Long Distance

From far away, Art heard a woman screaming, terrified, but so faint he thought they must be several blocks away. The screams continued, calling him, anyone, to help. He wondered what to do… Call the cops? Run to her aid? The screams continued as if from another world, then stopped.

He sat up in bed, sweating. He looked at his wife, Sheila, sleeping peacefully. Maybe the screams had been in his head, triggered by the videos he had seen on the web—riots in the big cities, buildings burning, people being dragged from their cars, cops being assaulted and run off. Some politicians blamed the police and praised the rioters. The country seemed to have descended into a violent hell.

Art tried to get back to sleep. Then the screams came again. Then a horn started honking in the distance, over and over, calling. Oh, God, Art thought, this is real! What should I do? I'm not dressed, and by the time I get dressed and go out...

Art got out of bed. “Jesus,” he said, as he put on his slacks and shirt. He went into the living room. The screaming and honking continued from afar. He put his phone in his shirt pocket. He leaned down to put on his shoes. His phone slipped out of his pocket. He picked it off the floor and punched 911.

“Fifth District,” said the calm voice at the other end, “Sergeant Hernandez speaking.”

“There's a woman screaming. It sounds like they're killing her. You got to get over there!”

“Okay, sir, what is your name and address?”

Art could not believe the calm in the man's voice, as if he had called to report a stolen bicycle. “You don't understand,” he said, “they're killing her!”

“Okay, sir, calm down. First, tell us where you're calling from.”

“Don't worry about where I am,” said Art. “For Christ's sake! The screams are coming from up near the People’s Park. Probably around Pine Boulevard and Twenty-Fifth. Hurry!”

Art closed the call and lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. He took a puff. The sound was gone now. They had been faint and far away, but now they were gone.

Art decided to look around. He took the elevator down and went out into the hot, humid night. The streets were deserted. He lit another cigarette. The traffic light at Pine clicked loudly, turning yellow, then red. He went out to the center of the street and searched the distance. Nothing! No sirens, no flashing lights, nothing!

He walked back to the apartment building. It had to have been a dream, he reasoned. He thought about the pills the doctor had prescribed for him. All the violence, neighborhoods burning, people being shot boldly on the streets, sometimes in broad daylight. It had depressed him. He worried about keeping Sheila and himself safe. But the doctor told him he was blowing things out of proportion. He had prescribed an antidepressant for him.

The next day after work, Art entered the apartment to find Sheila watching the news on the TV. He told her about the screams, that they might have been a dream, and his call to the police.

“C’mon, Art,” she said with a scolding tone, “It was a dream. I didn't hear a damn thing and I sleep lighter than you.”

On the TV screen, a young Hispanic woman approached a podium to speak.

“Let’s listen,” said Sheila.

“Why?” said Art. “That’s Celestina DeLoria. She’s been pushing a lot of this defund the police stuff…”

“Oh, c’mon, Art.”

“Congresswoman,” a news reporter asked, “we keep getting reports of violent crime across the country… Your response?”

“Well,” said Congresswoman Ortiz, “in all the reports I’m getting, violent crime is trending downward…”

“See,” said Sheila, “she’s on the committee. She should know.”

“But…” said Art before getting interrupted by the Congresswoman.

“I think it’s important to put it in context,” said Congresswoman Ortiz. “This so-called crime surge is hysteria, manufactured by conservative politicians and their allies in right-wing media.”

“How can you believe that?” Art asked in exasperation.

“And how come you make everything about politics…”

“You mean she’s not being political?”

Sheila ignored him, and he let it go. He loved Sheila, and they rarely argued, except when it came to politics.

A commercial came on. Sheila turned in the recliner and gave him a smile. “You shouldn’t pay so much attention to the internet. All that crime porn is getting to you.”

Art frowned. “Yeah, whatever.” He thought again of the woman’s screams. He wanted to believe it had all been a dream and no woman had been violated as horribly as the screams suggested. But what if it hadn’t been? He felt guilty about his initial hesitation in going to the woman's aid. After all, if that had been Sheila out there…

That evening Art searched the internet for news of any rapes or muggings in the Peoples’ Park area. Nothing. He clicked on the local neighborhood watch site, but it was not working. The local TV channel had no news of any crime committed the night before, close enough for him to have heard the screams. That made him feel better.

When the invitation came from the Turners a month later, Art had completely forgotten about the dream. The Turners knew how to throw a party, and he and Sheila had enjoyed themselves. Now it was three in the morning, hot and humid. The streets were deserted as they drove home, the tires hissing on the warm asphalt of Pine Boulevard. Art felt a glow from the drinking and happy talk at the party. He glanced at Sheila as she slept peacefully. Suddenly, the car veered to the right as if an invisible hand had grabbed the steering wheel.

Art gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, struggling against… what? The car wobbled as it slowed, and he realized it was a blowout.

