It had been a pleasant evening at the club with Dr. Thompson. We had played golf that afternoon, enjoyed a delightful dinner with some of the other gentlemen and then retired with our brandy to the parlor for conversation.
We had both been members of the club for several years. From the start, there had been a certain collegiality between us. I suppose it was because we were both in the medical profession.
Over the years, our friendship had grown, that in spite of the fact that I was at least twenty years his junior.
Dr. Thompson sniffed at his brandy, “Smith,” he said, addressing me by my last name as he was in the habit of doing.
“Yes, Charles,” I replied, not knowing that from this in auspicious beginning the conversation would soon bring me into a story that would change my life forever.
“As an internal medicine specialist, have you ever gotten involved in psychiatry?”
I paused for a moment. Psychiatry was Dr. Thompson’s area of study and I was unsure how best to answer him. Finally, I said, “Psychiatry has always been of interest to me. I am certain that a number of my patients have not had physical ailments to speak of, but needed psychiatric care instead. Those who were willing, I have referred to other doctors.”
Charles took a gulp of his brandy, which I noticed was uncharacteristic of him. In fact, I began to realize that he had not been himself much of the evening. It was as if there was something deeply troubling him. I decided to wait in silence.
Finally, my friend spoke, “I am sure you are aware that my health has not been that good lately.”
“Yes, Charles, I had noticed that lately you have not had as much energy as usual.”
“I don’t know how much longer I am for this world,” he continued. “Although I hope it will be for quite some time.”
“So do I,” I replied. “It seems to me that you have many more years left to practice medicine.”
Dr. Thompson lowered his eyebrows and frowned at no one in particular. “I am afraid not,” he finally said, with a note of resignation in his voice. “My doctor, Dr. Farnsworth, says my heart could fail on me at any moment.”
Noticing my shocked look, he continued, “Don’t worry. He has prescribed all of the proper medications and he says that with luck I shall remain an irritation in his life for years to come.”
I smiled and replied, “Hear, hear!”
But my friend’s expression did not lighten up as I had hoped. Instead, his brows remained furrowed and he seemed deep in thought. Finally, his face brightened, as if he had finally come to a decision.
Looking directly at me, Charles said, “I am ready to meet my Maker at any time, whether tonight or next decade. That is, I am ready in all areas except for one thing.”
I leaned forward, curious about what this one thing might be and wondering why Dr. Thompson would want to tell me about it. The doctor took another gulp of brandy and set his empty glass down.
Then, instead of telling me about the issue, he said, “Did your classes on psychiatric disorders interest you in medical school?”
I paused. That was over fifteen years ago. Recollecting, I said, “Yes. They did. I remember being very intrigued by all the different mental problems we were told about.” I paused, “I was also very glad that I would not have to face these problems in my field of medicine.”
Dr. Thompson laughed. “Yes. Yes. I understand. I have had many, many patients baffle me over the years. Of course, I never told them that!”
The doctor laughed again as I joined him.
“How would you like to get involved in another psychiatric study?” he asked abruptly.
Somewhat taken aback, I replied, “I suppose I could. I’m not sure what good that I could do, though.”
“Probably very little,” came his terse reply. “But I doubt anyone else can do any good, either.”
We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Dr. Thompson was absorbed in his thoughts while I took sips of brandy to avoid the awkwardness of just sitting there. A waiter came in to refresh our drinks, which I declined and Dr. Thompson accepted.
“Give Smith another drink, too. He doesn’t realize yet how much he needs it.”
Shortly after the waiter left, Dr Thompson turned to me and looked me straight in the eye. “I have had one patient now for over thirty years whom I have been completely unable to help. He is not a psychiatric patient, really, but I doubt there is any category of medicine he fits into. Perhaps he is more of a religious case, although I know of no religious person who could help him.”
Noticing my perplexed look, Dr. Thompson continued, “I can tell you much more about him if you are interested. However, he has only allowed me to talk to you under the condition that you agree to be his doctor.”
