All Gone

THE STUDENT

This begins more than four years ago. It was when I was driving a cab in the day and going to college at night. I was a pre-dental student. I lived in a single room. My folks were dead. I had no close relatives. I was dating someone and had a number of friends. I had little time for parties and movies though, what with my studying and job. My girlfriend, Louise, usually stayed with me weekends. We planned to get married during my third year of dental school, when she’d be graduated and teaching second grade.

One Saturday, when Louise was studying her own college work in my room, I was driving a man through the factory part of the city. I suddenly felt this cold thing on the back of my neck. I swatted it from behind. The thing came right back to the same spot. “It’s a gun,” the man said. “Make another move it doesn’t like and it’ll bite off your head.”

“I’ll do anything you say,” I said.

“That’s a smart hack.”

“You want all my money, you can have it.”

“Just stick to your driving.”

“You want me to still drive to where you asked to go?”

“Drive around this block.”

“And after that?”

“Just keep driving around this block.”

He took the gun away from my neck. In the rearview mirror I saw him sitting in the middle of the back seat. He was nicely dressed in an overcoat, suit, tie and hat. His gloved hands held the gun between his knees and kept it pointing up at me.

I drove around the block several times.

“How many times you want me to drive around the block?” I said.

“Till I say for you to stop.”

“And if I run out of gas?”

“No funny remarks.”

“That wasn’t intended to be funny. I’m low.”

“You’ll be lower if you make any more funny remarks.”

“I mean I’m very low in gas. I was going to get a few dollars’ worth right after I dropped you off.”

“You’ll be dropping off if you don’t shut up fast.”

I drove around the same block about two dozen times. The gun was still between his knees. Just the end of the barrel was visible now and still pointing at my head. Then the cab began making these bumping back and forth movements every few seconds.

“What’s that?” he said.

“That’s the gas tank going out of gas.”

“I’m serious. What is it?”

“You must have never owned a car. Take a look at the gauge.”

“Then get to a garage fast.”

I told him I knew of one right around here. It was cold outside and all the windows were up but mine, which was opened just an inch. And there was no glass partition or steel cage separating the driver from the passenger section, as all the fleet cabs in the city are forced by law to have now. Not that a thick glass or cage would have stopped any caliber bullet from coming into me from behind, if I had wanted to yell for help through my window crack or signal with my hand or lights to a policeman if I saw one nearby.

“And no funny remarks or lowering the window an inch more or getting out of the cab,” the man said, putting the gun in an overcoat side pocket, “or the trigger gets touched. It’s a hair trigger too.”

I wanted to ask him what exactly a hair trigger was, something I read of in newspapers and heard said about in movies and never looked up, but I knew he would think that a funny remark. Or maybe I wasn’t as calm as all that and only imagined I wanted to ask him that question. Later on though, I told people I had asked him what a hairpin trigger was and that he said “It’s a trigger that releases the hammer that strikes the cartridge primer that sends the bullet up through the back of a cabby’s head and out of his hair like a pin.”

I drove the few blocks to the gas station and pulled up beside the gas pumps.

“Seven dollars of the cheaper grade,” I told the attendant, “and a receipt.”

“Why’d you ask for a receipt?” the man said when the attendant began putting in gas.

“I always get a receipt when I don’t fill up at the taxi garage.”

“No receipt,” he said.

“But I need a receipt to get my seven dollars back. I’ve dealt with this guy. He knows that.”

“I don’t want you passing anything to him.”

“What could I pass? He’ll be the one passing me the receipt.”

“No.”

“That’s seven dollars,” the attendant said.

I gave him a ten.

“I’ll get your change and receipt.”

“No receipt,” the man said to me.

“No receipt,” I yelled to the attendant as he headed for the station office.

“It’s no trouble,” he said. “No thanks.”

“No three dollars either,” the man said.

“I shouldn’t wait for my three dollars?” I said.

“Get going.”

“Forget the three dollars also,” I yelled to the attendant as he left the office.

“But I got it right here.”

“We’re in a rush. Sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Are you kidding?”

“Why’d you tell him we’re in a rush?” the man said.

“I said what came into my head.”

“Stupid.”

“Really,” the attendant said. “Three bucks tip is crazy,” and he held the three dollars through the window space.

“Should I take it?” I said to the man in back.

“Why you asking me?”

