Eavesdropping

It was February when my son first got sick, March when the doctors told us there was no cure. Though Jasper’s illness robbed him of a normal childhood, he didn’t let it show much. On a strict diet of Popsicles and saltine crackers, Jasper became a stand-up comedian when the melted ice revealed a knock-knock joke etched into the ice pop’s wooden backbone.

“What do you call a frog that’s illegally parked?” Jasper would ask, a smirk of satisfaction spanning his face. I feigned being stumped.

“Toad!” Jasper cackled at this double-entendre, and I did, too.

Now, though, the night is much more solemn.

“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon. And a picture of –”

The cow jumping over the moon. Jasper's eyes flutter shut before I reach the line of his bedtime story, the one we usually say together. I stare at him for a moment, his wan complexion revealing rivers of navy and mahogany that ebb and flow beneath his skin. I press my nose into the sleeve of my jacket, attempting to stifle my sobs. Despite my efforts, a salted tear escapes, magnifying the letters on the page.

“Goodnight, J,” I whisper. I long for a bedtime story of my own as I lay beside my son, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his humming heart.

I wake before he does, dragging myself to the bathroom and spitting a mouthful of Listerine into the sink. Outside, hues of pink and orange melt together as if to wish me good morning; the grass is frosted with dew drops — perhaps the sky cried with me last night.

Monday mornings are especially busy; pescatarian housewives make their way to an early yoga class, ambitious businessmen urge to climb the hierarchical ladder of Wall Street, young women avoid the walk-of-shame in their bodycon dresses and makeup from the night before. I get into character, rehearsing the formalities of a rideshare driver. Hello, how are you? Sam, yes? Don’t you know my son is dying? The train station, got it.

At seven, a ping from my phone directs me to a diner, where two young women are waiting outside, tapping their toes impatiently, pending my arrival. I honk, and they scour my license plate to discern if I’m their Uber driver, or rather a women-hungry kidnapper waiting to whisk them off into a field somewhere. They decide upon the former and slide into the backseat.

“Hi, how’s it going?”

There is no response except a “fuck-you” in the form of a door slam.

“My relationship with Ahmed is just… off right now.” The lady, who I determine is the “Lindsay” who hailed the car, begins. The other woman sits with her mouth agape and elbows on her knees, awaiting an explanation.

“Take this to the vault, obviously, I’m only telling you. But the other night my boss and I went out for drinks after work and… things got out of hand. And Ahmed knows something is up.”

“Ugh, the bald one?” The friend is less concerned about the fact that Lindsay had just confessed to cheating on her boyfriend, but more so that it was with a man with a receding hairline.

Before I can hear the end of the story, Lindsay and her friend are shirking out of my car without a thank you or a goodbye. They make their way to a skyscraper building where the door is held open for them by a doorman, whom they don’t thank either.

I rest my head on the steering wheel and start praying to a God that I barely believe in. I can’t lose my son. Take me instead, I beg. In a perfect world, I could fix this. This is my fucking fault. I’m an Uber driver, I can’t afford to save him.

Later that day, I encounter Jeremy, a college athlete still sporting his university’s football uniform when he gets in the car. His phone rests between his ear and his shoulder, his hands occupied by a water bottle and a monogrammed duffel bag.

“They’re drug testing us tomorrow,” he groans into the phone. “I’m fucked, man. Coach can’t find out.” I look at the boy in the rearview mirror. His palm now shades his face. “Could you just pee in a cup for me, I’ll swing by and get it later? You’re a lifesaver.” He hangs up the phone and we sit in silence until the ride’s complete.

When I get home, it’s dark. Jasper’s asleep, and my sister, who looks after him during the days, is watching Jeopardy reruns. I sit beside her and we communicate through our native tongue of deep sighs and hand squeezes.

She breaks the silence by telling me he’s getting worse.

“I know, Mads.”

“What are you going to do?”

God picked my son to die and it’s not fair. He is a murderer and I am merely an intermediate; the puppeteer of purgatory who cannot afford to save him.

“I wish I knew.”

