Panic Attack

eleven

At five in the morning Adam got out of bed, wide awake. He decided to go the Hollywood route- the black button- down shirt with the black sport jacket and jeans. He checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and thought he looked great, though he wished he’d had time to stop at his barber and get a little trim. Ah, well, his hair still looked nice and thick and healthy. As a last touch, he grabbed his sunglasses- the one he’d bought for eight bucks on the street- and put them in the pocket of his jacket. It was cloudy out, and he wasn’t going to wear them on the air, but he thought they looked cool with just the tip sticking out.

He was waiting in the living room, looking out the parted venetian blinds, waiting for the limo to arrive. The woman from Fox had said it would be here at six, and it was already five after. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a limo, especially a big, fancy one. It would probably have a widescreen TV and a fully stocked bar. He normally took the subway to and from work, and it was going to be fun- well, a nice change of pace, anyway- to ride into the city in style, to feel like a celebrity. Then after he was on TV he’d probably get phone calls nonstop, from old friends- wouldn’t it be a kick if Abby Fine called?- and there’d probably be more interview requests. At noon he had his New York Magazine interview. This one hadn’t fully set in yet-New York Magazine was interviewing him. Wasn’t Saturday Night Fever based on a New York Magazine article? Okay, maybe he was getting a little far- fetched now, but so what? It was fun to fantasize. He wondered who they’d get to play him in the movie, Hanks or Crowe? Hanks was too sincere, too hokey, but Crowe had the right combination of vulnerability and toughness. Yeah, he could definitely see it: Russell Crowe as Adam Bloom, a working guy, just going about his life, when somebody breaks into his house one night. It’s Bloom’s moment of truth, his life is on the line, but he does what he has to do to defend his family and in doing so becomes a local hero. The movie would probably make millions at the box office. Who doesn’t love a good courage- under- fire story?

Then Adam, on a roll, wondered, And why not a talk show? He could be the next Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil wasn’t even a real psychologist, or he’d had his license revoked, or something like that. Dr. Adam could take over for Dr. Phil in no time. Even if he couldn’t land a TV show, Adam knew he’d be a natural for radio. He was so well spoken and articulate and could talk on any subject, and he’d be great with guests, get very introspective and personal. His show wouldn’t be just fluff. No, Dr. Adam would tackle serious issues.

Adam was looking forward to riding in the limo, relaxing, sipping coffee and nibbling on a croissant, or maybe having a bloody Mary to loosen up before going on the air. He was so caught up in his fantasies that he barely noticed when the navy sedan pulled up in front of the house.

At first he thought the driver, a stocky black guy, was looking for a parking space, but then he got out of the car.

Adam came out and said, “Can I help you?”

He really thought the guy must have the wrong address.

“You order a car?”

“Yes, but it was supposed to be a limo.”

The guy laughed, like this was a joke. Adam felt the letdown, naturally, but he didn’t let it get to him. Okay, so there wasn’t a limo. Limos were overrated anyway. They were too cheesy, too Donald Trump. He was still looking forward to his big moment, getting the most out of his day in the spotlight.

When he arrived at the Fox studios a producer- a girl who looked Marissa’s age- greeted him and told him how happy they were to have him on the show. Then she took him to a room where a makeup artist powdered his face. Okay, now the star treatment was starting. When the makeup was done Adam looked in a mirror and thought he looked thirty- five, tops. God, he hoped Abby Fine was watching

The producer returned and told Adam that he would be going on in about a half hour and led him to the greenroom. Adam wasn’t nervous at all. There was another guest waiting- a leggy blonde.

“Hi, I’m Annie,” she said, smiling. She explained that she was the star of a new Broadway musical, then asked, “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I’m a local hero, I guess,” Adam said, trying to sound modest, like he was almost embarrassed about it.

“Really?” she asked, impressed, her face brightening. “What did you do?”

“Oh, it was no big deal,” Adam said. “My house was robbed the other night, and I… well, I shot one of the robbers.”

She cringed and said, “You mean you killed somebody?”

Somehow this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” he said, “but I didn’t have any choice. It was the middle of the night, and he broke in. He was coming up the stairs.”

She still seemed almost horrified and asked, “Oh my God, did he have a gun?”

