Penniless. Nameless. Alone.

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 5, 2023

The notion that we don’t die alone is romantic and rather… false. Though not easy for most to accept. Sure, it would be ideal to die old and painless, holding the hand of someone who loves us, but even in such a scenario, you die alone and go into that big sleep, white light, new realm by yourself.

This, I was able to accept after years of working in a nursing home after simply witnessing deaths on a semi daily basis. We die alone. And while many, if not most, grapple with the sadness of that, death, I’ve found, is sadder for the living. That the ones left behind are the ones who must suffer with the isolation of living without.

So, it was mostly existential jest when I complained in woe to friend and writer/comedian, Nick, that I was growing accustomed to dying penniless, nameless and alone. One of the little demons in my head likes to remind me too frequently.

Penniless. Nameless. Alone.

Said, Nick, “well, most people do.”

Nick sure does know how to not make you feel better but bring you back to Earth. He’s not wrong, however.

“That’s true,” I say, “and that’s just fine. But I think at some point for a certain amount of years I’d like to not be penniless, nameless or alone. At some point I’d like to have money, recognition, and live with someone I’m in love with until our inevitable falling out and divorce.”

Though while even treading water as a writer in New York City is actually impressive, as you get older, financial stability becomes more and more appealing. As the struggle, literally, gets old. Not the work itself, but the stress of knowing that at any point you may not know if you are going to be able to pay your bills because work can come and go quickly.

As dying without money? I mean… who cares? You can’t take it with you, the cliche says. I suppose it would be different if I had kids. But I even tell my parents to not worry about leaving us money. To spend it. Enjoy it while you’re here. Dying with empty pockets doesn’t bother me if I lived a full life, spending money on travel, arts and food.

Dying nameless means even less to me. When I was young, and more ego driven, writing a novel or script that would outlive me, therefore perpetuating this false notion of immortality via art, was surely a motivational factor. However, I’d eventually come to see the truth— legacy only exists in one form— children. And it doesn’t matter if your children are rich and have a name for themselves but rather if they are kind, and have increased the quality of the lives they love and touch. That is the only true legacy there is. To spread goodness and laughter, to keep the fight for the light alive, and maintain the balance of what’s good and what isn’t. Legacy chasers are miserable, and often end up dishonest, like every politician. You cannot trust people who’s number one goal in life to to have a bridge named after them.

This is the lesson I had to teach my demon. That it’s harsh words and threats of my isolated death, poor and unaccomplished, do not hurt me. I do not fear death the way it wants me to. Not anymore. So, leave me alone, demon. I have outgrown you fear antics.

The demon, however, being a part of me, is clever. So it shifts its argument. It tells me, then, “you shall live forever how you will ultimately die: Penniless. Nameless. Alone.”

Doubt is the lure on the demon’s fishing line. Once you’ve doubted yourself, even a little, it has a hook in you, and the demon pulls you in. You’re subjected to its reasoning.

Sure, comedy and writing are extremely difficult. And sure, I have my wins and accomplishments. But perhaps the reasons for rejection after rejection aren’t bad luck, politics, or sheer competition leading to unlikelihood— perhaps it’s you. Perhaps you are the reason. Perhaps you are not good enough. Same for dating. Once you’re in your mid 30s and your track record for love is worse than your track record for making money— perhaps the reason isn’t everyone else— perhaps it’s you. And you don’t belong here. And this is why you have no money. And this is why you are alone.

The demon makes good points. It didn’t bother me when I was young that I didn’t have a sense of belonging in school nor my hometown. I was not one of them. And that suited me fine. Because I didn’t want to one of them. But it was different when I entered the world of artists, of comedians and writers. I wanted to belong here. For a period of time, I believed I did. Until, it seemed, once a pariah, always a pariah. The demon had me checked.

“Okay, demon,” I say. “Surely I am penniless now. Nameless for sure. But I am not alone. Not as long as you’re here, haunting me. It will be you and me, forever. Is that how you want it to be?”

And the demon doesn’t answer. Check mate. I’ve scared it away. If only for the meantime.