I was driving my cab along Glen Cave when he signaled me. I stopped and he boarded my cab.
“Where to, sir?” I asked.
“Just drive,” he said looking through the window. “Just drive.”
I drove for almost one hour in the busy streets of New York. He was very quiet and kept staring through the window. I tried to start a conversation with him but he didn’t seem to hear me.
My meter was running high and I began to get worried. I pulled over and said, “Get out of the car.”
He looked at me as if he had seen me for the first time.
“What?”
“I said get out.”
“I’m sorry. Where are we now?”
“Hempstead.”
“Could you drive me to Oceanside, please?”
“Not before you pay the fare.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“One hundred sixty five bucks.”
He gave me two hundred.
“Please, take me to Oceanside. I want to go home.”
I drove many weird passengers before; by far he was the weirdest.
I drove to his house. He apologized again and paid me a handsome tip. I watched him climb the flight of stairs to his house and take out his key ring; it was shaped like a heart with some inscription on it.
He tried to open the front door but he dropped his key ring. He knelt to pick it up; he leaned against the door and stayed like that for a while. I kept watching him; he didn’t get up. I was concerned and left my car to check on him.
“Are you all right, sir?” I tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you need help?”
He looked up; I saw tears in his deep blue eyes. I picked up the key ring and handed it to him; his face was extremely pale and his hands were trembling.
“What happened, son?”
“I fulfilled my promise and pulled the plug,” he rasped.
His strange words perplexed me.
“What are you talking about?”
“I killed Richard, I killed my best friend.”
I was stunned by his unpredicted confession.
“Why did you kill him?”
“We had a pact,” he said. “If one of us ever lingered on life support; the other one would pull the plug.”
I was thunderstruck and recoiled in disgust.
“You had no right to end his life; you murdered him. Life belongs to God. You have no right.”
“He lay there dying of cancer,” he screamed. “I couldn’t watch him suffer and do nothing.”
“That was not your decision to make. That’s murder.”
He looked at me with desperation in his eyes; I looked away.
“What should I do?” he entreated. “I’m so sorry… but I can’t undo what I have done.”
“You should call the police.”
He took my hand and said, “Please tell his mother how sorry I am.”
I pulled my hand away. I didn’t want anything to do with him; he was a murderer to me.
“Please tell her I’m sorry.”
“Call the police, man, and turn yourself in. You should take the blame for your action.” I walked to the door.
“I’m so sorry,” he said gasping. “Please, stay with me. Please, stay for a while.”
“I want nothing to do with you, man.” I threw the money to his face and walked away.
Before I opened the door of my car I heard a shot. I stood petrified. I didn’t want to believe my ears. There was complete silence for what seemed an eternity. My heart was gripped by a rush of anxiety and I rushed back to the house. He was lying in his own blood rattling, the gun still in his hand. I rushed to the phone and dialed 911.
Day Two:
I was driving along Queens in the middle of the night. It was very cold and raining. He signaled me and I pulled over.
“Where to, sir?” I asked.
“Franklin square.”
“You’re soaked, man.”
“I was standing in the rain for half an hour,” he said. “Damn them cabbies. No one would stop for an old black man.”
Day three:
I had a bad night yesterday. The memory of that young man lying in a pool of blood was haunting me. He needed me and I didn’t listen. Why didn’t I refrain from being judgmental? Had I given him a few minutes of my time, maybe he wouldn’t have been lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a ventilator.
I drove to Oceanside and went to his house. I wanted to know what kind of a person he was. The police had cordoned the house with yellow tape but that didn’t stop me, I went in.
There was a big stain of blood on the white and black carpet. I stood there petrified. I heard his voice ringing inside my head,
“I couldn’t watch him suffer and do nothing.”
I saw a picture of the two of them together wearing skiing gear. They were so young and full of life. He had his arm around his friend’s shoulder and he had a beaming smile. A skier’s paraphernalia lay in the corner of the room along with some trophies.
His saxophone was in the other corner; musical notes were lying beside it. There were some papers on his desk and a picture of a beautiful young woman. I took his notebook and flipped the pages. My God, he was still a college student!