“Damn,” he said quietly to himself. He pulled the car over in front of a darkened abandoned factory of some kind. Here and there tall weeds and scraggly trees grew out of chinks in the brickwork and the windows were covered with sheet tin. He looked out at the deserted streets. They were only about a mile from where the police protest rally had been the night before. It was because of the latest police shooting. He didn’t know the shooter’s name, and it seemed like there was an endless stream of them. “Of all the lousy places to get a flat!” he muttered.

Sheila woke. She looked out the window. “Why did you stop here?”

“A blowout. Two lousy miles from home and we get a blowout!” He opened the door and got out. “Don't bother getting out, honey. I'll have it fixed in ten minutes.” He opened the trunk and removed the jack and handle.

A match flared in the car, illuminating Sheila's face. She blew it out. “Call the garage. They’ll come out.”

“I didn’t bring my cell. You know how it’s always falling out of my shirt pocket.”

“I’ll call them,” Sheila said in annoyance. After a minute, she said, “Honey, my phone isn’t working. Not enough bars here.” The ember of her cigarette brightened in the darkened car as she drew on it. “Maybe we could walk the rest of the way and have the garage pick up the car in the morning.”

“Are you crazy?” said Art. “Walk two miles through these deserted streets? The car probably would be gone by morning or vandalized. You know there’s an encampment of protestors a mile away, right? There’s been a lot of vandalism and theft.”

“Right,” said Sheila, “here we go with the crime porn again.”

Art ignored her comment as he pried the hubcap loose. It clattered onto the blacktop, shattering the quiet stillness. He loosened the lug nuts and positioned the jack under the bumper. He started raising the car, cursing quietly at the loud clacking sound it made.

---

Three blocks away in People’s Park, Donald Fenton crawled out of his girlfriend's tent in the homeless encampment. The palm of his hand tingled from the slap he’d given her. He stood for a moment, listening to her sobbing inside. He took his cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. Finding it empty, he balled it up and tossed it into the street. There was a convenience store a mile away. He started walking. Ten minutes later, he heard a noise in the distance—a repetitive clacking sound. He continued walking, following the sound like a shark homing in on an injured fish in a black night sea. The sound stopped as he reached Pine Boulevard. He spotted a car a couple of blocks away and a lone figure squatting beside it. Time to get paid, he thought.

Art saw the man a block away, coming down the deserted pavement. He started working faster. By the time he had the tire off, the man was standing beside him. He was young and buff, with biceps bulging out his short-sleeve shirt.

“You gotta spare cigarette?” the man said.

“Nope, no spares,” said Art, hoping the man would keep walking.

The man saw the cigarette pack in Art's pocket. “What's that in your pocket, then?”

Art kept his face impassive. You couldn’t show these guys any weakness. If you did, they wouldn’t leave you alone. “None of your business,” he said. He laid the wheel down and got to his feet.

The man scowled. “I ain't askin' you, man. Gimme a cigarette.”

Art turned to face him. The hatred in the man's face unnerved him.

“Give him a cigarette, Art,” said Sheila with feigned friendliness from the car. “You have another pack in the glove compartment.”

Art pulled a cigarette out and handed it to the man. “Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do.” Art tried to keep the growing fear out of his voice. He prayed that the media and Sheila, Congresswoman DeLoria, and his psychologist were all right, and that there was no breakdown in society, and that it was all a right-wing conspiracy theory just to get votes. But he could hardly get his breath. He lifted the spare out of the trunk and wheeled it around to the jacked-up side of the car.

The man blocked his way. “Gimme a light.”

Art swallowed. He lit the man's cigarette, avoiding the glaring, hate-filled eyes.

“Now gimme your wallet,” said the man.

Art glanced anxiously down the boulevard; it was deserted.

Sheila’s voice came from inside the car, “Leave us alone. We gave you your cigarette, now leave us alone.”

Art tried to push past the man, but the man grabbed him around the neck, throwing him onto the street. Art grunted as his knee exploded in pain.

“Stop it,” cried Sheila. “Stop! You can have our money, just leave us alone!”

The man straddled Art's back and ripped his pants pocket out to get his wallet. Art reached around sideways and found the jack handle. He swung it up awkwardly, striking a glancing blow to the man's shoulder.

Cursing violently, the man grabbed the jack handle. Art struggled to hold onto it, but the man wrenched it out of his hand. He swung it, hitting Art in the head. Art tasted warm, salty blood on his lips. From far away, he heard a woman scream in terror. Over and over came the screams, high-pitched, terrified, but faint, so faint that he thought they must be in his head.

Then a horn started honking, over and over, insistent, calling him, someone, anyone, to help. He wondered what to do… Call the cops? Run to her aid? The horrified screams and the honking continued from far away, almost, it seemed, from another world.

The man struck Art's head one last, savage blow, and the screams stopped.