“What is it that he wants from a doctor like me?” I asked.
Dr. Thompson shifted uncomfortably in his chair and said, “He wants to die.”
I set my drink down rather harder than I should have and answered, “You know I don’t believe in such things. The duty of our profession is to save lives, not help people kill themselves!”
“I know, I know,” Dr. Thompson said as he put out his hand to calm me down. “But this man’s situation is not at all like you think. Once you hear his story, I will wager that you will be willing to try, as I have for thirty years, to help him die.”
Again, a look of shock crossed my face. “How could a doctor spend thirty years trying to help someone die?” I thought to myself. That made no sense whatsoever!
“Why are you asking me to be involved?”
“I may die any day now,” Dr. Thompson began. “This patient is a secret one. I have no files on him. I have never received any payment. He does not come to my office. So I am afraid that if I pass away soon, there will be no one to help my patient in the future. But if I can get your word that you will take my place, then I will have done my duty as a doctor for this most unusual patient.”
Thinking more of Dr. Thompson’s need than the patient’s, I readily accepted his request for help. “I do not know what I can do, but if you think I can be of help, then I am willing to try.”
“Good,” Dr. Thompson replied. “I will take you to meet him tomorrow evening. Meet me here at 7 PM sharp.”
That next day was a very busy one with a number of patients. As a result, I had little time to ponder this mysterious patient of Dr. Thompson’s. However, I did find that in my free time, my thoughts kept wandering back to the conversation from the night before.
I arrived at the country club a few minutes before 7 PM, only to find Charles sitting on a bench outside, waiting for me. As I pulled up, he climbed into my car.
“Good evening!” he said happily.
“Good evening,” I replied.
“I trust you had a good night’s sleep last night?” he asked.
“Not really,” I replied, laughing, “This new patient of yours kept me up half the night.”
“It won’t be the first time,” Charles commented. “I cannot count the number of nights that John’s stories have kept me awake.”
“Oh,” I said, “So John is his name?”
“Yes, it is,” Charles answered. “Now, turn left here and go down toward skid row. We’ll be going to an old motel there.”
On the drive, which took over half an hour, I tried to get Charles to tell me more about John, but he would have nothing of it.
“No,” he said, “I want you to hear the story straight from the horse’s mouth. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway.”
So, instead, we made small talk about work and families. Charles had a wife, but all of his children were grown and lived out of state. My three kids were all in middle school and high school, so they made up the bulk of our conversation.
We arrived at skid row just as the sun was setting. I never liked being in this part of town in the daytime, so I was very cautious as we started onto Market Street. I had difficulty imagining a doctor as old as Charles coming down here regularly.
“There it is!” Charles exclaimed, pointing to a dirty, old, three story building. The sign in front read Hotel Brandeis. I could tell by looking at it that the hotel was one of those seedy downtown flop houses – places where people could get a room with a bathroom and microwave for a few hundred dollars a month. They were a great place for hookers and drug addicts and not much else. As we pulled into the parking lot, I prepared myself for the stench I was going to encounter.
As we walked into the hotel, a toothless man behind the counter waved and said, “Hi Doc! Not your usual night, is it?”
“No, Jimmy, it’s not,” Charles answered, waving good-naturedly.
“Well, I ain’t seen John all day. Course, that ain’t too unusual. I s’pose he’s okay.”
“I’ll let you know if he isn’t,” Charles replied.
We took the elevator up to the third floor. The carpeting in the elevator looked and smelled about twenty years old at least. I guessed that many a drunk had not made it out of there without losing his last drink or two on the floor. Charles rode the elevator quite calmly. It was readily apparent that he had done this many times before.
The doors opened to reveal a drunk lying passed out in the hallway. There was the sound of a couple arguing coming from behind one door and the stench was worse in the hallway than it was in the elevator. Charles took the scene in stride and led me to room 312.