“Is it yours?” the attendant said to him, his mouth at my window and waving the money through the space to the man. “Well really thanks, mister, but three dollars is a pretty large tip.”

“Will you please take your change?” the man said. “Because I am in a rush.”

“I’ll take it,” I said to the attendant.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said. “Three dollars would have done me fine.”

“Now please get moving,” the man said, pointing to his watch.

“See you,” I said to the attendant and drove out of the station. “Where you want to go now?”

“Around this block,” the man said.

“This block?”

“You see another block?”

“There are lots of blocks around here. This, that and all the other blocks including the factory one we must have driven around a hundred times. It’s a big neighborhood. An even bigger city.”

“Shut your mouth and drive.” He took the gun from his pocket and held it between his knees.

I drove around the block that had the gas station on the corner of it. The first time the attendant saw me he waved. He waved the second time also and then scratched his head when he saw me coming a third and fourth time. The fifth time he saw me he yelled “Hey, you’re driving in circles.” I shrugged. The man in the back said “Don’t shrug. Don’t make faces. Behave like your driving is perfectly normal.” The next time the attendant saw me he yelled “You’re getting me dizzy with your driving — you know that?” The time after that, he was pointing out my cab to a driver of another car in the gas station and yelling “What’s your cab — locked to hidden street rails we don’t know about?” Then he gave up on saying anything to me and only made the crazy sign with his finger screwing away at his temple, and the times after that he mostly wouldn’t even look up.

We drove around the same block for about a half hour. Finally I said “You still want me to drive around this block?”

“Yes.”

“That gas station guy’s going to get suspicious.”

“That’s his trouble.”

“He could call the police thinking something’s wrong.”

“Then that’s their trouble.”

“The police could try to stop us and you might use your gun on them and they might use their guns on you and I could get killed in the crossfire.”

“What do you know? — Just keep driving.”

“Why don’t we drive around another block? One away from the gas station.”

“This block.”

“We drove around another block before.”

“That was till you ran out of gas.”

“I could run out of gas again. This stop-and-go driving drains the hell out of it.”

“Then you’ll get some more at the station.”

“What could I ever say to that man the next time?”

“You’ll say ‘Fill her up, please, and no receipt.’ And then exchange pleasantries about cars, auto parts and motor oils, or just read from one of the books on your seat.”

“You must like that gas station very much.”

“Save your remarks for the gas pumper.”

“I will. I was just trying to be protective about myself then. I don’t want to get hurt or cause any trouble in the least.”

The gun was still pointing at me. I drove around the block another fifteen minutes. Every three times around or so the attendant looked at me and went right back to his work. Then I saw a policeman waving me down on the avenue around the block from the gas station.

“Keep driving around the block,” the man said.

“But he wants me to stop.”

“Pass him the next time you see him too.”

“He’ll have a car on our tail by then.”

“Do as I say.”

I drove past the policeman. Through the side mirror I saw him calling out for me to stop. Through the rearview mirror I saw the man putting the gun in his overcoat pocket. We passed the gas station. The attendant was wiping someone’s dipstick. We went around the block. The policeman ran farther into the avenue this time and waved his nightstick for me to stop.

“The light’s red,” I said, passing the policeman.

“Go through it and around the block again and then stop where he says stop.”

“Why not back up for him now? I could say I didn’t see him the first time because I was keeping my eyes out for a certain address, and only saw him the second time when I was turning the corner and had mistakenly gone through the light.”

He motioned me to continue around the block.

“You’re the one asking for trouble now,” I said.

“From you?”

“From the police. I could still back all the way up this block and around to where he is. It’ll look better for us if I come around backward that way. More respectful, and as if I only passed him once and not twice.”

“Shhh.”

I drove around the block. The policeman was calling in from a police box on a lamppost. Seeing the cab, he dropped the receiver and blew his whistle at me. I stopped. He started over to us.

“Roll up your window,” the man said.

I rolled it up. “What do I tell him when he gets here?”

“Cover your mouth when you talk to me now and don’t turn around.”

I put my hand over my mouth and said without turning around “Well, what do I?”

“Tell him you drove through the lights and didn’t stop when he told you to because you wanted to help him lose some fat by his chasing after you.”

I shook my head.

“Say what I said.”

The policeman rapped my window with his stick. “Roll it down.”

“Three inches,” the man said.

I rolled it down three inches.

