About a year ago, I came home to six bills in my mailbox. I mentioned to my friend, Terry—she was standing next to me at the time—that nothing good ever comes in the mail.

            Charlie’s announcement, which arrived in yesterday’s mail, only served to prove my point. At first glance it seemed innocent and innocuous. It came in a simple square-ish white envelope, hand-addressed to me: Thomas Anders. When I opened it, there was a light blue card inside with the printed words, “An Announcement,” on the outside. The inside was also printed. The card exuded a cheap, printed-at-Kinko’s, kind of quality. It simply said:

            “Due to treatment-resistant depression, chronic health problems, and ongoing financial hardship, I, Charlie Sorenson, announce my impending passing on Sunday, October 17 at 6 p.m. You are welcome—and encouraged—to come say goodbye to me any time before the event. No appointment necessary. Just come. And please: no phone calls (I was never a phone person). No gifts and— for God’s sake—no flowers, please.”

            Below this paragraph, the card listed Charlie’s address in Pasadena and parking instructions. Avoid the east side of the street on Thursday afternoon, it said—apparently that was street sweeping day.

            I thought it was interesting that the announcement avoided the “S” word: suicide.

            I was shocked, certainly. After all, never in my life had I received a death announcement in the mail. But beyond the initial surprise, I had no idea things were so bad in Charlie’s life. I knew he’d been unemployed for several years. But serious illness? Depression?

            The two of us were almost exactly the same age. I’m 61. Charlie is one year older. I work as the creative director of a small but successful ad agency in Playa Vista, just a few miles from my home in Santa Monica.

            But back to Charlie. A death announcement? Really? The whole thing struck me as in very bad taste. On the other hand, you had to know Charlie. For Charlie, it somehow fit. He was always a realist—someone who frequently flouted polite-society conventions and just “called a spade a spade.” Once, an art director we both knew, who was fishing for compliments, remarked that she was nothing more than a plain-looking gal. She said that no man would bother giving her a second glance. Without missing a beat, Charlie said, “You know, you have a point.”

            I met Charlie while working at Ogilvy & Mather, an advertising agency in West L.A. I was a young copywriter, and Charlie was an up-and-coming art director. We got paired up, into a team, almost as soon as I started working at Ogilvy. We worked well together, and we even socialized a bit outside of work. We were both dating at the time, and I remember I went on a couple double dates with Charlie and his girlfriend, Liz, and my girlfriend at the time, Ann. Liz was an art buyer for another ad agency on the west side. Ann worked as a legal secretary.

            Charlie had an odd sense of humor. Once, when a broadcast producer at Ogilvy got engaged, Charlie waited until Donny (the producer) left work for the day, then Charlie turned every single item in the producer’s office upside down. Everything: the desk, the wastepaper basket, books, the chairs, posters on the wall, lamps—nothing was spared. He even replaced the “view” outside Donny’s one window with the same view, photocopied, and turned upside down. Then he put a small note, upside down of course, on the door (in Helvetica) that simply read: “Congratulations on turning your life upside down.” The upside-down room was so well art- directed, it was photographed for the Ogilvy inter-agency newsletter and it appeared in the magazine AdWeek.

            I tossed  the death announcement on top of my microwave, along with some junk mail, then I glanced at the date on my cell phone. Today was Monday. And Sunday, Charlie plans to kill himself. Well, at least I had six full days to go and see him. I better hurry though; I have a wedding on Saturday—a copywriter at my firm was getting married to his high-school sweetheart. Also, I was busy at work. Swamped was more like it. Plus, I was in the middle of refinancing my mortgage. Charlie certainly picked an inconvenient week to announce his demise. Oh well, I was sure I could make time to see him. But when?

            Later that night, a mutual friend of mine and Charlie’s called to see if I had received the announcement. His name was Mooney Becker. Behind his back, I called him Money Becker. Mooney had made a not-so-small fortune day-trading after aging out of his advertising career. He lived in an expensive, but tacky, Beaux Arts mansion in Brentwood, on a small lot.

            “So you got Charlie’s announcement?” Mooney asked me.

            “I did. Hey, I didn’t know Charlie was sick. Did you?”

            “Well, when was the last time you saw him?” Mooney asked.

            “I don’t know. Five years ago maybe. It was at Trisha’s wedding,” I said.

            “He has COPD… bad. He can’t walk twenty feet without supplemental oxygen.”

            “COPD? Is that the commercial where the elephant sits on your chest and you can’t breathe?” I asked.