Pausing, Dr. Thompson knocked lightly on the door. As he did, the sound of a television inside went off.
A voice said, “Yeah. Who is it?”
“Charles. And I have my friend with me.”
“Come in,” the voice said gruffly.
Charles opened the door and we walked in. Over his shoulder I could see that the room was very dirty and poorly lit. It was not ventilated at all and smelled like moldy food. There were dirty dishes lying around and garbage piled up all over the room. Pornography and cigarettes seemed to be the occupant’s main occupations. It looked as if no one had cleaned the room in years.
As Charles stepped to the side, I got my first look at John. He was an old man, a small and wiry one. John sat in a worn-out chair whose cushion was falling through the bottom. It seemed to me that he would have to struggle to get out of it. His beard was probably a few weeks old. It looked like the shaggy beards that most street guys had. I was surprised to see that he didn’t wear glasses. His clothes looked like they had not been changed in weeks, if that.
I decided that the best way to not communicate my revulsion at the situation was to be as forward as I could be. So I stepped past Charles and reached out my hand to John to say hello. The old man’s eyes widened in shock and he jerked himself away from me as violently as he could.
“Didn’t you tell him nuthin?” he yelled at Charles.
Charles had grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me back very forcibly. “No. I didn’t, John. I thought it would be best for him to hear the story from you.”
“Yeah, well lookit what nearly happen’d! Not very smart for a doc!”
Charles nodded, taking the man’s criticism and bad temper in stride. “Well, we are here now and you can tell Doctor Smith everything you think is worth telling.”
“What d’ya want to know?” he asked me, staring intently at my face.
“I’d like to know everything,” I replied. “If I am to help you, the more you can tell me, the better.”
“Ya can’t help me,” John said, spitting on the floor.
“Let Doctor Smith be the judge of that,” said Charles. “I have known him for over fifteen years now and have great confidence in him. I think he may be able to help you and, if not, he may be able to make your life easier than it is now.”
“He can’t do nuthin. No one can do nuthin,” was all John would say.
I was no longer very familiar with all of the diagnostic categories anymore, but I quickly began trying to identify John’s problem. My hunch was that it was some kind of psychosis, but I was not sure yet.
“Maybe not,” Charles answered smoothly, “but it won’t hurt to tell him your story, will it?”
“Nah, I guess not,” the old man replied.
I decided to sit down on the chair beside John. To get to it, I had to step past the old man. As I started to, he screamed at me again and Charles grabbed me and pulled me back one more time.
“Can’t I even sit down?” I demanded.
“Yes,” Charles replied firmly, “But you cannot touch John in any way.”
“I can’t what?” I asked.
“Can’t touch me,” John stated very, very seriously. The look in his eyes reminded me of when my father years ago wanted to be sure I knew that what he was saying had to be absolutely obeyed.
“Okay,” I relented, taking a seat further away from John. Charles sat on the edge of the bed so that neither of us was within five feet of him.
It was then that Charles turned to me and said, “I am sorry that I haven’t told you sooner. I was afraid that if I told you before getting here you would have refused to come in. You would have either been too afraid or convinced I was insane myself.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and asked, “Tell me what?”
Charles took a deep breath and said, “Everyone who touches John dies in some kind of tragic circumstance within a month.”
I stared at Charles, dumbfounded.
“On top of that,” Charles continued, “John, himself, is unable to die. He’s been trying for over sixty years and nothing works.”
The look on my face must have caused Dr. Thompson to fear that I would get up and leave immediately. “I know this sounds preposterous,” he said hurriedly to me, “but please hear us out before making a rash decision.”
I thought a moment about how utterly sane Charles had been all of the years we had been friends. It struck me that people could have a very specific, even shared, psychosis, but I didn’t know enough to make such a diagnosis. So I relented.
“Alright,” I said. “I will hear what you both have to say.”
“John,” said Charles, “Why don’t you tell Dr. Smith your story the same way you told me.”