“Anything wrong in there?” the policeman asked the man.

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Now let’s hear you start explaining this,” the policeman said to me.

“I’m very sorry, officer.”

“What about what you ordered me to say about him?” the man said.

“What he order you?” the policeman said.

“I think he should be the one to say it.”

“That I only passed you because I wanted you to run a ways after me so you could lose a little weight.”

“Get out,” the policeman said.

“Do I?” I said into my hand without turning around.

“You’re damn right you’ll get out,” the policeman said.

“I don’t know what to do,” I told him. I covered my mouth and said “What do I do?”

The policeman unsnapped his holster flap and tried opening the door. In the rearview the man made a turning motion with his hand for me to roll my window up.

“No need, officer,” I said, when he tried opening the rear door. “I’m coming out.”

He stepped back, his hand on his holstered gun. I rolled up my window. He smashed my window with his stick.

The man slunk back into his seat screaming and then said “Get.”

I drove off. Some glass had got in my cheek. The policeman shot once into the air. Then two more.

“Drive to the block with the movie theater on it,” the man said, pointing to a movie theater a few blocks away.

“And the light?”

“No. This block here with the supermarket. Keep driving around it and don’t stop for police or lights.”

I drove through the red light and started around the block. We were on the avenue in front of the market completing our third trip around the block when I saw two police cars waiting for me in my lane.

“Make a U,” he said.

I made a U-turn and then a left at the first side street as he told me to do.

“Which block?” I said.

“Find another one around here. But a big one. If possible a block with the city’s biggest avenues on opposite ends of it.”

“There aren’t any around here like that.”

“Then drive across the park to the south side. I know of a beauty over there, right off Fourth.”

I drove across town and was heading south through the park transverse when I saw that both lanes ahead were blocked with police cars.

“Around,” he said, but through the side mirror I could see that the way back was blocked too.

“What now?” I said, slowing down.

“Get out and run.”

I stopped the cab between the two police car blockades and said “If I run they might shoot me.”

“And if you don’t run I’ll shoot you. And if you do run and suddenly stop I’ll shoot you. And if you fall to the ground after you get out and suddenly stop I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you if you try climbing over the transverse wall or get out and yell to the police and me not to shoot you. Just get out and run either way down the road’s dividing line to the police shouting threats that you’re going to kill them, or I’ll shoot you from behind. Now out,” and he nudged the gun barrel against the back of my neck.

I got out, jumped to the ground and crawled underneath the cab. He began shooting through the floor. Two bullets hit my shoulder and arm, another ricocheted through my ear. The police drove up. They called out to me. They took the gun from the man and asked him why he had shot me. Shaking all over and between loud sobs and tears he said “This bum…this man…he forced me to drive with him as a hostage. I luckily disarmed him of that thing seconds before he was going to drive us straight into your cars and shoot every policeman he could see.”

Even with two bullets and glass in me and blood coming out of my face and clothes, a policeman wrenched my head back by the hair and threw me against the cab and slammed my handcuffed hands on the hood and kicked my feet out behind me and told me to keep my legs spread apart and don’t speak unless questioned or they’ll knock me to the ground for good.

“But the man’s lying. I was his hostage and was forced to drive around and taunt you guys.”

I was punched in the back and head by two policemen till I rolled off the hood to the ground.

The man and I were driven in separate cars to the police station. An hour after I was arraigned and exhibited to the press for photographs, I was taken to the hospital, where my bullet and glass wounds were treated and also a gash in the back of my head that the policeman’s ring had opened up.

I was brought to trial. My court-appointed lawyer advised me to stop repeating those ridiculous statements about the man forcing me to do all those things in my cab.

“He’s a university professor,” the lawyer said. “Has written several highly regarded textbooks on forensic psychiatry and medicine. And he and his wife have such an impeccable reputation and social standing in the city that he could never be thought to have done the bizarre things you claim. I don’t believe you. The judge certainly won’t believe you. The prosecuting attorney is too good for the jury to believe you. If you plead guilty to all charges and ask the court’s mercy, I can get you off with only a few years. If you don’t plead guilty, then the professor and that policeman and gas station attendant will testify against you and you can be sent away for thirty years.”

I pleaded guilty and got six years. In prison I was taught mess hall cooking and worked in the kitchen there the last three years of my term. In the prison library I read as many books on psychology and psychiatry, including two of the professor’s works, as any student could read in any university in the world.

