Abraham was always first on the scene of a traffic accident, often before the accident even occurred. He wasn’t an emergency responder; he drove a tow truck. He had an advantage, though—if you can call it that. His truck radio was apparently tuned to a slightly different time. He wasn’t sure why it told the future, but he made no effort to fix it.
At first, he hoped to use the radio for personal gain. Surely, if it could tell the future, he could use it to buy a last-minute lottery ticket, place a bet, or make a timely stock purchase. It was no use, however. The radio was only a few minutes ahead, and the only information it gave was the location for his next job.
He a good relationship with paramedics, firefighters, and police officers from their frequent interactions. Somehow, none of them found it strange that he beat them to the scene of every accident. They apparently figured he was a fast driver who just happened to be in the right place—again, a phrase open to debate—at the right time.
Having been on so many accident scenes, Abraham had learned first aid and was often able to start treating victims before the first responders arrived. He seemed to lose as many as he saved, but the paramedics assured him he was helpful, and that they would have done no better. They credited him with saving so many lives, in fact, that they encouraged him to train as a paramedic so he could help even more. He always evaded these suggestions, however, knowing that his abilities came primarily from the advance notices provided by his radio.
Abraham’s boss liked to have him out cruising the streets. Normally, he would have sent his drivers out only after receiving a call, hoping to save on fuel costs, but he couldn’t argue with Abraham’s track record. He was considered something of a hero around town, and there was no sense risking that sort of publicity for his business. It also helped that Abraham had been on scene to pull the boss’s elderly aunt out of a ditch two winters ago. Never mess with a system that works so well.
There was one minor accident early Friday evening. Nothing major—Mr. Finley’s car in the ditch on the curve out on Huntington Road. Many drivers still hadn’t adapted the light dusting of snow that had been a common feature of the last few Novembers. Some hadn’t changed to winter tires, and others had decided to save money by trying their luck with all seasons. He had been called out to Huntington at least twice a week lately. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had pulled Finley’s car out of the very same ditch last year. Aside from that, the only call had been for a flat tire. He patched it up quickly, trying to calm down Miss Fulton, who was loudly cursing the construction crew building next to her house. It was definitely a screw, he admitted, but it could have come from just about anywhere. She didn’t want to hear any of it, so he let her vent, fixed the tire, and sent her on her way.
Swinging through the Second Cup drive thru for a coffee and pecan square, he heard a call on the radio that he knew was going to take the evening in a much worse direction. “Two car collision on Branch Avenue and 39th. Sounds bad. Abe, can you head on over?” It was always a rhetorical question—his boss never expected an answer, and he wasn’t sure if he would even be able to respond. Would the boss get the response in the future, or would he receive it before he had even made the call? Best not to find out.
Just then, his cell phone rang. He stopped in the lot and checked. His son. He would take it quickly. “Hey buddy, what’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know I’ll be out late. I’m heading over to Jim’s to watch the basketball game.”
“Sounds good. Hey, what road are you taking?”
“I was going to head up Queens. Why?”
“Just stay off of Branch, okay? There’s a bad accident.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“I just got the call. Don’t know anything yet. Just be careful. The road’s more slippery than it looks.”
“Okay, dad. See you later.”
“Enjoy the game. Take care.”
Abraham pulled out of the parking lot and headed west toward Branch Avenue. Four minutes later, he was approaching the intersection. Not surprisingly, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He glanced down the steep hill below, looking tiredly at the road that led home. This was the hardest part of his job. Just sitting, waiting for tragedy, powerless to alter the inevitable. Early on, he had tried—parking in the middle of intersections, disrupting traffic, flashing his lights. Every time, the accident still happened, despite his efforts. Possibly even because of his efforts, he had reflected. Unable to handle the thought that the accidents might never have happened if he hadn’t been in the way, he had learned to pull over, look away, and let nature take its course.
This time, however, he had to watch. He wasn’t sure why. He had taught himself to watch the sidewalk, read signs on walls along the road, close his eyes—anything to avoid additional trauma from watching the accident happen. Eyes glued to the road, he could sense what was about to happen. He saw headlights approach up the hill. The car sped up in a vain attempt to beat the yellow light. A truck approached the T-intersection, barely slowing down at its newly green light. The collision sent the car spinning.
Abraham sat paralyzed, certain that he knew what he was about to find. Sure enough, as he turned on his lights and approached the intersection, he recognized the glossy forest green paint job. He jumped out, sprinted to the car, and saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel. He shook him and found that he was barely conscious.
“What are you doing here? I told you to stay off of Branch.”
A rueful smile from his son. “I was just curious.”
“You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
“Dad?”
“Are you okay?”
“Dad. How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. How can I help?”
“I don’t know. I’m bleeding hard. I feel tired.”
“Just hang on until the ambulance gets here. They’ll check your spine.”
“Dad. You knew. How?”
He could tell his son was getting weak. The voice was barely a whisper. “Just hold on. I’m here.”
Within minutes, a fire truck was on the scene. An ambulance was close behind. He stayed close until a firefighter led him away. “You shouldn’t be watching this, Abe. We’ll do all we can.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“No promises. We’ll do everything possible. I’ve got to tell you, though—it’s bad.”
Abraham sat on the sidewalk, staring absently at his truck’s lights and finally feeling the shock. Two police officers came to talk, but he could barely process their words. Finally, his friend Thomas came over and hugged him. “I’m sorry, Abe. He’s gone.”
Abraham couldn’t talk. He nodded and closed his eyes. His son hadn’t planned on coming this way. His own advice had led his son to his death. The radio. The radio that had saved lives with its advance notices had turned on him. His son was dead, and the radio had killed him.
He stood up. “I’ll drive you home, Abe,” said Thomas.
“I’ve got it. I need to get the truck home.”
“We’ll take care of it. You shouldn’t be driving.”
“I need a few minutes by myself before I face my wife.”
He opened the door to the truck. Immediately, he heard the radio. “Abraham, we’ve got another big one. If you’re done on Branch—”
Grabbing a tire iron, he smashed the radio. He let out his anger and grief by banging it against the dashboard, the windshield, the steering wheel. He knew he could never drive the truck again. “Tom, I’ll take that ride.”
Leaving behind the truck, he climbed into the police car. They drove down the hill, curving around at the switchback at the bottom to head home. Above, he could see the flashing lights of his abandoned truck. The tears must be distorting his vision, he reasoned, as the lights seemed to be moving, getting closer and brighter.
He caught sight of the tow truck as it broke through the barricade at the side of the road. It picked up speed as it plunged down the bank, directly into the path of the police cruiser, and Abraham suddenly understood the meaning behind his final call.
—
Kevin Hogg is a high school teacher and a writer. His work has appeared with inner art journal, Mouse Tales Press, Foliate Oak, and Ghost Parachute. He loves baseball, 20th century dystopian novels, raccoons, and pistachio ice cream. His author website is http://kevinhogg.ca.
Very nicely done, Kevin.
I kind of saw the first one coming, but the second one got me.. Well done.