A piece of scented paper was folded neatly beside the picture. I unfolded it and read the lines; it was an unfinished poem written to a girl named Megan. She must have been his girlfriend.
The key ring was also on the table. I read the inscription.
“To the most wonderful human being I ever met, Megan.”
I took the phone book and looked for the name Richard. The closest I could find was Rick Stevenson; I dialed the number.
“Could I speak to Rick, please.”
The man on the line was stunned. “Who is this?”
“Matthew Jackson, sir.”
“Mr. Jackson, Rick passed away three days ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, sir. Could I speak to his mother, please? I have a message for her.”
“Elizabeth is in the hospital. She’s visiting his friend Marc. Could I take a message for her?”
“No, I should give her the message myself.”
I drove to the hospital to see Elizabeth. She was sitting by his bed holding his hand. She stroked his soft black hair and hummed a tune.
“Mrs. Stevenson,”
She was startled and looked over her shoulder; I saw tears in her eyes.
“Yes,”
“I’m Matthew Jackson. I was with him when he shot himself.”
Tears flowed down her sallow cheeks.
“He asked me to tell you he was sorry.”
She burst into tears. I tapped her gently on the shoulder and said,
“I’m sorry too. If I had listened to him instead of being so damned self-righteous, maybe he wouldn’t have shot himself.”
“They were like brothers. They grow up together, he and Rick. I loved him as though he were my own son. His mother died when he was five and his dad used to leave him in my care. He was a sweet little boy. Rick was naughty but he was such an angel,” she said sobbing.
“I remember the day they made their pact; it was Rick’s idea. He was uneasy about it but he gave him his word. Marc always kept his promises.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stevenson.”
“He couldn’t stand to see him suffer, with all those tubes inserted in his throat. He loved him and it was killing him to see Rick in that condition. Rick had cancer in his head and neck. The doctors said his time was brief,” she sobbed. “I was talking with my husband that night about allowing him to die peacefully… I saw desperation in his eyes. God, I shouldn’t have left them alone.”
Day Four:
I was driving along Garden City around noon. He signaled me and I pulled over.
“Where to, sir?” I asked.
“To court, where else? She walked out on me and took the children. She took the house as well,” he rambled on. “All I want is to see my children. She says I’m a bad father. What does she know? I bust my back everyday trying to provide for those two sweet boys. I don’t want my children to grow up hating me for all the bad things she says about me. I want to be able to deal with her without getting lost in the booze. I tried, I really tried. I haven’t had a drink in four months now.”
“Well done, sir.”
“What?”
“Here we are.”
“How much?”
“This one is on me, sir. Just keep away from the booze.”
Day Five:
I went to see his girlfriend Megan. I wanted to give her the poem he left behind. A beautiful young woman on a wheelchair opened the door.
“Ms. Megan Hughes,”
“Yes,” she said. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“This is for you, from Marc.”
I handed her the poem. She read the first lines; tears flowed on her cheeks yet she smiled.
“He was a great guy,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone with such care and compassion.”
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“A skiing accident,” she sighed. “Other people would have walked away you know, but not Marc. He stayed with me. He used to send me a poem with a beautiful red rose every morning when I was in the hospital. The perfect way to start my day,” she tittered. “It worked.”
She showed me a picture of the three of them together; Marc was standing in the middle raising a trophy.
“He was a great skier. He loved the snow. This picture was taken when he won the national tourney two years ago.”
“He must have been a very special guy.”
“He used to make me smile even after this. I gave him a heart-shaped key ring in appreciation, but I could never do enough.”
“He must have loved you a lot.”
“Marc loves everybody,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone with such capacity for love. When Rick got sick, he was always there for him. He put his life on hold to be with Rick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marc was chosen for the Olympic skiing team last year. He declined the offer to be with Rick.”
“Did you know about their pact, Ms. Hughes?”
“They made their pact shortly after my accident. Rick was really scared when he saw what happened to me. I guess that’s why he asked Marc to make that pledge.”