            “Yeah, that’s the one.”

            “I told him to stop smoking thirty years ago. I guess he didn’t listen,” I said.

            “Plus, he’s clinically depressed. Apparently he doesn’t respond to medication. And, as I’m sure you know, he hasn’t worked a day since he got let go by Chiat nine years ago.”

            “That would depress me.”

            “So when are you going to see him?” Mooney asked me.

            “I don’t know. It’s a super busy week for me. I’m not sure yet,” I said.
            “I’m going tomorrow around noon—to beat traffic. Want to come with me?” Mooney asked.

            “Nah. I have a production meeting at noon tomorrow. I can’t.”

            By Wednesday evening, I was sitting at home, watching TV, exhausted. We had a big presentation due at work on the following day, and I had stayed late at work to add some finishing touches to a TV storyboard. Around 8 p.m., my phone rang. It was Liz, Charlie’s ex-girlfriend from thirty years ago.

            Liz managed a quick hello, then burst into tears. Eventually, she calmed down and gathered her thoughts.

            “How can Charlie do this to us? He has so much to live for,” Liz said.

            “Apparently, Charlie doesn’t see it that way,” I said.

            “It’s so tragic. It’s just so sad.” Liz started a new crying jag. Then she blew her nose and managed to stop crying. I decided to try changing the subject.

            “How old are your boys now, Liz? They must be in college.”

            “Andrew’s at UC Santa Barbara, and Anthony just started at USC.”

            “That’s amazing. I’m glad to hear they’re doing well.”

            Liz had gotten married shortly after she and Charlie broke up, in the early ‘90s.

            “And how’s your daughter?” Liz asked me.

            “She’s doing just fine,” I said. “She just finished at USC in August. She’s living with her mother in Redondo while she looks for a job. She wants to go into something related to art:  galleries, auction houses, museums. I think she’ll find something. She’s smart. Smarter than her old man, that’s for sure.”

            “I’m glad she’s doing well,” Liz said, as she started sobbing again.

            “Look, when are you going to go see Charlie?” I asked.

            “I think tomorrow morning,” Liz said, between sobs.

            “Liz, Charlie isn’t taking phone calls. Can I ask you a favor? If I wrote Charlie a heartfelt letter tonight and emailed it to you, you think you could print it out and take it to Charlie? I’m swamped with work, plus I’m supposed to sign papers tomorrow… I’m refinancing my mortgage. I just don’t know if I’ll have time to get over there.”

            “Thomas, are you fucking kidding me? No, I’m not schlepping a letter to Charlie on your behalf. Are you insane? You have to go see him. He’s only going to be alive another few days. You guys were close. The least you can do is make an appearance. What’s the matter with you?”

            “All right, all right. I’ll go see him. Geez, call off the dogs.”

            I started to wonder: was there some reason I was putting off seeing Charlie? Was it possible I just wanted to avoid a very uncomfortable situation? Or, was it more likely I was just trying to postpone the inevitable—you know, the way a little kid suddenly finds six important things to do the moment you tell them it’s bedtime?

            The next morning, I called my dentist in Pasadena. His office was in the same neighborhood as Charlie’s house. I thought, I don’t know, maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. Since Pasadena was so far away, maybe I could see my dentist on Friday morning for a cleaning (I was due), then stop in and see Charlie. But my dentist said he didn’t have any openings until next month.

            In a last ditch effort to see Charlie without actually “seeing” Charlie, I called his telephone number. Unfortunately, the line had been disconnected. Charlie really did hate phones.

            When we worked together at Ogilvy, Charlie wouldn’t answer his phone. Ever. So when people wanted to reach Charlie by phone, they called me. Then, I would go find Charlie and tell him there was a call waiting for him on line two or line three. It was annoying, to say the least. Overall, Charlie was a great guy. But there were things about him that bugged the hell out of me—including his aversion to phones. Not to mention his smoking habit.

            Still, I guess Liz was right. I should probably go see him before he… well, you know.

            Friday night I was supposed to go with my sister to see a classical music concert downtown featuring Martha Argerich, a famous pianist. But Martha—who caught the flu—canceled  the concert on Thursday evening. I had a 4 p.m. presentation at work on Friday. Maybe, since the concert was off, I could go see Charlie around 6 p.m.

            I briefly thought about my weekend, which was full. Saturday was definitely out, due to the wedding. And Sunday, I had a golf date with three buddies I met through my gym. Today, Friday, was probably the best bet to go see Charlie, after work.

