Thank You

Seven months ago I was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. They gave me a year to live, but I’ve been in high spirits as of late. I declined treatments to help ease my pain; I’ve come to grips with the fact that my days are numbered. My days remain the same, for the most part. I roll out of bed, sheets and blanks scattered around me from the nightmares that plague me.

Next week will be my last on Earth. I know this not because I am some all-knowing oracle figure. I know this because it has been arranged. I want to die with dignity. I told my son that I wanted to sell an old record player that I had laying around and he taught me how to make an ad on Craigslist. I didn’t blatantly say that I would like to be murdered. In fact it was never mentioned at all. It would have been removed before I clicked send if it had been. About a week went by before I was graced with a response.  He wanted my record player.

The day that we met was a beautiful one. Clear skies, the shadows sprawled across the park as children played until they felt exhaustion overcome them. It was 2 PM when he strolled into my area. He sat next to me on the bench after realizing I was the only old man sitting with a record player on a bench. Extending his hand, he greeted me by saying it was a pleasure to be in my presence. I returned the sentiment and I showed him his object of desire.

He was very happy with it and when he reached into his pocket to pay me, I objected.

“Keep your money, let’s just talk.” I asked him for his name and he told me it was Richard. I reciprocated by telling him that mine was Thomas. Reaching into my interior pocket of my blue jean jacket, I pulled out of a flask of whiskey. He remarked that I was a little too old to be drinking swill from “one of those,” as he put it. We had a laugh and I took a swig, passed it to him.

“Ah, what the hell, why not?”

He tipped his head back and enjoyed the taste, I could tell he was savoring this. Maybe this meant more to him than it did to me. He handed me the container and I slipped back into my jacket.

“I don’t have much time left, I’m dying. I’ve had a brain tumor since last summer. I’m 85 and suffer enough. Will you help me?”

“Help you? How so?”

“You know how. I know all about you. How you’re struggling to make ends meet. You’re about to lose your home and possibly your family. Let me help you… help me help you.”

“How’d you find all of this out? We’ve never met. You’re old. You suck at technology.”

I chuckled.

“Don’t let my wrinkled face fool you. I was a private detective for 25 years before I was forced out by the powers that be.”

“Why? You must’ve been good at what you did if you stuck around for a quarter of a century.”

“Yeah, too good. Let’s just leave it at that. Walk with me.”

We rose up and took a walk around the park and I told him how I’d like things to go.

“I barely know you. You’re asking a stranger to kill you.”

“And asking a loved one to do it would be better?”

Richard sighed and continued to stand his ground, “You stand there in your denim garb, stupid fucking look on your face, asking me, a guy that you’ve never met in your life, to murder you in cold blood. Keep your fucking record player, I don’t want it.”

Richard let go of the player and it smashed off of the pavement, breaking into multiple pieces.

“Well that was disrespectful.”

Richard turned to walk away. I had to stop him. “Don’t do this! Come back! Please!” He stopped to look back at me. He made his way over to me at a turtle’s pace. The view from behind my glasses improved as he rejoined my presence.

“I’m not going to beg, Richard. There will be another but I want it to be you. It has to be. With one small bend of your finger, your problems are solved. I’m willing, it’s not murder.  God bless Dr. Kevorkian. God bless him, I wish he was still around to help me. I’m sorry that I’m asking you to go through with something like this, it must be tough for you. I get that. It’s just…”

He cut me off mid-sentence.

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it. When and where?”

“Next week. As long as I live to attend my grandson’s birthday party, I don’t care when. I don’t want to know. I just want it to happen.”

Richard mulled over the instructions and shook his head in agreement. “So tell me if I’m wrong but you want me to just randomly murder you? Do I get a house key?”

“I’ve already had a copy made.” I dug into my back pocket and grabbed for my wallet, opened it and gave him the spare key.

Days passed and I lived to see my grandson open what would prove to be last gift he’d receive from me. I’ll always remember his smile. I sent Richard an email afterwards telling him that the money had been wired to an account in Switzerland.

I gave my son a hug and told him that I’d be back, I was just going to grab some coffee from the shop on the corner that served the community for the past thirty or so years.

It was a dreary day, one huge cloud shielded the sunlight. As I laid my feet down on the pavement, I heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking.

This was it.

The door swung open and my son, Darrel jumped on Richard’s back. The gun kicked across the street and landed by a blue Oldsmobile parked nearby. There was a scuffle, Darrel was winning. He pinned Thomas to the concrete and reached for a brick nearby.

I didn’t stop him. I sat there and watched as my son pounded his face time and again. Small puddles of blood seeped around the sidewalk. I looked down to see the substance filling the cracks at my feet.

I looked at my son and nodded in approval. I looked down at Richard.

“Thank you.”