“How did Marc feel about it?”
“He wished he would never be the one to keep his side of the promise.”
“Did you think he would actually go through with this?”
“It really hurt him to see Rick suffer like that, sir. He thought he was doing the right thing.”
“Do you think Rick would have done the same if it were Marc in that condition?”
“Absolutely,” she sighed. “Sometimes, I wish I had his courage.”
“Why?”
“I can’t stand to see Marc in that condition, sir. The last time I visited him in the hospital, I almost pulled the plug myself.”
Day Six:
His blue eyes were wide open; they were staring right through me. I heard his voice ringing inside my head,
“I couldn’t watch him suffer and do nothing.”
I approached his bed and held his hand, not even a slight twitch. He looked so peaceful in his sleep.
“Is he in pain, doctor?”
“I don’t really know. He’s totally unresponsive.”
“Is he going to wake up?”
“The brain damage is so severe.”
“But his eyes are open!”
“His pupils are dilated and fixed. This is a clear sign of brain damage. There’s no reflex motion in his limbs as well.”
“Could I stay alone with him for a while?”
“Sure,” said the doctor and walked away.
“I’m sorry, Marc. Please forgive me.”
I only heard myself and the puffs of the breathing machine.
“I should have listened to you. This is all my fault. You were hurting and I didn’t listen. I pushed you over the edge.”
The sound of the breathing machine rasped my nerves. I removed the ventilator tube from his neck.
“Everyone thinks you’re a great guy; Elizabeth, Megan and so do I…I can’t watch you suffer and do nothing, Marc.”
He rattled and stopped breathing; the alarm went off.
Doctors and nurses came rushing to his room.
“Flat line, doctor,” yelled the nurse. The doctor looked at me; I stood there petrified. The tube was still in my trembling hand.
“You stay there,” said the doctor. “Nurse, call the police.”
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Reviewed by Michael Wells
10/26/2006
You have tackled the subject of the right to die in three masterpieces so far (Deliverance, As I Lay Dying and Cabbie)
This is a very emotional subject for me as I was the once who had to fulfil my beloved wife final wish.
Huda,
I'm wondering will you be ready to enter that pact with me “If one of us ever lingered on life support; the other one would pull the plug.”
God bless - Mich
An interesting technique of narration, transforming "As I lay dying" into short prose. Intense and precise, the intervals are well placed too. Very solid beautiful work.
I visualized an animated screen play edition of this absorbing and thrilling story in my mind as I read your dramatic narrative......
Your writing skills are exceptional, and your attention to detail is meticulous, the hallmark of a professional writer,Huda..
The character of Marc reminded me of myself...lols..
" “Marc loves everybody,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone with such capacity for love. "
Love and Light
Peter
A powerful story, Huda. I was captivated from start to finish. As I said before; you are a good writer. Thank you for sharing this literary offering. Love and peace. Regis
Reviewed by Chris Archer
12/31/2004
A very sensitive subject and a very courageous tackling of the issue. I love the way you introduced the character through the eyes of others to make us symapthize and understand his motives. Wonderful story, Huda, Happy New Year
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :)
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd
12/29/2004
I agree that the story works out well and too often we find oursleves being judgemental without finding out all the circumstances. A reallly good story.
The work flows well, and the writer's voice is unobtrusive and absorbing. The story is interesting, dealing with a timely subject; the right to die with dignity, and the question of when life loses value. You handled this well, with sensativity, and scope, painting the conflict in sure deft strokes. By way of helpful critism, I would suggest that the style is still a little dialog-intense, and could benefit from being balanced a little more with exposition and description. Remember to incorporate sensory details so this comes off more as fiction and less as a screen play. Also, I would recomend occasionally experimenting with third-person narrative style as well.
This is not a drill. The attack on Pearl. They were the ghost planes of the night, deadly, illusive, sharp-clawed Black Cats. The Memoirs of ARM H.P. Lawrence, a Pearl Harbor survivor, Black Cat, and decorated war veteran.
Day One:
