A Eulogy for Greg, the Class Gecko

By Nate Promer

Choked up. That’s the only phrase I can use to describe myself in the wake of the passing of the late Greg, our class’s gecko. Fittingly, “choking up” is also how he died. That’s the kind of well-meaning irony that, even in death, Greg continues to impart upon us all.

I first met Greg in the third grade, back when we were both young—back when things were simple. He and I had the kind of chaotic energy that every elementary school duo searches for. I recall one prank in particular that we ran throughout the entirety of our third and fourth grade years: he would play dead, and I, of course, being the first one to notice, would cry and wail until Mrs. Nash would come over and attempt to console me. 

“There’s literally no gecko in this classroom,” she’d tell me with a solemn voice and a hand on my shoulder. I would then continue to cry, and eventually Mrs. T would send me to the school counselor’s office. Greg, who I’d stash in my frocket, would then crawl out and reveal himself to be entirely okay. I’d brighten up, and the counselor would send me back up. But by then, the damage had been done, and Greg and I had escaped the treacherous seven times tables quiz.

Oh Greg. Why’d you have to leave?

Greg always had a tenuous relationship with his parents, and I know that it probably isn’t my place to speak on it, but it is integral to understanding him on a deeper level. Greg’s mother always claimed that his father was the famous Geico Gecko, and her obsession with this had caused Greg a great deal of stress in the early part of his life. This manifested itself in various ways in our relationship—Greg confided a great deal of his sorrow in me, a great deal that I don’t think he’d like me to divulge. He spent long nights at my house venting about all the issues in his life. Teachers around him were unreceptive to his needs. When I tried to voice my concerns about Greg’s home life to Mrs. Nash, she just maintained that it was “a figment of your overactive imagination.” I think I was the only one who really believed in and trusted Greg. For this, I was handily rewarded.

After college, Greg and I pursued jobs in the insurance industry. I, fortunately, was able to secure a job at Geico, but Greg—likely because of The Geico Gecko’s effort to blacklist him—was refused insurance work anywhere. Again, I was the only one with faith in Greg. We devised a plan to get his mathematical prowess into the insurance industry so he could be recognized for his immense skill. Every day, I wore a sous chef hat to work, and, unbeknownst to the rest of the employees, who for some reason believed I was schizophrenic, Greg would sit inside the sous chef hat and mutter calculations into my ear—I may have never learned my multiples of seven, but Greg had always been studious. It was Greg’s genius that brought me to the height of middle management at Geico. I owe that success to him. 

Greg’s death was untimely, but of course, all death is. Every night since, I’ve wished that Greg had known not to try eating that penny. Every night I wish I’d gotten there just a bit earlier, to remove that metal in time for him to survive.

Alas, it was not to be—

Part of the journey is the end.

Greg will be missed, and I wish him all the best in his next life, where he will be reincarnated into the race of lizard people who secretly run New York from the sewer.