“No,” Adam said, “but I thought he did. I mean, he was reaching for something.”

He was waiting for her to start getting impressed, but her expression didn’t change. Maybe she didn’t understand the real danger he’d been in.

“My daughter woke us up in the middle of the night,” he said. “Oh, and the guy I killed, he was a hardened criminal. He’d spent like ten, fifteen years in prison.”

The last part had been a pure exaggeration, but at least Annie got a little sympathetic. She said, “Wow, that must’ve been really scary.”

“It was,” Adam said. “Is. I’m sure it’ll take months before I get over it completely.”

The producer came in and told Annie that it was her turn to go on and Adam that he would be next.

Adam remained in the greenroom, rehearsing in his head what he was going to say. He couldn’t wait to get out there.

Annie seemed to be on for a long time, segueing from talking about her musical to talking about fund- raising work she was doing for PETA.

During the commercial break, the producer returned to the greenroom, looking upset, and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bloom. We went over today, and I’m afraid we won’t have time to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry?” Adam had heard her, but he hadn’t quite absorbed what she’d said. Did she mean he was going on later?

“We can’t have you on,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. If there’s someplace you have to get to, I can arrange to have a car service take you.”

“Wait,” Adam said. “You mean I’m not going on at all?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” he said. “I got up at the crack of dawn today, came all the way down here, juggled my schedule-”

“I know, it really sucks,” she said, “but people get bumped all the time. It’s not personal or anything. It just happens.”

“Can I talk to the producer?”

“I am the producer.”

“I mean the head producer.”

“I am the head producer.” She sounded snippy, insulted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bloom, but there’s nothing we can do.”

She left the room. Adam was upset and was about to go after her and continue complaining when he realized that there was nothing for him to complain about. Yeah, he’d been looking forward to going on the show, and it would’ve been fun to be the center of attention for a while longer, but it wasn’t like the show owed him anything.

He left the studio and went right to a newsstand on Lexington Avenue and bought copies of the Post, News, and Times and read them while standing in the vestibule of a closed shoe store. His story didn’t make the front page of either of the tabloids- the Post and the News- but both gave it space several pages in.

It wasn’t exactly what he expected.

The News headline was trigger happy. The Post: gun crazy.

What the hell was going on? Adam skimmed the articles, getting increasingly upset, wondering if he should call his lawyer, threaten a libel suit. Both articles were totally skewed and misleading, making it sound as if Adam had acted impulsively, shooting an unarmed man who posed no danger to him. The News article reported that Adam confronted Sanchez on the stairs and fired “without warning,” shooting the unarmed man “multiple times.” The Post called Adam “the new Bernie Goetz,” comparing him to the vigilante who’d shot four unarmed teenagers on the subway in the eighties. Neither paper included any quotes from Adam, and while both acknowledged that Sanchez had a criminal background, they made this seem incidental compared to what Adam had done. Both also left out the quote from Detective Clements that had played on the TV news last night, about how Adam had been justified in his actions. The Post actually wrote that the police “weren’t able” to press charges against Adam in the shooting, implying that they wanted to charge him but, for legal reasons, couldn’t.

Even the Times didn’t get it right. Although the Times article wasn’t as sensationalized, it was still written from the angle that Adam had acted impulsively and irrationally, not in self- defense, and it didn’t include the supportive quote from Detective Clements, either.

After Adam read the three articles twice, he remained outside the shoe store, stunned. He couldn’t believe that this was actually happening to him. It was bad enough to have had his house broken into, to have been forced to kill someone, but now he felt like he was being victimized all over again. Had the Post actually compared him to Bernie Goetz? That was insanely ridiculous. Adam hadn’t acted like a vigilante, carrying his gun around, trying to clean up the scum of New York. He’d been asleep in his bed, for God’s sake.

He glanced at the articles again, as if to confirm to himself that he’d actually read what he’d read, that it hadn’t all been some nightmarish hallucination, and then, in a daze, he headed downtown toward his office.

Unlike yesterday and earlier this morning, now he didn’t want people to recognize him. He felt embarrassed, ashamed. He couldn’t believe that he’d actually been looking forward to today, that he’d talked himself into believing that he was going to be treated like a hero, wearing his sport jacket with the shades sticking out of the pocket. He felt like the punch line of a bad joke.