John pulled himself up out of the chair and walked over to the dresser. On top of it were piles of papers. There were newspaper clippings, pornography, scrapbooks and all manner of loose papers piled there. Reaching into the stack, John yanked out an old, beaten scrapbook. Turning to the first page, he tossed it onto the bed beside me. I picked it up to look at it.
There, staring me in the face, was a postcard of a lynching in Mississippi. I had heard of such cards before. They were called death postcards and were popular in the early 1900’s. This particular card showed a group of white men standing in front of the corpse of a black man hanging from a tree.
“We took ‘im down an' stuffed his body in a suitcase a few hours later. I tossed it into tha river.”
I stared at John and then back at the postcard. It was hard for me to tell where to look, since both scenes captivated my attention. Looking back down at the card, I saw that the date printed on it was July 10, 1910 and the town listed was a small town in Mississippi. The card was quite worn and seemed very genuine.
“That’s me in the middle,” said John, waving his finger at the picture.
The men in the picture were all identified below. The one in the middle was labeled John Turner. I studied his face quite closely and then looked at John. The man on the card was much younger, of course, but he had the same eyes and chin. He certainly could have been John.
“But the man here looks to be about 40 years old!” I exclaimed. “That would make you 140 years old right now.”
“138, to be exact,” said Charles.
I stared at the doctor in disbelief.
“I’s born on a small farm in Mississippi in 1870. My daddy died in the Civil War and we lost all our slaves,” said John. “I’s so angry at black people that I helped lynch a dozen or ‘em or more. But it was this’un that changed my life!”
Suspending my disbelief for a moment, I asked, “What happened?”
“This black kid was caught looking at a white woman real funny like. You know what I mean. So, several of us went to his house that night and took ‘im away. We chained ‘im to a tree an' beat ‘im. Next morning, we hung ‘im from a tree in the city park.”
My look of horror did little to dissuade John as he warmed to his subject.
“I was the leader of the mob, an’ we let ‘is body sty up all day. ‘Bout dinner time, we held a rally an’ then cut ‘is body down. This picture was taken right before that. My friend, Jeb, had the postcards made an’ he gave me a bunch.”
“Once we cut ‘is body down, I stuffed it into an old trunk we had at home and hauled it to the river. Then me an’ two others heaved it in the water an’ went out drinking to celebrate. Later that night, as I was trying to walk home, I fell down on the ground. As I started to get up, an ol’ black woman came up to me. She stared straight into my eyes and I wanted to hit her for her insolence, but I was too drunk.”
“Looking at me, the woman said, ‘The angel of death is on your back and all you touch shall die. Because you are his donkey boy, he’ll never let you go.’”
John paused a moment while I looked back down at the postcard.
“I didn’t believe a word she said an’ I just went home and got to bed. Next day, my buddy, Earl, came by to see me. I hadn’t gone to work because I had been out so late that night. So earl came in and shook my hand an’ we talked for a while. I’d forgotten about the black woman’s words until earl left. He walked out my door and went to his car to leave. As he did, a branch fell off the tree out front and crushed his skull in.”
“See fer yerself,” John said. “Turn the page.”
I flipped a page in the scrapbook to see an old newspaper article, dated just two days after the lynching. It was a short article, but it confirmed everything that John had said to me. Of course, I thought, he could have just made up his story after collecting these materials.
“You could have made up this story after getting someone’s old scrapbook,” I commented harshly.
John cackled, showing several missing teeth, “That’s jus’ what the doc said when I met ‘im!”
Charles nodded his head in affirmation.
“Go ahead and flip through the next pages,” Charles encouraged me.
As I complied, I found that the bulk of the scrapbook was filled with page after page of gruesome death stories. Some were car accidents. Some were even murders. All were horrific in one way or another.
“And I take it that you touched all of these people?” I asked John.
“Nope. They touched me. After the first three people died, I quit touching nobody anymore.”
