Second Thoughts

On the day Allan intended to kill himself, twenty-thousand dollars mysteriously appeared in his checking account. This irritated him, as he’d just spent the past three weeks deliberately squandering all his money on booze, drugs, and hookers, for the specific purpose of emptying his bank before he died. Having money was a reason to live, and he was tired of having reasons to live. The debauchery was meant to be his final ‘fuck it’.

He contacted his bank to inquire about the mysterious deposit, certain it must be a mistake. The bank teller assured him, however, that no mistake was made, that she clearly remembered conducting the transaction herself with him two days ago. Apparently Allan had won a twenty thousand dollar jackpot earlier that week at a slot machine in a downtown casino, and had drunkenly boasted about it to everyone in the bank when he went there to deposit the check in person. Stunned and vexed with himself, Allan thanked the banker and hung up.

He slumped into his chair, wondering how to get rid of the money. He tried to mentally build a list of people he could gladly give his money to. He first thought of his mother, who was battling cancer. She’d single-handedly raised him and his half-sister, her first husband having died in a car accident before he was born, and her subsequent boyfriend- his father- having run off with another woman while he was a toddler. Thinking of her only embittered him, however, for she had spent his upbringing dotingly pampering his half-sister, while spurning him seemingly for the crime of being his father’s offspring. He decided to pass her over. He then considered his half-sister, who had financial issues of her own, but his heart grew hot with fury as he recalled the countless times she’d belittled and slighted him over the years. Turning his thoughts from his family, he considered his ex-co-workers, but his lips curled with displeasure as he recalled how they would consistently have nights out without inviting him. He knew they all had thought him strange and quiet, but that didn’t mean they had to exclude him from their social outings.

For an hour he went on like this, going through a list of relatives and acquaintances whom he might give his money to, only to realize he hated them all. Finally, he decided to just donate his money to a charity. To decide which charity, he would simply google ‘charities to donate to’ on his phone, and settle on the first charity that popped up.

As he lifted his phone from the window sill, however, he spied a tiny, angular shape protruding from beneath his bed. He went over to it and picked it up, and found that it was a little black book. He opened it at random and read what appeared to be a diary entry, jotted in a scrawny handwriting.

"March 6- It was one of mama’s better days. She recognized me, and we spent the afternoon reminiscing the one time she took me to Disneyland, when I was nine. Her dementia returned just as the sun began to set."

As Allan read, he remembered one of the hookers he’d taken home mentioning her mother having dementia, though he couldn’t quite recall her face. He was struck by the puzzling idea that this book was her diary. It must be a book she takes everywhere she goes, for he couldn’t think of any other reason why it would’ve ended up beneath his bed. He read on.

The woman’s name was Samantha Williams. She had run away from home during her teens to escape an abusive father shortly after her mother, having been diagnosed with dementia, was admitted into a nursing home. She eventually picked up work as a street prostitute. Shortly afterwards she finally got her own apartment in a shoddy part of town using a fake ID and forged documents, after months of living in hostels. She then began visiting her mother at the nursing home, where she discovered that her parents had divorced and her father was no longer paying her mother’s medical bills, which put her mother under threat of eviction. Samantha had been saving up for drama school, but upon hearing this news she decided to use her savings to cover her mother’s expenses. This had been the state of affairs in her life ever since.

It was late in the afternoon when Allan put the book down. He went through in his mind the faces of all the hookers he’d slept with in the past three weeks, and tried to recall which one belonged to Samantha. One face suddenly arose vividly before him, that of a woman no older than twenty, just a few years his junior, with long auburn curls and arresting green eyes. At the recollection of this face, he somehow felt certain that it belonged to Samantha Williams. Feeling a surge of compassion, he decided that she was the person he would give his money to.

Allan retrieved a checkbook from inside a drawer full of documents and wrote out a check for twenty-thousand dollars. Then he tore a piece off a random document in the same drawer, went to his desk, and wrote a short note on its blank backside.

"Hi! I found your journal in my apartment. Sorry in advance, but I couldn’t help reading it. It looks like you’ve had it tough these past few years, so I really hope this money will be enough to set you back on track to achieving your dreams. Trust me, you need it much more than I do."

He almost left it at that, but after a moment’s thought added:

"This isn’t a prank or a scam, I promise. I won this money perfectly legally at a casino earlier this month. I neither need it nor want it, so please take it. Thanks."