He just wanted to disappear, be anonymous again, like he normally was in New York, but was he imagining it or were people staring at him? That guy in the suit walking toward him with the earbuds looked like he was thinking, Don’t I know you from somewhere? The mother and daughter waiting to cross the street ahead of him- they were looking at him, too, knowingly and judgmentally. Adam tried to look straight ahead, to avoid the intrusive looks, but it was impossible not to notice them. That young black guy was looking at him; the old lady pushing the shopping cart filled with groceries was looking; the Arabic guy at the pretzel cart was looking. They all seemed to know exactly who he was and what he’d done and why he’d done it. There was no room for negotiation.

When he entered his building on Madison off Fifty- eighth, he expected Benny, the building’s security guard, to give him his usual warm smile and say, “Morning, Dr. Bloom,” or at least make a polite, banal comment about the weather, like “Gettin’ colder out there, huh?” Instead he barely looked at Adam as he walked past, and Adam knew why. There was a copy of the Post on Benny’s desk.

On Adam’s floor, when Lauren looked at him, he saw her do a double take. She said, “Hi, Adam, how are you?” but there was no sincerity in her tone, no sympathy for what he’d been through. The coldness surprised Adam. He thought he’d at least get some sympathy and understanding from his colleagues. After all, if the people who know you best won’t stick by your side during a crisis, then who’s left?

“Okay, considering,” he said.

“That’s good,” she said, still avoiding eye contact and seeming tense and distracted. “Alexandra Hoffman called, and I forwarded her to your voice mail. And Lena Perez called; she said she has to reschedule her appointment next week.” When the phone rang she seemed eager to answer it, to have an opportunity to end the conversation.

On his way to his office Adam passed Robert Sloan, one of the other therapists in the suite, but Robert wasn’t exactly Mr. Supportive either. He asked some questions about the shooting, but, like that woman Annie in the greenroom, he didn’t seem to get that what Adam had done had been heroic. He even seemed judgmental, as if he’d already decided that Adam had done something wrong and nothing could change his opinion.

Throughout the morning everyone in the office seemed to be avoiding him. Even Carol, his own therapist and mentor, seemed to be ignoring him. Adam passed by her office several times, hoping to have a chance to talk to her and pro cess everything that had happened, but her door was closed all morning even during times when Adam knew she didn’t have any patients scheduled.

There was no flood of phone messages from patients and old friends, but Adam was relieved about this. He hoped it meant that no one had seen him on the news or read about him in the morning papers. Oh, God, he hoped Abby Fine didn’t buy a newspaper today.

When Lauren came into his office to let him know about some correspondence regarding a patient’s insurance claim, Adam felt he had to set the record straight and said, “Look, what the papers said is total crap. That’s not what happened at all, okay? The guy broke into my house, and the police think there might’ve been somebody else in the house with a gun, and that that person might’ve shot my maid. So I did the right thing, okay?”

“I believe you,” Lauren said, but it was obvious she was just saying this to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

Adam felt like locking himself in his office and spending the rest of the day alone, but he had an eleven o’clock appointment with Martin Harrison. Martin was what Adam and his colleagues called a professional patient. Adam had been seeing him for nearly two years but except for exhibiting mild symptoms of OCD and perhaps some generalized anxiety disorder, there was nothing really wrong with him. He was happily married with two kids and was doing well in his career as an advertising exec, but, for whatever reason- perhaps it was a subconscious emotional de penden cy issue, because his father had left his mother when he was five years old- he continued to pay out of pocket to see Adam two days a week. During most sessions, they rehashed topics they’d already discussed, and sometimes it was a strain to find anything to talk about. But what was Adam supposed to do, suggest that he end his treatment? What with managed health care restricting the annual visits of his insurance- paid patients, cash- paying patients like Martin were what made Adam’s practice sustainable.

Martin’s major personality flaw was that he had a very direct style of communication, almost too direct, bordering on inappropriate. When he entered Adam’s office, he didn’t even say hello but went right to, “So I was reading about you online this morning.”

Oh, Jesus, Adam hadn’t thought about this yet. The story wasn’t just in the papers; it was all over the Internet. Somehow that made it seem more permanent. People would throw out today’s papers, but the story, with all those skewed, misreported facts, would be available online forever.

