Drenched in Remorse

Rain pummels the dark, cold streets, as a man of small stature hails a cab on a Friday night after his Wall Street office hours. He’s one whistle short of three cars that other passengers intercept. With his usual limo driver under the weather, Dyson is at the mercy of the common taxi service.

Raindrops dampen the finely tailored suit beneath his soaked cashmere overcoat. This wells up the need for selfish action. Dyson shoves an elderly woman clutching grocery bags into a puddle. His mind racing with distracting thoughts, he slides into the backseat of a yellow cab and commands the driver to move on.

From a humanitarian perspective, Dyson’s actions are as cold as the winter breeze whistling through an air gap preventing fog on the taxi window. To the cabbie, the selfish chill is typical New York attitude.

    “Where to?” the street-wise driver shouts while splicing into heavy traffic, splashing water on unsuspecting pedestrians.

Dyson pauses as the answer to such a simple location question takes on much broader implications. He then gets lost within a mental monologue.

“I could go home to work on reports for a Monday morning meeting. That’s typical of past evenings.”

“I could head to a club for drinks, and maybe get lucky.”

He silences an incoming phone call from a disgruntled client, upset about losses from financial investments. Dyson next begins scrolling through his phone contacts of females. Each name conjures up a familiar experience — clandestine luxury hotel rendezvous with morning admissions of his insincere regret.

“Love them and leave them has worked so far. But on a rainy night, should lightening strike twice for one particular brunette?”

Then Dyson realizes there’s no need to change his routine.

“It’s rare that I get off from work this early. This is the perfect opportunity to surprise redhead Robin with the key she gave me at work a month ago. She views her favors as a path to corporate advancement, but I’ve made no promises.”

The money meter clicking on the cab dashboard syncopates with the rhythmic windshield wiper blades as the driver weaves through traffic.

    “Hey buddy, have ya figured out where ya headin’?” the driver inquires without a response.

“It’s been a while since I’ve spent quality time with my kids,” Dyson recalls while looking at their photos on his phone. “My nanny has taken over meaningful parental obligations.

“The last time we went on vacation as a family was when the children were in grade school. Now the oldest is comparing college catalogues.”

A news notification pops up on Dyson’s phone about an elderly woman in serious condition after being shoved to the ground by a heartless assailant. Police are looking for the dapper suspect caught on camera video by witnesses.

Dyson’s trembling finger hovers over the video play button before a pothole jolts the audible news headline. To prevent the driver from hearing the entire video, he anxiously scrambles for the phone dropped between his feet. Thunderous consequences for senseless violence soak his conscience as he considers the merits of his material achievements.

“What’s the value of my opulent living if I’m charged with assault, or worse? Will my wife and children become character witnesses for a philandering husband?

“To achieve selfish goals, I stepped over that woman like I’ve done with every man in a suit, as a rung on a corporate ladder. I discarded her, just like all the women in skirts who thought I owed them more than haute cuisine and a good time.

“I can electronically transfer enough funds on the way to the airport and flee the country. Starting a new life in Europe will be best for all concerned.”

    As Dyson taps on the plexiglass barrier to indicate his desired destination, the cabbie announces, “We’re already here.”

    The passenger door opens with a gust of wind enveloping Dyson. A burly voice requests, “Sir, could you please step out of the vehicle and show us some identification?”

Dyson exits, standing before a silhouette that overshadows the police station looming behind him. Officers make a visual confirmation of the man who assaulted the woman.

    “Please turn around and place your face on the hood of the vehicle.”

Raindrops pummel Dyson’s quivering head, his costly garments soaked and ruined. The faint words of Miranda rights echo in the background as cold metal shackles tighten around his pale wrists. After photographing and fingerprinting, Dyson ponders who he should contact for his one phone call. Instead of his attorney, he phones his wife, Bethany.

“Honey, you haven’t heard me say I love you nearly enough. I also love the children and want to become a much better husband and father.”

    “Dyson, what’s wrong?”

“I’m at the police station and need you to do two things. First, call my attorney to get me out of here. And second, go to the hospital to find out the status of the elderly woman on this evening’s news.”

    “I don’t understand,” she responds.

“The situation will become clearer after watching the news. Everything will be fine though. We’ll get through this if we stick together.”

Bethany learns the elderly woman has contusions and a broken wrist, but should make a full recovery. Dyson’s attorney posts bail the same evening. A reforming callous-hearted man directs his lawyer to pay the medical bills. He then authorizes a sufficient stipend for the injured woman to enjoy a comfortable retirement.

Over the gloomy weekend, Dyson takes his wife to her favorite restaurant. Across the room, Robin, obsessively following, tussles her flaming red locks of hair and raises an eyebrow. He discards an intrusive text message from her asking if he’s there to sever his marriage.

With determination, Dyson ushers Bethany into a private back room. Across the table from a tearful face of disappointment, he confesses his stormy indiscretions. His tender lips soak up the dew of anguish on Bethany’s cheek.

“I will no longer step on the necks of underlings to assert superiority. The fear of losing meaningful life with the people who matter most has transformed me. I vow to saturate blossoms of forgiveness with compassion and love.”

The stark consequences of narcissism pierce through the dark clouds obscuring his marital relationship. Upon departure, Dyson places Robin’s apartment key on her restaurant table.

Early Monday morning, the limo driver is still sick. Bethany stands at the front door, asking if Dyson will take a cab to work.

“No,” he responds, while popping open his umbrella. “It looks like a great day for a walk.”