He folded the check into the note, and slipped both into the little black book. Then, rising from the table, he put on a pair of sneakers, collected his phone, wallet, and car-keys, and made for the door.

The sky had deepened to a majestic orange as he cruised through the city. On the drive down the freeway he saw in the distance the glistening silhouette of the Ascendant Hotel. The sight sent a pang through his heart, for it was there that his childhood best friend Marco had tragically died at thirteen. Marco and his family were lunching on the rooftop bar when Marco ran up to the rail to behold the city view. He then climbed the rail, spread his arms and cried “I’m the king of the world!” in imitation of the scene from the Titanic movie. At that moment, however, a strong gust suddenly toppled him right over the rail and down forty stories to his death. Alan had been on his way from Sunday class to join Marco’s family for dinner when he saw the ambulance and police cars crowding the hotel entrance. The harrowing image of Marco’s parents’ pale-white faces and his mother’s howls as her son’s corpse was carried away filled Alan's mind just as he exited the freeway and turned into the now-familiar red light district. It was the last he’d ever seen or heard of them.

Alan slowed his car to a crawling pace, and kept a keen eye out for Samantha. After aimlessly circling several blocks, with the discomfiting sense that some of the area’s dwellers were growing suspicious of him, he caught the girl with auburn hair from his memory emerging from a dingy motel, dressed in a black leather top and dark brown boots. His heart racing, he pulled up in front of her and rolled down his window.

“Hi there,” he said, “is your name Samantha?”

She shot him a surprised look. “Why, yes,” she said. “How’d you know?”

Alan sighed with relief. His intuition hadn’t misled him. Suddenly she yelped with delight. “I remember you!” she said. She leaned into his car and pouted her lips. “You came back for me. Aren’t you a sweetie.”

Her arresting green eyes sent a thrill through him.

Alan was about to hand her her diary and drive off, but then worried it wouldn’t be safe to leave her standing in such a place with a check for twenty-thousand, especially considering the suspicion he was certain his prolonged presence had aroused. “Hop in,” he said with a grin. “We’re going back to my place.”

She got in.

Their conversation on the drive back was the first sober one Alan had had in three weeks. Through it, he discovered that they both loved the Cure and agreed that healthcare was a right. They also debated the merits of the Star Wars prequels, and shared conspiracy theories surrounding Kurt Cobain’s death. It was the most fun he had had in a long time.

So absorbing was their discussion that they pulled up in front of his apartment complex in what felt like no time. She exited the car and started towards it. “My, my,” she said, “Feels like I was here only yesterday!”

Alan pulled her diary from the glove compartment and stepped out of the car. “Samantha,” he said, catching up with her, “I believe this is yours.”

Her eyes widened when she saw the little black book. “I’ve been looking for this!” she shrieked. She snatched the book from his hands and flipped through it. “Where did you-?” she began, but at that moment saw the note and check Alan had placed inside it. She looked at the check. Her jaw dropped. Then she read the note. “Wait,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “What is this-”

But Alan had already returned to his car. He started the engine, and hurriedly drove off. After he’d driven some miles, he rolled down the window and tossed out his phone, no longer having any use for it. The wind felt comforting in his face.

It was an hour before midnight when he arrived at the Ascendant Hotel. He let the valet take his car. Entering the lobby, he walked up to the receptionist, booked a room with his credit card, and received his card key. He headed to the elevators and pushed the button for the top floor. On the top floor, he wandered through the winding hallway until he finally found the fire-escape that led to the rooftop. The door to the rooftop had a card lock and was labeled with the words ‘Guests Only’. He unlocked it with his card key.

The website hadn’t lied when it stated the rooftop bar was only open on weekends. To his relief, every table was vacant, and the swimming pool was empty. He walked up to the railing, and looked out into the city before him. He was forty floors above the ground- the highest he’d ever been. The view was breathtaking. He hoisted himself onto the railing in a sitting position, glad this view would be the last thing he ever saw. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward.

Suddenly the image of Samantha’s arresting green eyes flamed into his mind, and he stopped leaning. He opened his eyes, and stared blankly at the tremendous drop before him. Still sitting on the rail, he lost himself in the memory of their conversation in the car. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made such a strong, easy connection with anyone. He wondered what might’ve been if they had met as teenagers. He wondered if either of them would be where they were now, he about to kill himself and she a street prostitute.

These thoughts so engrossed him that he didn’t notice the time passing. Sometime after midnight the police arrived and coaxed him off the rail. As they took him into custody, he wondered if he’d ever see her again.