Shooting on Broome Street

A man on his deathbed comes to an alarming discovery when he thinks back on his life.

Shooting on Broome Street

"Where life flashes before your eyes."

  I’m lying in a hospital bed in Brooklyn, New York City. The machines that are bleeping next to me are the only sound in my room. It’s hard for me to think straight with these despicable noises around me, especially at my age; I’m ninety-seven years old, and nearing the last station I’ll ever get to - set to venture alone into the void. The fact that I know it doesn’t make me a wise man, no. On the contrary, over the past year I’ve felt the life gently retreating from my body - the life I’ve put so much effort into throughout my brief time on this orb. And it just drifts away, as if it were a caught fish that had died on a bare shore after capture, then thrown back into the sea without any sole purpose.

                Had my life any purpose? The question appeared to me as a shock. Weeks, maybe even days away from my end, and just now the question comes to me. And as always I come back around the topic of missing something when you’ve already lost it, or when you’re about to lose it, in my particular instance. For me, the premonition comes swiftly, that in an early stage, I would already be reliving my whole life. From birth to present, I’d overcome all obstacles again. So long ago, I’d hoped for a hero’s death, but now, that dream has come to past.

                It was the Zero’s I’d been born, in the Tens I’d lived my childhood and in the Twenties I’d come to love only one thing; fighting crime was all I ever did - the pursuit of justice. A golden badge, a baton and a steel revolver at my side. The Twenties were fair and clean, as were the Thirties, but by the time the war around the world raged it seemed to grow darker and only more wicked. The five families of New York grew stronger, and alleys became stages of unjustified crimes against the city. I recall closely - I remember the dusty golden-brown streets as if it were the Nineties. I remember Jimmy. I remember the whole lot of trouble I got into. But most of all, I remember Broome Street.
                “Miles! Get in the car! We got a call from the station!” Jimmy yelled at me out of the stationary police car along Thompson Street, Lower Manhattan.
                “Coming, coming!” I posted the letter to my ma quickly and jumped back into the car. “Where to, Jimmy? Where?!” I shouted.
                “A shooting on Broome Street, a few blocks down,” Jimmy’s accent was fiercely New Yorker.
                I firmly pushed the gas pedal and speeded away, took a right with screeching tires, drove over some junctions as the police siren wailed loud and annoying. Then a hard left onto Broome Street where the scene immediately became clear. It hadn’t been a stealthy operation, that’s for sure. A man in a long beige jacket, covered in spots of blood lay in the middle of the streets where everybody had ran - the street abandoned by the alarming sounds of gunfire, I assumed.
                “Jimmy, get out! I’m going around the block to search,” I commanded. Jimmy was a young fellow, but brighter than your average recruit just fresh out of the academy. As the police car slowed down, so did the police siren until the sound disappeared. Jimmy jumped out and I started to drive again, my gaze upon the countless alleys in the street - looking for anything suspicious at all. I took a left - I presumed probable suspects would avoid Downtown New York, where the streets would be colored blue with police uniforms.
                About a minute later I spotted three individuals to my left, all wearing dark colored hats, dark long jackets and all striking the walks I knew so closely already; the walk of a man either too pleased with himself or a man who needs one to hide his true identity. I sped the car over the opposite side of the road and onto the sidewalk where the car came to a sudden halt. With my revolver in my hand I opened the driver’s door and took cover behind it, pointing the gun at the men who were already aware of my presence.
                “Stop! Police!” I shouted through the whole of Green Street, and suddenly I felt lonely, maybe I felt even stupid as I looked straight into the eyes of these murderous individuals, each holding a Thompson machine gun at their side. Bullets started to rain past me and I froze. I couldn’t do anything. A bullet struck my leg as it was exposed to the rain of fire - I screamed loudly, but the gunfire was as a brightly lit flare on the New York City skyline, and reinforcements came rushing to my position. All together, the shootout didn’t last long as the subjects had fled.