I looked closely at John. He seemed to really believe what he was telling me. So, for the next fifteen minutes, I quizzed him about what life had been like for him. I found that he correctly knew when different inventions had come into use and that his stories of iceboxes and outhouses and electricity all were entirely accurate. On top of that, he related all manner of details that only someone who lived at the time would have thought to mention.
Finally, I shook my head. I was getting a headache. Turning to Charles, I said, “I don’t get it. I can’t believe that John is 138 years old, but I also can’t explain how he knows so many precise details about life 120 years ago unless he lived then.
“I know,” said Charles. “I was hard to convince, too.” Motioning to the scrapbook again, he said, “Look at the one from 1963. That’s what convinced me.”
Turning to the page, I saw an article about a man named James Rayburn who had met an untimely death by being hit by a car in Buffalo, New York.
“He was my first doc,” said John. “He tried to help me, but he wasn’t too smart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doc Rayburn was convinced that I was wrong, so he decided to touch me an’ look what happened to ‘im.”
“I don’t believe that!” I exclaimed.
“Neither did I,” Dr. Thompson said, “until I read the next page.”
Turning the page in the scrapbook, I saw a hand-written note on a prescription pad. It was written by Dr. Rayburn and simply said the following:
Against my client’s wishes, I touched Mr. Turner when he had his back to me. I did it to prove that people who touch him do not die as a result. He has demanded that I write this note so that no one can blame him if I die in the next month. We have agreed that I can have the note back once he is proven wrong and I am still alive one month from today.
The note was signed by the doctor and dated the day of the accident. I looked over at Charles.
“The doctor died right after seeing John. He walked out of the hotel and was hit by a distracted river. Killed instantly when his head was crushed.”
I stared in disbelief at the two men.
“I know,” Charles continued. “It was hard for me to believe all this at first. If it wasn’t that I trusted Dr. Klingbell so much I would never have gotten involved.
The name Klingbell stuck with me. There had been a wing of the hospital named after him. Then I remembered. His picture was also in the oncology wing because he used to be the head of that department years ago.
“Do you mean the oncologist Klingbell?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Charles. “He was John’s doctor before me.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Either both of these men were crazy or this was the most elaborate practical joke I had ever seen . . . or they were telling the truth. I knew that Charles was not one who played jokes, so I did not see that as a reasonable option. Maybe they really were crazy.
“How do you survive?” I asked, looking at John.
“Oh, I sneak out at night and get cans an’ stuff outa the dumpsters. They got machines that give you cash fer cans, so I don’t have to see any people mosta the time.”
“What about food?” I pressed.
“Don’t eat much,” John replied. “I get most of it late at night at a convenience store. Sometimes, I ask Jimmy downstairs or the doc to go shopping fer me.”
“Has anyone touched you lately?”
John shifted uncomfortably.
Charles spoke up, “There was a, um, lady who offered her services to John a few months ago. He said no, but she grabbed his arm to persuade him to change his mind. She was murdered two days later.”
I flipped the scrapbook to the last used page. There was a newspaper article describing the vicious attack and murder. As I looked at it, I remembered hearing about the murder for days on the news.
I shook my head.
“What about social security?”
“Never got any. Besides, they wouldn’t believe my age.”
“So, what do you do all day?”
“I stay in here and watch TV and sleep. At night, I go out looking for stuff on the streets. That’s how I get all the stuff I own.”
I looked around the room and nodded. That explained why the place looked and smelled like an orderly dumpster.
“I’m still not convinced,” I said to Dr. Thompson.
“I know,” Charles responded. “It is very hard to believe.”
“Let’s just assume all of this is true, what have you both tried?”
“Well,” said Charles, “Dr. Rayburn’s example was enough to convince me not to try to disprove John’s story that way. Instead, he and I have tried to come up with some way that he could die.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked John.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I seen too much of life an’ my life is miserable. I jus’ want it to end.”
“What have you tried?”
