana.
"You came?" he asked with surprise.
"And so did you."
After ordering a Coke from the bartender, Dickie sat beside her and leaned forward so that no one could overhear what he had to say.
"Regardless of whose name is drawn tonight, I'd like to spend more time with you."
A smile lit up her face, making her look beautiful in the dim light of the bar. She reached out and took his hand in hers.
"It's about time. I've been waiting for you to make a move since the night of the alumni club meeting."
Once the others arrived, they all followed Stefan back into the private room to hold their meeting.
Dickie felt foolish as he raised his hand and took an oath on the Bible, but one glance at Sasha raised his spirits. It suddenly occurred to him that one of their names might be drawn in the suicide lottery. If his name was called, he was quite prepared to die, but what if she was the one chosen?
I mustn't think of such things, he told himself.
The whole premise of the suicide club was to live life to the fullest and enjoy each moment as though it were the last.
"I've taken the liberty of ordering champagne," Stefan announced as Raphael, the waiter, brought in two bottles of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay. "After the name is drawn, we will toast our first lucky winner."
Laughter followed his words, but it lacked humor. Rather, it was the nervous laughter often heard in stressful or emotionally charged situations.
Once the champagne was poured, Stefan opened a shopping bag from Tiffany's and removed a ten-inch silver Paul Revere bowl. Inside were six slips of paper, carefully folded so that no one could see the names written on them. Raphael, who had no idea why the six former college classmates were gathered, was asked to reach into the bowl and choose the winner.
"Certainly, sir," he answered and then closed his eyes and randomly selected a slip of paper.
Stefan waited until the server left the room before unfolding the paper and reading the name. He picked up his glass of champagne, and the others, anxious for his announcement, followed his example.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast to Moe Chessman. May the next twelve months of his life be the best."
"To Moe!"
Four of the five people who heard Stefan's toast felt immediate relief. Moe, on the other hand, looked stunned. He never expected his name to be called first.
"Are you all right?" asked Tori Gable, who was sitting on his left side. "You're not having second thoughts now, are you?"
"No," Moe answered, recovering from the shock.
Then the man once voted most likely to succeed, raised his glass and said, "To me, soon to be ex-high school math teacher! To quote Alice Cooper, 'School's out forever.'"
For the next twelve months, Moe did exactly what he had said on the night of the alumni club meeting. He cashed in his 401k, closed his bank accounts, sold his house and car and began a year-long journey that took him to six of the seven continents of the world.
* * *
"I got another postcard from Moe," Sasha announced as she and Dickie were riding the ferry out to Nantucket one spring morning.
"Oh, where is he now?"
"The postcard is from Tahiti, but I'm sure he's already moved on by now. He doesn't stay in any one place for long."
"I don't suppose he brought a camera with him," Dickie said. "After all, people take pictures so they can look back at the good times of their lives. Moe won't be alive to look back and enjoy his memories."
"That's a morbid thought!" Sasha exclaimed, chastising him, "one definitely not in accordance with our goal to live life to the fullest."
"It's just an observation; that's all."
"Well, stop thinking so much! Moe is gallivanting around the globe, living the life he once only dreamed of."
"Maybe you and I should do a little gallivanting of our own," Dickie suggested, assuming a more light-hearted mood.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I thought we might fly to Paris for a week."
Sasha was about to decline, fearing she could not get someone to stand in for her at her busy medical practice. However, realizing her name might be the next one drawn out of the silver Paul Revere bowl, she reconsidered.
"Sounds great! When do we leave?"
* * *
Sasha was seated in the Jaguar's passenger seat when Dickie pulled into Luigi's parking lot. The two then walked into the restaurant together, hand-in-hand, and Luciana greeted them like old friends.
"I suppose you want to join your friends at the bar?" the hostess asked.
"Yes, thank you," Dickie replied.
Sasha noticed that Stefan Lattimore, Lincoln Duvall and Tori Gable were present, but there was no sign of Moe Chessman. Other than a dozen postcards from his travels, she had not heard from him during the past year.
"We're all here," Stefan declared when he saw the couple following Luciana to the bar. "Shall we attend to the business at hand then?"
The four other members of the suicide club followed their unofficial leader to the private dining room. As on the previous occasion, two bottles of champagne were ordered—this time Dom Pérignon, at one-tenth the price of the Krug.
Before Stefan had the chance to open the Tiffany bag and remove the silver Paul Revere bowl, Dickie voiced the question that was on everyone's mind.
"Has anyone heard from Moe?"
"He sent me so many postcards that I lost count," Stefan replied. "But I haven't spoken to him since our last meeting."
"So, we don't know if he's dead or alive?" Sasha asked.
"No, but if he killed himself in some other country, would we be likely to find out about it?" Tori answered.
"What should we do?" Lincoln wondered. "Do we just assume he's dead and pick the next name, or do we give up on the suicide club?"
"Whether Moe killed himself or not," Sasha said, "there's no reason we shouldn't go ahead as planned. After all, we ...."
There was a knock on the door, and the doctor wisely stopped speaking.
"Come in," Stefan called.
Luciana entered the room, carrying a FedEx letter.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Lattimore. This was just delivered here," she explained. "The instructions were to give it to you at once."
Stefan thanked the woman and looked down at the airbill.