                “Miles, honey? Are you okay?” Kate had asked me when I got home. “I heard what happened from Uncle Tommy,” she put her warm hands on my winter-cold cheeks and her eyes looked merely upset.
                “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I’d thrown her a genuine smile. I was so glad to be home. I was glad to see the woman I’d loved for years. I felt relieved I was still alive to stroke her face. I was glad to sit down at the dinner table as she’d made me my favorite dish - Manhattan clam chowder. She thought I could use some after a day like this, and right she was, as she was always.
                “How’s your leg?” Kate had asked me as I’d started on my meal.
                “It’s nothing, just a flesh-wound,” I’d said. There was nothing more to it. A bullet had struck the flesh and within a week I would be running around like a kid just free out of Kindergarten.
                “Please be careful, Miles.”
                “Honey, I always am careful.”

                But as heroic as this story might sound, I was never remembered. The sheer wound in my leg was never recalled after that dish of Manhattan clam chowder. The story hadn’t been brought up around the station at all and I surely wasn’t the one to bright it up, no. Just a few weeks ago I’d looked into the newspaper, anno 2003; a front page article celebrated the life of a chicken that was saved from a pond by a teenager. ‘Heroism’ was stamped all over the paper, but I can’t recall a front page news article about that fateful shooting on Broome Street, so many years ago. I remember ransacking the whole newspaper the day after, and only found an article the size of a pack of Lucky Strikes on page twenty-two of The Sun. You could say I still felt great then, genuinely, but there was this unsatisfied craving I kept in the back of my head until this very day.
               
                The nurse comes back into the room. Her name was Sabrina and was Latina. “Good day to you, Sir. How are we feeling today?” She did my daily check-ups and had the most lovely smile - one that could keep a person alive. Still there was this craving, this doubt I had in general.
                “Nurse?”
                “Yes, Sir?”
                “Can you remember my name?” I ask her and her eyes struck the floor. She ignores my question, walks around my bed, ending up at the clipboard that was hanging near my feet and gives it a good look.
                “Mister Miller, have you taken your medication today?”
                “Yes,” I reply short and truly.
                “Good to hear, Sir,” she throws another gorgeous smile at me, yet it feels different now. She leaves the room.
                And I am alone again.
                The beeps go on and on. The void is so great, yet the deed so forgotten. And I remember that night in Lower Manhattan - the shooting on Broome Street. And I suddenly feel that moment to be the right time to die; where there was only heroism and no ignorance. Everything was so perfectly clear, yet so concealed within the borders of that fateful street. And I would have been remembered. I would have been remembered, if I were to die that night. Because isn’t that what we all want at the end of our days? Simply to be remembered? I would have been the Broome Street martyr forever, or at least for a century. And the martyr should be memorized, lest he dies in vain. Yet in the end, we just all die in vain. It is all about the seconds - the last countdown to the most final climax of your life; the moment where you decide whether you’re satisfied, or miserably hoping for a better death.
                And I look around the void of my hospital room. My dear Kate, who has already been above me since ’84, couldn’t be here. The rest of my family, who moved far away, couldn’t be here. Sabrina, the smiling nurse, she couldn’t be here. Nobody could just be here! And right now I wish for somebody - anybody, but I know it’s pointless. And a tear rushes down my winter-cold cheeks as I watch the sterile white room around me fade to utter white - the details elude me now. And there isn’t a trace of purpose left for me to chase, but only oblivion.

Author's Note

Please feel free to give a review! Anything goes, really.

Reviews

[jjwilbourne]

This is a really great story.
When the nurse comes in the room, I wondered if it should be present tense there. Perhaps it shouldn't be, but it threw me because I thought you were back in the present.
The dropped 'g' is a weird thing to focus on when referring to the new York accent, I think. A lot of accents drop the 'g.'
I had the feels. I feel like he was a bit jealous of the kid who got a full article for something perhaps trivial. I'd probably feel the same.
Excellent work.

[Mason Red]

Thanks. These are some good notes. When I find the time I'll and see if can do something with it. Cheers.

[M. L. F.]

Vincent, this is such a great story. I see why you won the short comp with it! I really enjoyed this. And the fact that English is a second language for you makes this write all the more impressive to me... Thank you for sharing it with us... :)
..Misty *Franchello*

[Riley Justine]

Impressive! I really like this story. The emotions are really strong. You're an amazing writer, darlin'.

