Late One Night in the City. Adult, Violence. (standard:action, 2109 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1131/796	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A white businessman is stranded late at night in a violent inner-city neighborhood.

As a computer consultant, I've just signed an important contract.  Since
my favorite bar is on the way home, I stop in for a drink with some 
buddies.  Before I leave the car, I call my wife, to find she isn't 
home.  Slipping the blackberry phone into a coat pocket, I get out and 
make my way to the lounge. 

One drink leads to several.  Two more calls home, and Janice is still
gone, I leave the phone on the bar to remind me to try again later.  
I'm feeling the effects, as Johnny, Fred, and I argue politics. 

Much later, seeing by a clock on the wall that it's getting late, I say
goodbye and stagger out to my Lincoln. 

"Oh, Christ." I see a detour where the city's got the street torn up. 
Because of all our one-way streets, the detour winds endlessly, 
gradually drifting to the poor part of town and into a section 
dominated by South American immigrants. 

To make matters worse, it's after dark and I'm not familiar with all
these narrow side streets.  Whether it's the alcohol, tiredness, the 
dark night, or what the hell, I'm soon lost among the warren of 
streets, lanes, and cul-de-sacs.  Huge low-income housing projects show 
in my headlights.  Then my engine sputters.  I've been too busy with 
that contract, then drinking, to check the gas gauge.  I hurry to find 
a parking space, and coast to a stop. 

Stepping out and looking around, I find I'm on one of those narrow
streets facing a construction site, a small local business area half a 
block in front of me.  Leaving on blinking trouble lights, I fumble 
around for my blackberry.  I can't find the damned thing.  Turning on 
the interior lights, I still can't find it, finally remembering it 
sitting on the bar.  No fucking doubt it's still there, unless Fred or 
Johnny picked it up.  Jesus Christ! All my contacts are stored in its 
memory.  I can easily afford a new one, but it will take hours with 
that fucking little keyboard – not to mention sorting through paper  
records – to replace that list. 

In a bad mood, I get out and slam the door.  I have to find some fucking
help.  Maybe there's a telephone up the street?  My watch says it's 
already past eleven. 

There's not even a sidewalk, nothing but stirred-up ground that's
guaranteed to fuck up my expensive imported shoes as I trudge toward 
streetlights in the distance -- and damned few of them at that. 

I see a group of teenagers coming toward me.  Their dark-skinned faces
look at me as they come closer, laughing and speaking a strange tongue. 
 I was never very good with languages in college.  Having a choice of 
German, Italian, or Spanish, I picked German.  I don't know a fucking 
word of Spanish. 

"Can you guys tell me where I can find a telephone?" I ask, getting
shrugs in return.  "My car broke.  Car ... broke ... telephone?" 

"Tel ... fone.  No speak ... broke." 

I'm nervous at the way they're looking at me and speaking among
themselves.  Further ignoring them, I hurry toward the streetlights. 

The only business that seems to be open is some sort of bar.  Sticking
my head inside an open doorway, I see all those dark swarthy faces 
inside – salsa music blaring –  and turn away, hurrying down the 
street. There must be a public phone around here somewhere.  Indeed, I 
see one in the middle of the block, next to an alley.  Giving the dark 
opening a wide berth, I step into the booth. 

It's amazing how closing a door on a transparent glass booth makes me
feel safer.  Shrugging off the feeling, I pick up the receiver, 
meanwhile dropping a few quarters into a coin slot.  To my surprise, 
the coins drop through and bounce noisily onto the floor.  Someone has 
torn the entire coin box out of the bottom of the phone.  It wouldn't 
have done me any good, anyway, because the cord to the receiver has 
been cut. 

I shake my head, dutifully returning the receiver to its cradle and


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