Lots of times in prison I thought about getting revenge on that man once I got out. I thought I would wait for him outside his class, and only after I was sure he remembered me and the ride we took together, would I slam a two-by-four over his head, not caring if he got killed. But then I knew I could never do anything that fierce. So I thought I’d just walk up to him on the street and slap his face, and after I wrestled him to the ground, as he was a pretty small guy so probably easy to handle, I’d kick his legs and arms and maybe spit at him, and then just leave him there like that.

But I knew I wouldn’t be capable of doing any of those things either. After reading those psychology and psychiatry books, I found I wasn’t at all the type to go around kicking and slapping anyone for anything. I also learned from those books that the professor was the type who would always have a gun, or know where to get one, and that he would come after me and use it if I so much as accused him of the crimes I went to prison for and took a swing at his face. And he’d have all the right excuses too. He could say “That man tried to kill me for having told the truth about that day he kept me captive in his cab. For he swore to me in the cab that he’d get even with me if I ever talked. And he’s phoned me a number of times since he left prison, with threats against my wife and me. So I got a gun. All right — I got it illegally”—if he couldn’t get it legally and as the one he had in the cab must have been gotten—“but I was desperately afraid of him. And when he came for me I had to shoot him to save my life.”

So I gave up on getting revenge. I was a model prisoner, got out in four years and returned to college, but this time to get a simple business degree in restaurant management. Louise, my old girlfriend, was too seriously involved with someone else to see me. Some of my old friends were still in the city. They all had fairly good jobs and a couple of them were married and had children. The few times I did meet some of them for beers, they asked me to tell the story about the professor and me. But I always told them it was best for my future career and personal well-being if I forgot that incident forever and if everybody else forgot about it too.

Most nights now I worked as a waiter. About once a week since I got the job a few months ago, that same man comes in the restaurant and sits at my station and orders drinks and a complete meal. Near the end of his dinner on the first night, he said “Aren’t you the fellow who did that strange thing with the taxi and police that was such a popular news story a few years ago?”

I said “I’m the man, all right,” and he said “I thought you looked familiar. You’ve clipped most of your hair and taken to wearing a mustache and eyeglasses, but I suppose those pictures of you on TV and in the papers left an indelible impression on me. I happen to have more than a morbid gossiper’s concern in criminal cases and yours I have to admit was one of the more interesting ones.” Then he excused himself for having brought up the subject, “since it must be embarrassing if not potentially damaging to you for anyone to repeat it in public,” and didn’t say another word to me for the rest of the meal except “Thank you” and “Goodbye.”

Since then, after his first drink, he always asks if I’d mind speaking some more about that day he had talked about, and I always say I wouldn’t.

“What I’m saying,” he’s said in a different way each time, “is I don’t want you getting mad at me or anything. Because if you think I’m being nosey, even if it is with a professional interest in mind that could lead to a paper on the subject, please say so and I’ll shut up and never ask you about it again.”

He always asks just one question each dinner, though a different one each time. Such as “What prompted your doing it in the first place?” and “Didn’t you think you could get killed in the act?” and “Where did you get the courage to face the police like that?” and “What was the significance of riding around the blocks so many times?” and “Why for a while did you settle on just one gas station in case you ran out of gas a second time?” and “Didn’t you know that if caught you’d be jeopardizing your employment and social activities for life?” and “Did you really believe you were innocent as you first proclaimed to the press the day you were caught?” and “Didn’t it occur to you that your passenger might have been killed by the police for being thought of as your accomplice or by a stray bullet aimed at you?”

I always make up an answer for him. Such as “At the time I intentionally wanted to get myself killed,” and “I really can’t say why I did anything that day because it was essentially another me who was responsible for the act,” and “I went around and around those blocks to draw attention to myself, simple as that,” and “I was too concerned with carrying out the crime itself and having a good time playing around with the police to pay any attention to the passenger in back.”

My answer always seems to satisfy him for the time. He then apologizes for having brought up the subject again and changes the conversation by asking after my health or college work or if the dinner special looks good tonight, and throughout the rest of the meal acts somewhat frightened as if he thinks I’m about to pick up a chair and crash it down on him. Then he finishes his dinner and the bottle of wine he always orders with his meal, and leaves without ever giving me a tip.