[Jennie Baron]

A great effort, even though you may have learned much since it was written, and even though it's your first post here. The nature of heroism and the people we choose to make heroes are strange facts of human nature, and this explores those questions brilliantly. It is certainly deserving of the contest win!

I hope to delve into some more of your work. I'm sure it's a great addition to the Cafe. One small thing; faithful s/b fateful.

[Mason Red]

Thanks for the kind words and mentioning the error. I haven't spotted it despite a lot of checking and editing. I'll look it up!

[Not here]

woah. great job! awesome story!

[Mila]

Congratulations on winning The February Short Story contest! It was well earned!

-Mila

[Lizardo]

It's really good, I love the mistery around it and all.
I enjoyed reading, I have read your work and I can see that you're an awesome story teller
Great piece of work you have here :)

[Workvio]

My old meandering Texas mind takes note that you are a fan of the short dash, perhaps the long dash that this site's robot fails to recognize, forcing me to go through every story or article I post and replace the long dashes with two short dashes ... This says we something in common, because I love to use dashes, though I have never been dashing in appearance ... I learned my dashing trade from the late author John Brunner, author of Stand On Zanzibar and The Jagged Orbit, though my favorite of all his books (yes I read them everyone) was The Long Result ... I read all the old Sci-Fi greats, and for an author who was lesser known, he was by far one the finest writers and story tellers I have ever read ... You style is similar to his, though more youthful ... Having shared this, you are an anomaly in that very few youth of this day and age take such a detailed and respectful interest in past events of any kind, whether they be majorly historical, or just the past life of some poor average Joe ... My hat is off to you for daring to be different, to take an interest in things most would consider humdrum and turn such events into a very touching, thought provoking, and heart warming little story ... Unlike the majority of today's youth (youth of any era in time, for I was young once myself, but old things always have interested me and I loved hanging around old folks and listening to their tales) you have found a way to relate, and to attempt to understand the concept that old age awaits us, as does death, if we should be so lucky to live that long in seeing it and arriving at it ... Bravo, and I tip my hat again ... Notice, I wear no hat, so this is a Texas complimentary expression only? ... Lastly, (Hat's off again in wearing the damn thing out, tattered now and nothin' but a worn brim left from tippin') you have an excellent grasp of the reality (most youth just don't have that & even I lacked some of the when young) that, not only are we all going to arrive at old age but, we are all going to die, and when that day comes an evaluation of what our life has been, merit wise and value wise, does take place, and the greatest fear anyone has in dying (besides dying itself) is to have lived to not be remembered--forgotten as though we had never lived at all ... To meet such an end is the ultimate form of nonexistence, for if we are remembered (not everyone is famous and gets into the history books) by someone, family, friends, etc., we continue to live on in their memories for as long as someone who knew us, or knew of us, walks this earth in remembering us and sharing our life upon this earth with others ... In the end, even they, too, shall pass on, and we all shall be relegated to nonexistence as generic grains within the shifting sands of time immemorial ... Needless to say, this is a good story, or else I would have gotten around to telling you by now, somehow, someway, cause I say what I mean and I mean what I say ... Call it the Texas way, for I know no other ...

[Mason Red]

Thanks for reading. And wow, thanks for the feedback! I am indeed a fan of the long dash, and I too have noticed how the site's editor replaces it with " and when posting I have to change everything to a short dash, haha. I try to balance it out now, though. I feel like I've been over-using it while I was writing this story.

I'll look at the author's you named. It sounds interesting to compare styles. I don't feel like I've found my style and to be honest, I don't think I ever will. I can only try to find it as best as I can and I think this might help me.

I'm glad you liked the story, and it gives me strength to glue myself to my chair once again and get to work. I would tip my hat too, because of that, but I only wear beanies when it comes to hats -- I guess I'd just have to lift it.

[Ms.BMH]

I really enjoyed this piece, and it's somewhat bitter tone. The nature of heroism and martyrdom isn't something often questioned in this way, so it was really a refreshing read that posed interesting questions. Thanks for sharing, and I hope to see more soon!