"It's from Moe," he announced and tore open the cardboard envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note from their former classmate, penned on a sheet of hotel stationery. Stefan read the letter aloud.
"To my fellow members of the suicide club: It has been one hell of a year! If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. The only regret I have is that it must now come to an end. But an oath is an oath. I've arranged for you all to be notified at the next meeting, which is tomorrow night. Know that I will be with you in spirit. Your friend, Moe Chessman. P.S. Best of luck to the next lottery winner. I'll see you soon on the other side."
After searching the Internet and confirming that his friend had taken a pistol, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, Stefan lifted his glass of champagne and proposed a toast.
"To Moe. May he rest in peace."
There was a period of silence, which was eventually broken by the sound of rattling paper as Stefan removed the silver bowl from the Tiffany shopping bag. Once everyone's champagne glasses were refilled, he called Raphael into the room to pick a slip of paper out of the bowl.
"Good luck," Dickie whispered to Sasha as he watched the waiter leave the room. "Last time the odds were eighty-three percent in our favor. Now they're down to eighty percent."
"You always were a wiz with numbers," Sasha teased. "I'm surprised you didn't become a math teacher like Moe."
Dickie hugged her tightly as Stefan unfolded the piece of paper and lifted his glass for the second time that evening.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast to Richard Villard. May the next twelve months of his life be the best."
As he heard his name echo through the room, Dickie cursed himself for a fool. For the first time in his life, he had everything he had ever wanted, and because of a foolhardy oath he had sworn in a moment of reckless behavior, he would have to give it all up in one year's time.
* * *
Like Moe Chessman, Dickie sold his business, his home and even his beloved Jaguar and rented a house on a private island off the coast of Greece. Wanting to share every moment with the man she loved, Sasha took a year off from her medical practice and joined him.
For twelve months they lived an idyllic life. They ate when they were hungry, they slept when they were tired and they made love whenever the mood struck them—which was frequently. In many ways, it was like a year-long honeymoon, except they were not two young lovers starting out on a life together. They were two middle-aged lovers, facing the end of the road.
One pleasantly warm evening as the couple walked along the beach in the moonlight, Dickie recited a romantic ode he had written for Sasha.
"I never knew you were such a poet," she declared.
"I was never so inspired before."
The time passed quickly, and soon it was less than a week before the third meeting of the suicide club was to be held.
"I'll have to make my plane reservations to return to the States," Sasha announced as she finished her morning cup of coffee.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"The year is almost up. I have to return to Luigi's as I agreed."
"This is ridiculous!" Dickie cried. "I'm still on the good side of forty and in perfect health. If I'm lucky, I could live another fifty years. I have no intention of killing myself because of a stupid idea cooked up by a bunch of drunken college friends."
"And what about me?"
"I love you, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. We can get married and have a family. Don't you want to have kids?"
"But we swore an oath."
"What can they do to us? File a lawsuit? Report us to the police? We've done nothing legally wrong. Besides, no one knows where we are. We can stay in Greece. They'll never know what happened to us."
Sasha looked into Dickie's blue eyes and felt her legs go limp. She had loved him since their sophomore year in college when he sat beside her in chemistry lab. It broke her heart to think of losing him now.
"An oath is an oath," she said sadly and began packing her suitcase.
* * *
Stefan Lattimore and Tori Gable were seated at the bar talking to Luigi and Luciana when Lincoln Duvall walked through the front entrance.
"We missing someone," he observed. "Where's Sasha?"
"Your guess is as good as ours," Stefan replied. "Neither she nor Dickie bothered to keep in touch."
"Yeah," Tori said. "Not even a postcard from wherever they went."
"You know, I've been thinking," Lincoln announced after ordering himself a beer.
"Oh, good!" Tori teased. "I'll alert the media."
"Maybe it's time we forget about this whole suicide club nonsense. My life is a lot different than it was two years ago. I'm not so anxious to end it now. In fact, I was thinking of getting married again."
"I'm with you," Tori agreed. "I'm about to make partner in the firm. I'd hate to have worked so hard and not have it pay off."
Stefan was about to make the decision to disband the club unanimous when a familiar face appeared in the doorway.
"Hi, everyone. I'm sorry I'm late, but I just got back from Greece. Can we begin now?"
Once the four former college classmates took their seats around a single table in the private dining room, Stefan poured the champagne.
"Allow me to make the toast this evening," Sasha said, raising her glass. "To Dickie, the only man I've ever truly loved. May he rest in peace."
"So, he actually did it?" Stefan asked as he put down his empty glass. "Frankly, I didn't expect him to."
"Neither did I," Sasha confided. "That's why I brought along a bottle of Succinylcholine. It's a good thing I did, too. At the last moment, he changed his mind and decided he wanted to live. Now, let's get out the silver bowl, call in the waiter and announce the next name."
Stefan Lattimore, Tori Gable and Lincoln Duvall exchanged looks of dread. Not one of the three wanted to continue along their suicidal course of action, but they no longer had a choice. Sasha Haring, who had sacrificed the man she loved to keep her oath, was not about to let them back out now.
As bizarre as this story is, it is based on the North Woodbury (New Jersey) Suicide Club. Founded in 1898, the club held annual meetings during which a drawing was held to select the next person to die.
Salem was once a member of a suicide club. However, when he tried to hang himself, he overestimated the length of rope he would need.
