You Damned Fool.

He stuck his thumb out again, hoping the next car wouldn't whiz past, and stop to give an old man a lift.
But it whizzed past.
Marty clutched his chest.
This wasn't going so well.

Every week, he'd take the money his wife left for the fruit-seller. She hated it. She'd scream her lungs out when he came back and they wouldn't talk for days, not even at dinner, not even when he hugged her to sleep. Every single time. Same old story. Marty didn't want that for her anymore.
And somehow, he chose this day to change his way.
Penniless, he couldn't even take a cab back.
He wiped the sweat of his brow, squeezed the fist holding on to his little paper bag, and resumed clutching his chest and trying to catch his breath.
Not even a cab would stop for him, and what was the point? He couldn't pay for the damned thing anyway.

He sat down on a green rusty looking bench, breathing heavily.
Marty, you fool. You penniless fool.
He took out a piece of paper and a pen he often carried from his pant pocket.
He scribbled something hurriedly, tucked it into his pocket and closed his eyes.
The wheezing had begun, and along with it came the real heartburn.
He didn't want to scare off the people sitting at the nearby bus-stop, so he took out an apple from the lunch bag and bit a sizeable bite.
That should keep you quiet, Marty.
Marty, you stupid man, why didn't you take your cell phone?
Marty, why did you leave that money there?
Why did you do it today, Marty, why?
No cabs, no cars, no bus in sight, Marty.
Marty, what are you going to do?

Marty never made it off that bench that morning.
But there was a note tucked away into his pocket that did.
It reached his wife.
She never had to scream at anyone ever again.

Marty Was Here.