            Friday afternoon, I left work at 5 p.m. in Playa Vista. For some reason I was starving. So I stopped at Pollo Loco on Washington Boulevard to get some dinner. I love their chicken burritos. I didn’t merge onto the freeway until 5:45 p.m. in West Los Angeles. Traffic was murder. A parking lot. It took me twenty minutes just to merge onto the 10 Freeway heading east at the 10/405 interchange. At this rate, I wouldn’t get to Charlie’s house until 8 p.m. The one thing I hated more than anything else in L.A. was traffic. I turned on NPR and listened to a broadcast about bison overpopulation in Yellowstone Park—just one more thing to worry about.

            In the car, stuck on the freeway, still nowhere near Pasadena, I started to wonder what I was going to say when I got to Charlie’s house. “Well, you had a good run,” didn’t sound very sympathetic. “I’m so sorry you’ve decided to end your life,” seemed too clinical, like stating the obvious. “Tell God I said hi,” might work. After all, Charlie always liked a good laugh.

            By 7 p.m., traffic had managed to slow down—a feat I didn’t think possible. I had only made it to the La Cienega exit in an hour. At this rate, I wouldn’t see Charlie until 9 p.m. I couldn’t stand another minute of sitting in traffic, going nowhere. I took the exit, turned around and headed back home. There was only light traffic heading back to Santa Monica. I got home in less than fifteen minutes.

            Despite my failure to see Charlie Friday night, I felt confident that I’d see him sometime over the weekend. After all, I still had plenty of time. Maybe I could go see him before the wedding Saturday, or even after the golf game on Sunday morning. I must be able to find two free hours sometime this weekend. Right?

            Wrong. Unfortunately, I never did end up seeing Charlie before he committed suicide. On Saturday, I went to Drew’s wedding—Drew was the copywriter at my firm facing impending nuptials: a different kind of suicide. My marriage was such a disaster, I just tend to assume everyone else’s marriage will fail miserably.

            I got absolutely shit-faced at the wedding. There was an open bar. Luckily, I didn’t do anything embarrassing at the wedding—at least not publicly. The bride’s sister winked at me at the wedding, and we ended up dancing at the reception, then making out like two horny teenagers in my Lexus after the cake was served. I was way too drunk to drive home. The wedding was in Palos Verdes. I Uber’d home, and I figured I’d pick up my car sometime the next morning.

            On Sunday, between retrieving my car in Palos Verdes and a golf game with three buddies, I just never made it to Charlie’s. To tell you the truth, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, I didn’t even remember to go see him. It didn’t occur to me until Monday morning that I had missed the deadline. A text message arrived from Mooney at 10 a.m. Monday, saying that Charlie had gone through with it. He was gone. There would be an obituary in Thursday’s L.A. Times, according to Mooney. Apparently, Charlie overdosed on a cocktail of drugs at 6 p.m. Sunday and was dead by seven.

            A few years ago, and a couple weeks after receiving a promotion at work, I was invited to my boss’s barbeque on the fourth of July. I didn’t go, figuring that no one would notice I skipped the party. But my boss, Roger, told me how disappointed he was in me when he saw me Monday morning at work. “I was disgusted,” were his exact words. “Couldn’t you have at least come for twenty minutes?”

            This thing with Charlie felt the same to me. On some level, although I hated to admit it, I was disgusted with myself. At least Charlie couldn’t yell at me for not coming to see him—that was one of the advantages of death: no uncomfortable confrontations after the fact.

            By the way, it turns out I was wrong about that. Three days after Charlie died, a letter arrived in my mailbox. It was an envelope with my address written in pen, no return address. The letter inside was written in Charlie’s unmistakable handwriting: Thomas, You’re a shit for not coming to see me before I died. Charlie.” The letter had Monday’s postmark on it. Charlie must have dropped it in a mailbox on Sunday afternoon, an hour or two before he died.

            It’s surprising, but I didn’t feel terribly insulted, humiliated or even accused by the letter. It just felt very Charlie. It’s hard to explain.

            The obituary appeared on Thursday, as promised. It was short and to the point. Then, late on Friday afternoon, right after work, my phone rang. It was Liz.

            “There’s going to be a small funeral for Charlie, Sunday at noon… it’s at Woodlawn cemetery. You know the one. It’s right there at Pico and 14th in Santa Monica. We’re having  lunch at Souplantation right after. Can you make it?”