I think back to October, when I came across Dr. Halworth’s advertisement on a Reddit forum. He had his certification stripped from him due to a malpractice suit, but he was extremely talented and the only doctor up for the job. Navigating a maze of desperation and despair, I think of him, the only man willing to perform such a risky operation. The five-figure toll is much more daunting to me than the risk itself; Jasper will die either way. Halworth works from a basement in New Mexico, a room I can only imagine to be dimly lit and painfully eerie.

The next morning, Jasper has a doctor’s appointment in the city. We have a ritual for these solemn days: ice cream for breakfast. We sink into the red peeling booths of the local diner and Jasper requests his usual: a banana split with rainbow sprinkles.

He reminds the waitress, whose blonde hair is tied up in a perfect bun, that he wants an extra cherry on top. She laughs. “Yes, sir. I promise, two cherries.”

There’s ice cream on Jasper’s nose, but I don’t bother telling him. He sticks his tongue in the bowl like a lapping dog and giggles.

“Daddy,” he says, “when I get better, can we still have banana splits for breakfast?”

“Yes – when you get better you can have anything you want.”

The doctor reaffirms my worries. Dr. Ronan doesn’t sugar coat things, though he maintains a lightheartedness that feels awfully contradictory to the situation. He often compares Jasper to Spiderman if, all of a sudden, he couldn’t make webs.

But today, Dr. Ronan doesn’t crack jokes. He doesn’t believe Jasper is a superhero any longer. He tells me that Jasper likely has a few months left.

Jasper and I drive home in silence, aside from a light hum of music off our shared playlist. The Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses escapes from the car’s beaten down speakers, the bass weak, but the chorus still legible. You know I can't let you slide through my hands, wild horses couldn't drag me away.

I lay in bed that night, staring at the scattered light bulbs holed into the ceiling, like a slice of Swiss cheese. I think about the people I’ve been driving around. Their entitlement pains me. It’s only fair that they pay, in some way, to save my Jasper. They don’t need money. They need their reputations. Who people think they are is more important to them than who they truly are. I think about blackmailing them. I’m not a criminal, though. I’m just a father. A father in need of a fifty thousand dollars.

And so, the next morning, I call Dr. Halworth.

“We’ll be there.”

And I begin my mission.

I retrieve the dashboard camera that I had implemented only to scare belligerently drunk high schoolers away from throwing up in my car. It seemed to have worked. I plug the USB into my laptop and I wait. Holed up at the kitchen table like an FBI coder, I watch as the files load in. The progress bar absorbs my attention, my hunched back inching closer to the screen with every slight increase of color.

Finally the rectangular files erupt out of a folder. Thousands of hours of footage sit patiently on my desktop, waiting for me to play them. The videos are fairly blurry, but it is enough to transcribe every phone call my riders make, every facial expression they wear, every word they speak to their co-passengers, and every song they mouth the words to. I have found my victims. They’re going to save a life today.

Lindsay Mayfield, investment banker and nepo-baby, 29. Adultery. With her boss!

Jeremy Klein, aspiring NFL player, but rides the bench in college, 20. Cheating a drug test. Let’s be a team player now, Jeremy.

John O’Malley, student, 19. Sung the n-word while my radio played a Kanye West song. Rookie mistake.

Lastly, Rhonda Winegardener, CEO of Tell Magazine, 47. Admitted to insurance fraud on a phone call with her husband. How stupid can you be?

After hours of editing the video clips of the culprits, I’m ready to begin. Benjamin Judge, the alias behind my fake G-mail account, goes to work. I had found their emails and information through a multi-stepped process in which I analyzed their pick-up points, drop-off points, and other intel I gathered throughout the drive. When their photos match the information I gather, I send over a message:

ATTN: Lindsay Mayfield,

You have been breached. Attached you’ll find an audio clip of your confession to cheating on your boyfriend of 7 years, Ahmed Hadi, with your boss, Aaron Leibowitz. To prevent this from being leaked to all those you know and love, I demand the following:

Tell no one about this message.

Meet at the oak tree in Phares Park tonight at 8 PM with $10,000 dollars in cash.

Time’s ticking, Lindsay.

I do not sign off on the email. I feel like a criminal, but if God is real, he will understand.