Hollywood: The Greatest Showman

Chapter 163: Helplessness

Arabic?

The man obviously couldn't understand. He searched around but found no clue at all. He could only start making phone calls, but he couldn't remember the phone number. He rummaged through his pockets, but his wallet had been emptied, with nothing left except a pile of peanut shells, a medicine bottle, and a small flask.

Taking a deep breath, the man dialed "911" internationally. "Hello, 911," came the voice of a female operator as the call connected.

"Hello, I've been buried alive," the man gasped, out of breath, barely able to pause, urgently pleading, "Please, save me, I'm running out of air."

"Sir?" The operator seemed confused.

"I'm buried alive in a coffin, please come save me! Send someone to find me!" The man tightly grasped his phone in his right hand, a lighter in his left hand, held against his chest. His gaze wandered uncertainly toward the faint light of the flame, his fingers tightening involuntarily, as if clinging to his lifeline.

"Sir, slow down a bit. What's your name?"

"Paul, Paul Conroy."

"Alright, Mr. Conroy, can you tell me your current location?"

Paul closed his eyes in agony. "I don't know." His voice was terrifyingly hoarse, his gaze darting around, unable to find a focal point. "I'm in a coffin! I don't know where. Please, save me, I'm so scared."

"You're in a coffin?"

"Yes." Paul felt like he was about to suffocate, as if invisible hands were choking his throat. The suffocation made his face flush, and he struggled to speak with confidence. "An old-fashioned wooden coffin."

"Are you at a funeral home?"

"No, no, no." Paul denied vehemently, but he couldn't help feeling confused because he wasn't sure where he was. "I don't know, no."

"How are you calling me right now?" The operator still seemed puzzled, persistently asking.

Paul was almost suffocating. His brain had completely descended into chaos. "What?"

"If you're buried alive in a coffin, how are you calling me?" The operator repeated her question.

"Uh... a cellphone, there's an old cellphone here." Paul involuntarily pressed it against himself, trying to find a gap to breathe some fresh air.

"You're using your own phone to call?"

"Yes. No, it's not mine. But yes, I'm using a phone." Paul's brain had turned into mush, all reactions were just instinctual. He didn't even know what he was doing, his eyes filled with confusion and distress.

"When you climbed into the coffin, was there a phone there?"

"Yes." Paul nodded, then furrowed his brow. "What? I didn't climb in." Paul began to grit his teeth because he still couldn't breathe fresh air, and the operator was wasting his time.

"How did you get into the coffin then?"

"I was put in." Paul's hands clenched into fists, his eyes closed tightly, each word squeezed out from between his teeth.

"Put into the coffin?" The operator found this absurd.

"Yes, please, save me!" Paul couldn't even form complete sentences anymore, spitting out words one by one.

"You said the coffin was buried alive?" The questions kept coming.

Paul raised his left hand to try to massage his throbbing temple but ended up burning himself with the lighter. He grimaced in pain. "Yes! I'm a truck driver, I'm an American citizen." Paul gasped for breath, seeming unable to continue, "It's... it's hot here, I can't breathe."

"Do you know your location?" The operator's voice seemed resigned.

"I... I told you, somewhere in Iraq. Please, save me!" Paul was completely incoherent, his brain just a blank slate except for "please, save me."

"Iraq?"

"Yes, I'm a truck driver, I'm an American citizen, I work for CRT." Paul's brain finally started working again, quickly adding.

"Are you a soldier?" The operator's question infuriated Paul, and he shouted, "No! Please, can't you listen to me? I'm a truck driver, I'm an American citizen, I'm a contractor working in Iraq, in Baqubah, we were attacked, they... they were all killed." His coherent speech suddenly cut off, Paul gasped for air, his heartbeat seemingly causing momentary suffocation.

At that moment, he suddenly realized he was the only survivor, all his colleagues had been shot dead. The sudden sense of bewilderment and loss plunged him into silence.

"Who was killed?"

The operator's question brought Paul back to reality. "All the other drivers." Paul couldn't help but laugh, a bitter, surreal feeling washing over him, a hint of mockery tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You said all this happened in Iraq? That country?"