            Woodlawn cemetery was just five minutes by car from my house. Souplantation, a salad buffet place in Brentwood, had long been Charlie’s favorite restaurant. Charlie loved salads and cheap all-you-can establishments.

            “Actually, I’m totally free Sunday,” I said. “Sure. Count me in.”

            “Thomas, I have to ask you. Did you end up going to see Charlie before he died?”

            “Uh… no. Not really.” When Liz didn’t answer, I said, “Sorry.”

            There was a long pause, then Liz said, “Are you kidding me?”

            “It was a really busy week for me, I just… I didn’t have time,” I explained.

            “Personally, I don’t know how you live with yourself. Look, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

            The funeral was low key: barely any flowers. But it had a good turn-out. Over thirty people came, and I recognized about half of them—they were mostly ad-biz people I had worked with over the years, or had met through friends. Mooney was there, and so was Liz. It was like a little reunion. The mood was light and cheerful and the sun was out in full force, sending rays of filtered light through the tall trees.

            Charlie’s grave was under a large sycamore tree in a kind of grassy area with wildflowers. There was a large sign in front of the grassy area with the title “Eternal Meadow” on the front of the sign. The sign described how you could be buried “green.” Apparently, green burials are performed with decomposable materials, such as organic shrouds, biodegradable urns, or simple wooden caskets with no metals. No embalming fluids are allowed. Then, native California plants and wildflowers are “planted” on top of you, forming an eternal meadow. I glanced down at the ceanothus, blooming and spreading its blue-tinted branches outward near Charlie’s grave.

            Given Charlie’s recent death, and the location in which I found myself, I should have been solemn and dignified. But I couldn’t help feeling cynical. Only in Santa Monica, I thought, could they turn traditional burial into an organic tossed salad.

            I laughed out loud. It just seemed like something Charlie would have said.

            “What’s so funny?” Liz asked me with a scornful glance. The funeral director had just finished saying a few words. They were about to fill in Charlie’s grave with earth, then top it with live flowers and drought-tolerant grasses.

            “Oh nothing. I was just thinking about Charlie,” I said. Liz was wearing a long black dress. I was in a blue Nike t-shirt and grey athletic shorts. I had just come from the gym.

            “Thomas, couldn’t you at least have worn a black t-shirt and black jeans?” Liz asked me. “This is a funeral. Not a track meet. What’s the matter with you?”

            There was nothing the matter with me. But, I think, staring at Charlie’s grave, I finally figured out the answer to the question that had been bothering me: why didn’t I take the time to go see Charlie when he was alive?

            Charlie and I were close… at one time. But what people didn’t know about Charlie and me was that, in many ways, for many years, I had been jealous of him. When Charlie and I worked at Ogilvy together, he was better looking than I was, he had more friends, dated prettier, smarter women, and he went on to work at much better firms than I ever did.

            It was only in the last ten years that my star started to outshine Charlie’s. Ten years ago, I got a promotion—I became a creative director at a prestigious firm in West L.A. But Charlie’s career was skidding to a halt. As I mentioned, he got let go from Chiat nine years back, one of the best firms in town, and Charlie never worked another day in his life. I heard through the rumor mill that he was too old-school to keep up with the younger art directors. He was simply an old dog who refused to learn new tricks.

            There were other ways in which I shot ahead of Charlie. At 61, I still had my looks. I was tanned, relatively thin and athletic, with a full head of brown hair. Charlie just grew pale, bald and fat. Smoking didn’t help matters.

            Unfortunately, I can’t say that I sprinted ahead of Charlie in the romance department. Both of us had gone through ugly divorces.

            Still, despite my recent successes, I envied Charlie, and maybe even resented him—at least a little. Sure, before his death, he was unemployed, depressed, divorced, seriously ill and kind of fat. But he was loved. Hell, he was a lot more popular than I had ever been. How many people do you think had visited Charlie in the week before he died? Thirty? Forty? Fifty? Sixty? Liz told me there were six friends at Charlie’s house when she visited him before he died. And that was at 11 am on a Thursday. I looked around the Eternal Meadow and took a head count. There were thirty-two people here… all of them here for Charlie.

            It made me wonder: how many people would show up for my funeral?

            I decided not to worry too much about the answer to that question. After all, the sun was shining. I was relatively happy. I was in good health and good shape. My daughter had just graduated from a top-notch college. I managed to lower my mortgage rate by two percentage points. Plus, my favorite show was on TV tonight.

            Life was good.