Tony, well, we all know he’s doomed—and not just because of those conversations with Bobby about how when the end hits it will just be silence. We’ve always known it—from the day he first lurched into Dr. Melfi’s office in 1999, lying about murders and crying over ducks we’ve known. The whole show, much like the past decade in American history, has been a long slide deeper into amorality and bloodshed.
And perhaps, like the next terror strike, it’s not a question of if, but when. Chase doesn’t need to tell us where Tony’s headed, because we already know. In the meantime, Tony has what we all have, a life riddled with loss, a messed-up family that still makes it to dinner, and the song playing on the jukebox.
Don’t stop, said Chase, and perhaps we should listen. Perhaps, instead of considering ourselves shortchanged, we should consider ourselves blessed. Like Tony, we don’t know when the bullet is coming, and the not knowing may be the closest we ever get to grace.