Charles spoke up, “I’ve tried poison, medication overdoses and even induced a heart attack. All that happened is that John got really sick, but never died. I gave him fives times the lethal dose of three different medications and it did no good. All that happens is that John suffers a lot, but he recovers.”
“An’ I once cut my wrists,” John added. “I bled an’ passed out, but when it was all over, I was still alive.”
“Well, if there have been doctors working with John for over 50 years, I doubt that I will be able to do much.”
“I know,” Charles replied. “When I took on caring for John it was more of a favor to Dr. Klingbell than it was to help John. I suspect the same will be true for you. All you have to do is come by once every few weeks and see what John needs. That’s it.”
I paused for a long time. Finally, I said, “Let me think about it for a few days, but I think I will help out if I can.”
Walking back to my car, I said very little to Dr. Thompson. There was too much swirling around in my head to put any coherent sentences together. I suppose that I was very distracted as a result. Certainly I blame myself for not noticing what was happening soon enough to stop it.
When we got to the car, four thugs who had apparently been following us came up and demanded our money. Two of them had knives and one had a gun. What happened next is still a blur in my mind, but the end result was that Charles and I both handed over to them our wallets, car keys and other valuables. Once that was done, the muggers quickly dispersed, thankfully not harming either one of us.
Sweat was pouring down my face as the muggers left. I turned to Charles, only to see that he was responding the same way. I assumed that he was merely responding to the stress and adrenaline of the moment. It did not occur to me for a few minutes that he was having a heart attack. Once I realized it, I tried to drag Charles back into the hotel and put him in a seat in the lobby.
“Call an ambulance!” I cried out to Jimmy who was still sitting behind the desk.
I turned to Charles. He was still conscious, but he was very short of breath and seemed to be in pain. His lips were turning purple.
“Tell them to hurry!” I yelled. Jimmy was fumbling with the phone, trying to get the emergency operator to understand him.
Charles tugged at my sleeve. “I am dying,” he whispered to me and closed his eyes. He was still breathing, but I was sure he would stop soon.
I knew it would be a few minutes until the ambulance arrived. I moved Charles onto the floor and got ready for when I needed to start chest compressions. Then, a thought entered into my head and compelled me away.
“Watch Dr. Thompson!” I ordered Jimmy. “I’ll be right back!”
I ran up the three flights of stairs and pounded on John’s door.
“What d’ya want?”
“It’s Doctor Smith! You have to come with me immediately! Doctor Thompson is dying!”
John opened the door within seconds.
“Hurry! Follow me!”
The two of us ran down the stairs to the lobby. By now, there were a couple of people gathered around Dr. Thompson.
“Get back!” I ordered.
Charles was still breathing, but just barely. He managed to open his eyes for just a moment. I told John to kneel on the floor on the other side of Charles.
“Stay right there and don’t touch him!” I demanded.
I put my ear to Charles’ mouth to sense his breath and felt for his pulse. It was very weak. Then, in the next few seconds, his breathing and heart beat both stopped.
“John! Put your hands on his heart!”
The old man looked at me in fear.
“Do it!”
John reached out and put both hands on Charles’ chest. In the next moment, he convulsed slightly as his chest heaved. Then, a smile slowly spread across his face.
“Thank you, doc,” John said as his eyes closed and collapsed on the floor beside Charles.
I bent over to check Charles and found that he had a slight pulse and was breathing again on his own. Reaching over to John, I confirmed that his pulse and breathing had both stopped.
“Call another ambulance!” I said to Jimmy.
When the first ambulance arrived, they confirmed that John was dead and took Dr. Thompson to the hospital right away. The second ambulance took John’s body away. I stayed behind to talk to the police about the robbery and called my wife to come bring me a new set of car keys.
Waiting in the lobby, I thought about the night’s events. All I could conclude was that John had cheated death, not by living, but by finally dying.
(c) 2010, Kevin H. Grenier