Paul chuckled bitterly, the sense of bleakness too real, too urgent, becoming a huge irony. "Yes, please listen to me, okay? Listen to me!" Paul suppressed his smile, pleading earnestly, "The military gave me a secure number, it's in my wallet, but I can't find it now."

The operator helplessly interrupted Paul's words, "Mr. Conroy, this is the emergency dispatch in Youngstown, Ohio."

The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed suddenly, as if time had condensed. "Ohio?" Paul was stunned, his muscles frozen in place.

"Yes, sir." The operator finally regained her composure. "You say you're in another country, I'm not sure how you got through here. If you'd like, I can transfer you to the sheriff's office."

"You don't understand, forget it." Paul shook his head, immediately hung up the phone, checked the battery—only three bars left, not good news at all.

Gavin felt a sense of absurd amusement, as if calling "911" for help was simply the wrong choice, because the operator didn't help at all. The endless questioning never hit the mark, the fragmented conversation never truly clarified the issue. It not only wasted the phone's battery but also wasted the oxygen in the coffin. What's even more ridiculous is that in the end, Paul discovered that "911" couldn't solve the problem at all.

Gavin knew it wasn't the operator's fault, but he still couldn't help but start to worry. After wasting the opportunity, how should Paul save himself? On the land of Iraq, how would others come to rescue Paul? That sense of suspense suddenly surged, Gavin could feel adrenaline rushing, involuntarily adjusting his posture. Then he realized, his muscles had been tense for too long, so much so that his body was starting to numb, but the urgent horror and fear still clung to his throat, making it impossible for him to look away.

Paul extinguished the lighter again, this time not in a panic, but calm, reorganizing his thoughts. Then he lit the lighter again and began dialing the phone number.

First, he called his wife, Linda, both home and cell phones, but unfortunately, Linda didn't answer. He could only leave messages on voicemail, explaining his crisis situation, hoping Linda would hear the messages quickly and seek help. Then he dialed "411" directory assistance, hoping to find the FBI's phone number, but the operator relentlessly demanded a specific state and city. In frustration, he randomly said "Chicago." The call was then transferred to the FBI in Chicago, where he explained the situation.

"My truck convoy, we were delivering kitchen supplies to a community center, then some kids started throwing rocks at our trucks, and then a bomb exploded in front, destroying one of the trucks. Then a group of people rushed out from the nearby houses, shooting at us on the street... I was at the back of the convoy, I guess a rock hit my head, I blacked out, and I don't remember what happened next. When I woke up, my hands were tied, lying in a coffin."

Paul did his best to explain the situation, but the detective on the phone kept fixating on details. Why were the kids throwing rocks? Who exactly was shooting? Why were they shooting? Why didn't Paul get shot? The interrogative tone made it seem like Paul was a member of a terrorist group, calling just to cause trouble, even beginning to investigate Paul's personal identity and background information.

Anger, calm, anger, calm.

Paul's emotions fluctuated throughout the ordeal, worsened by the fact that his phone lost signal! The call got disconnected! Paul held his breath, pressing against the coffin wall, searching for a signal, inch by inch, until he finally found one. He thought for a moment, then dialed his company's number, but the operator engaged in another battle of questions and answers, from self-introduction to explaining the situation, crisis management, asking for details, and in the end, transferring him to Alan Davenport, the HR manager—she completely ignored Paul's protests; what he needed now wasn't HR, but crisis management!

But the call was transferred anyway, and then came the waiting... the long waiting... the endless waiting, only to be greeted by a voicemail. Another round of repeated cycles, Paul explained the situation again, but before he could finish, the recording cut off.

Staring at the busy signal on his phone, Paul became furious, utterly furious. "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" He pounded and kicked wildly, venting all his anger, in an endless darkness, until he exhausted himself, then lay there, calm, calm... even his breathing seemed to fade away.

Helpless, it was helplessness all over again. That deep sense of powerlessness seeped through the endless darkness, even more terrifying than despair because grabbing onto that thread of hope, believing that following it would lead him out of the predicament, only to repeat the same situation over and over again, from 911 to the FBI, even to his company and his family, each institution, each person shut him out, going round and round in circles, hope extinguished before it could fully ignite, was truly staggering.

Gavin felt this was too cruel, too ironic. The heavy weight in his heart seeped through the horror and fear, slowly permeating out.

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