A Man Named Paul

I was driving one night when I met the man, sitting on a park bench. My reason for being out driving by myself was my wife. We got into yet another fight about none other than, money, and the number one cause of arguments between spouses. Big surprise! Trisha and I always fight about it. Anyways…

I was driving on a warm night in July. The 31st to be exact. There was little traffic on the streets, at least compared to rush hour. I had my window open, letting the breeze blow into my car. I was nearing Central Park. My headlights poured over a man sitting on a park bench reading a book. A lamppost was shining ample light down on the words in the book for him to be able to see them. The man noticed me coming, so he closed his book and stood up. Before he got to my car, I could see a green bookmark sticking form the top of the book, saving his stopping point, wherever that was.

“Sir!” he called. “Sir!”

I stopped the car and rolled down the passenger side window.

“I don’t want to be a burden or anything, but I really need a ride. I would greatly appreciate it.” He explained.

“Sure, no problem!” I said graciously.

“Bless you!” the man smiled, opened the door and climbed in.

We didn’t talk for a few moments and I broke the silence after that.

“So, do you have a name?” I asked.

“My name is Paul,” the man replied.

Paul was a rather handsome fellow. In his early 20s I suspected. About 5’8 with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. A few loose locks framed a pair of blue-gray eyes.

“What’s your name Sir?” he asked.

“My name is John Barnett.” I replied.

Paul nodded as if to say that he liked that name a great deal. We drove for quite a while…talking which was the only thing to do at the time. We talked about our lives. Every once and a while, he gave me a direction or two, and I followed. We had a great time. After a while I was beginning to get curious as to when we were going to arrive, so I asked.

“Say, how much farther is you’re home Paul?”

“We are just about there,” he replied. “Just turn left on this street and then turn right.”

“Okay.” I went on the route he gave me, and in just a few minutes, we were there.

“Thank you very much!” Paul said to me.

“No problem Paul.”

Paul opened the car door on his side and got out. He started walking toward his house. He gave me a quick wave just to tell me thanks once more, and then he disappeared into the house.

I smiled, thinking about my good deed for the day and pulled out. I turned around and headed back to my house in the middle of New York City. I looked at the car clock and cringed. 11:45. “I better get home soon!” I said. I hurried all the way home.

When I pulled into the driveway, I noticed something ling on the backseat. It was Paul’s book. He left it in the car. I picked it up and opened it to the page where the bookmark was. Wow! I thought. It’s a twenty! Did he leave it for me? I pushed those thoughts out of my head and closed the book with the money still in the piece of literature. I carried it with me into the house. The living room light and the TV were on. Trisha was sitting on the couch. She looked up. She had an expression of sadness on her face.

“Hi,” she sighed. “I am sorry I fought with you…” she trailed off.

“I’m sorry too,” I replied. We hugged each other, and walked toward the bedroom. We got all settled in and I thought about Paul; he seemed so calm and peaceful. I thought about the book and the money that was used as a bookmark. I have to return the book and the money tomorrow. I thought. With that though running through my mind, I fell into a very deep sleep.

“Honey, I have to go out for a little bit.” I called to her. She was in the bathroom. She rushed out with a brush in her hand. “I will be back in about an hour.”

“Okay, make sure you are back in time for church,” she said. She gave me a hug and a kiss.

I hugged her back. “Bye, Trish!”

“Bye John!” she replied.

I headed out the door, book in hand. I opened the car door, climbed in, turned the ignition, and took off. A little over thirty minutes, I was only a left and a right away. I pulled up to his house, and got out. I walked up the steps to Paul’s front stoop, and rang the doorbell. An old lady came to the door, about 64 years of age.

“May I help you?” she asked, cracking the door just a crack.

“Yes.” I replied. “I gave I guess your son a ride home from Central Park, and he left a book with twenty dollars in it, and I just came by to return it.”

“Which son are you talking about?” the lady snapped. “I have four.”

“He said his name was Paul.” It was like what I said was a tear bomb for her.

She began crying like there was no tomorrow. She covered her face and closed the door and ran off to some other part of her house. A few seconds later, another person walked over to the door.

“Paul was my younger brother, the youngest of four. He was killed in Central Park six years ago. He was shot in the fucking head. Murdered!”

“Oh my God!” I covered my mouth. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Don’t say anything.” He replied. He took the book and the money and started to close the door.

“Wait, is there anything I can do for you and your family?” I asked desperately.

“No, we are going to bury this next to him.” He answered. “Thank you for finding this.” He slammed the door and left me alone on a windy August 1st.