The Jog

By Deontre Sawyer

July 5^th, 1995

On her third mile into the jog, she made a left on East Long Street. The woman was middle aged, but due to her consistent workout routine, she possessed a tight physique that could have her pass for mid-twenties. She wore a neon yellow tracksuit, running shoes, and headphones covering her ears playing Sade’s Love Deluxe tape in her Walkman. Singing along to “Kiss of Life,” while jogging in place at the crosswalk, she did not notice or hear the garbage men whistling as they drove past her. The white stick figure at the crosswalk signaled her to continue.

She jogged on, trying her best to avoid debris and litter along the sidewalk. Feeling winded, she stopped and bent over, hands placed on her knees, slightly panting, failing to catch her breath. Up ahead, she noticed the Canabar, a local diner and bar. A few more blocks and she would be home. She got up and sprinted ahead. The force she used caused the Walkman to eject from the pocket of her jacket, landing close to the alley leading up to the side of the Canabar.

She walked up to the Walkman, hoping the Walkman and the tape were not damaged. She ejected the tape after picking the Walkman up. There did not appear to be any damage. She inspected the Walkman after the tape. There were a few scratches, but nothing major. She placed the tape back in the Walkman and pressed play only to hear a garbled, mutilated version of the song. She took the cassette out, tape dangling from it. In anger, she chucked the tape at a nearby garbage can. It clanged against the green garbage bin. The sound was obnoxious. She started to walk ahead, then decided against littering.

Realizing that a damaged tape was not the end of the world, and that she may have been a little over the top, she walked over to throw the tape away. Reaching down to grab it, she heard a groan. Looking around, she saw a white pair of sneakers covered in blood and dark blue denim. She gasped, trying to find courage to look around the corner. While approaching, she held on to the trash bin, disregarding how unsanitary it was. She could not maintain balance on her own. She reached the corner and saw a teenaged boy; dark complexion with braids that hung past his shoulders. He wore a white Cleveland Indians jersey unbuttoned with a white t-shirt underneath. The blood continued to gush from his abdomen.

She shrieked as the young man struggled to breathe. Her voice riddled with panic; she yelled continuously for help. She looked at him confirming he was still alive. Looking at his face, she could tell he was young, barely fifteen, if that. She saw that he had lost a substantial amount of blood. She noticed him reaching into his jean pocket.  He pulled out a black Nokia 1011 and handed it to her. Puzzled, she stared at him, wondering how this teenager acquired or even could afford a mobile phone, let alone actually need one. 

“Miss, please call 911,” the teenager asked, coughing, and failing to catch his breath. 

“Ok, Ok,” the woman hysterically replied. 

The ambulance and police arrived a little under ten minutes after she called. A crew carted the teenager to the back of the ambulance and drove away. Chances of him making it were slim to none. 

“How did you come across the victim ma’am?”  The police officer asked. 

“I saw the young man’s legs by the dumpster while I was jogging sir,” she responded, recounting the activities that transpired before finding the shot teenager. 

“Alright ma’am, thank you for your comments, leave your name and contact information with my partner and we’ll call if we need anything further,” the police officer said, motioning for his partner to gather the woman’s information.

“Will that kid be okay officer? He lost a lot of blood,” the woman asked. 

“I appreciate your concern ma’am, but I do not believe he will make it, and to be frank, one less thug around here is better,” the officer stated. 

Disgusted, the woman shook her head in disappointment and walked away. 

“Something wrong Ma’am?”  the officer asked. 

She hastily turned around and retorted, voice cracking with frustration and sadness “that kid is a victim!”

By Deontre Sawyer