From the Journal of Jeremy Goldsmith
As my last hours pass, I choose to spend this time to reminisce and reflect my life, but not to reflect the glorious legacy I leave to the world, but the events that landed me in this infernal solitary confinement. I chose to think about Jessica Westwood.
It was a warm, bright, sunny day in Scottsdale, Arizona. I was sued for malpractice during a tracheotomy two days prior. “You would think drawing on a colleague during the operation would be funny, right?” I thought. I guess I was wrong, Joe Mach didn’t find it that amusing. I was sued for one hundred and forty-thousand dollars. I hired the “best” lawyer around. He cost me another fifty grand.
“Sorry it did not work out, Jeremy, but on the bright side, you get this free pen.” Said James Cohen, the biggest swindle I’d ever met.
I was sixty-four years old at the time, and ten months from retirement. My 41K was all set up, but now my house was mortgaged, and I owed sixty thousand in taxes. I only had twenty thousand dollars. I was depressed and suicidal, and if it wasn’t for my trip to the Irish pub on Washington and 4th, I was a goner.
I walked into the pub; the potent smell of whiskey filled the air. I pulled up a stool in the corner, while all of the University of Arizona boys were huddled around the television watching the game against USC.
“Give me a scotch.” I told the bartender in a casual voice
“You got cash?” he scolded
“Of course I do!” I spat at him
I went through about six rounds, drunk as a pig, when she walked through the door. Her hair was as dirty as a wet dog running through the mud. Her facial features were so rough, yet there was something oddly attractive about them
“Do you mind if I pull up a seat?” she asked.
I was flabbergasted, as someone as attractive as her would want to talk to an old, worthless man like me.
“Sure,” I replied, “but why aren’t you flirting with those college boys?”
“Those guys?” she asked, “they are pigs.”
“Oh. May I buy you a drink?” I asked. I felt like a juvenile picking up some girls, bringing the catch to the dorm, to share the wealth with some roommates.
She accepted my generous offer, and we began talking.
“What’s your name?” she asked very politely
“Jeremy Goldsmith. And you?” I replied
“Jessica. Jessica Westwood.” There was an awkward pause “So how old are you, exactly?” she asked.
“Sixty-four years old. Now are you ready to leave?”
“No, you’re sweet.” she replied.
I asked her age, but then a touchdown was scored against Arizona, curses were flying, and glasses were breaking. The conversation led on.
“Do you have a wife?” she asked
“I’m a widow. There was a car accident, we were both in it, I survived…” and led off. I began bawling. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t hold it in. I have not mentioned Lilly in years.
“I’m so sorry. It’s ok.” Was all she could say. Her response came with a sound of indifference
“Listen, it’s ok, but I have been alone for so long, would you care to grab some dinner on Friday?” I asked
“Yes!” she responded with a twinkle in her eye. “I’d love to!”
I left the bar without another word, ecstatic. I bolted home and began doing my taxes, with no despair, her voice running through my head. Maybe things were taking a turn for the better.
Our first date went extraordinarily. We went to the Italian restaurant off of the 101 freeway. I think Jessica was the first person to find my pathetic excuse for humor funny. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone. Well, anyone except for Lilly. Haunting memories of that accident still harass my mind to this day.
We were together for seven months before I decided to propose to her. It was at that same pub where we met. We were enjoying a relaxing Tuesday evening. I inhaled greatly, stood up and began reciting words I had had practiced a thousand times before in preparation for this moment.
“Jessica, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?” I asked. I was on one knee at this point, with a twelve hundred dollar ring in hand.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “But, there is something you should know about me first.”
Before she could spill it out, the bartender came with a piece of cake he rustled up. I told him about the proposal weeks prior.
I never did found out, not until the police decided to get involved.
On a cool fall day, there was a knock on the door.
“Police, open up!” a man with a deep voice boomed
I opened the door, wondering what this could be about. I was then informed of what Jessica had tried to tell me during the proposal; she was the notorious bank robber, Rachel Thomas under the false identity of Jessica Westwood.
I was arrested at 4:32 P.M. on Tuesday, November 16th, 2016 for being the accused accomplice of a criminal.
I sit in this institution writing this down to be told to generations to come, with the hopes that future generations don’t make the same mistake I made, and out of revulsion to Jessica for ruining my life, as if it weren’t bad enough. I guess she did give me a few more years of life, but not the life one would want to live. To those whom read this, I have one thing I must share with you…