“What did you read?” Adam asked, trying his best not to sound overly concerned but probably failing miserably.

“Just about how you had to shoot that guy. Yeah, it sounds rough. Sorry you had to go through all that.”

Martin didn’t sound very sympathetic. Adam considered pointing this out to him- maybe it could become an issue for today’s session?- but instead he said, “Just so you know, it didn’t happen like that at all. My life was in danger, and I had to shoot that guy in self- defense, but of course they tried to sensationalize the whole thing.”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Martin said. “I’m just glad to see you pulled through and you’re okay.”

Adam got the sense that Martin really didn’t care whether he was okay or not. No, to him, Adam was the typical guilty guy who would swear he was innocent ad nauseam till the day he died. Still, Adam wanted to keep things as professional as possible- this was a therapy session, after all- so he tried to minimize the whole situation, saying, “Well, I can’t complain that the last couple of days have been uneventful.”

Adam laughed, trying to get Martin to laugh with him, but Martin was unusually serious. Throughout the rest of the session, he seemed very agitated- fidgeting a lot, avoiding eye contact. Adam confronted him about his behavior a few times, but he insisted that everything was fine. Then, as he was leaving, he said that he wouldn’t be able to make it to his appointments next week. Adam asked him if he was going on vacation, and he said, “No,” but didn’t give any other explanation for the cancelations.

Adam wondered if this was just the beginning. Maybe even his oldest, neediest patients would have second thoughts about seeing him and there would be a mass exodus from his practice. He was trying to decide whether he should do some damage control, or predamage control, maybe have Lauren contact some of his regulars and make sure all was well, when he remembered that he had a noon meeting with the reporter from New York Magazine.

He rushed over to the Starbucks on Madison and Forty- ninth, looking forward to the chance to set the record straight and to tell the public what had really happened the other night. When he entered, an attractive young black woman came over and said, “Dr. Bloom, right?”

“That’s me,” Adam said.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Grace Williams. I’m sitting right over there.” She pointed to a table behind her. “Do you want to get something?”

Wow, not only did she want to meet him for coffee, rather than lunch, she wouldn’t even pay for the coffee.

“That’s okay,” Adam said. “I had a cup today and don’t want to be overcaffeinated.”

He sat across from her, and she took out a pad, turned on a digital recorder, and said, “This shouldn’t take long.”

“I want to tell you, I’m really glad I’m getting a chance to talk to you. I’ve been kind of shocked, actually, by how this whole story has been misreported.”

“Really?” she asked, barely interested.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, they’ve been making me out to be a vigilante or something, but that isn’t the case at all.”

“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, Dr. Bloom, okay?”

“Okay, but-”

“Did you ever fantasize about using your gun to kill someone?” Was she serious? It seemed like she was.

“No,” Adam said. “Of course not.”

“Even someone you really hated. Like a boss or an ex- lover.”

“One time at the range, just for fun, a guy put a photo of Osama bin Laden on the target, but-”

“Did you ever feel like you want to blow all the bad guys in the city away?”

“No,” Adam said firmly. “And see, this is exactly what I’m talking about, how this whole thing has gotten distorted. I never felt that way at all.”

“So you don’t condemn the man who broke into your house?”

“Of course I condemn him,” he said. “He was trying to rob my house.”

“Why did you shoot him ten times? Wouldn’t once have been enough?”

He hated her sensational tone.

“Do you want the facts,” he asked, “or do you just want to write a provocative story?”

“I want the facts, of course,” she said, looking right at him.

“It was dark,” he said. “I didn’t know if I hit him or not, so I had to keep firing to make sure I got him.” He wasn’t sure this was true, because he vaguely remembered knowing that the first shot had hit Sanchez, but he continued, “And it happened very fast. When you’re in that type of situation you don’t think, you just react. It’s like a soldier in battle. You’re in fight- or- flight mode. You have to listen to your instincts, follow your gut. Oh, and since it seems very likely that my maid, who was killed yesterday morning, had something to do with the robbery, I feel like I absolutely did the right thing.”

“What do you mean?” Grace asked.

“You heard that my maid was killed, didn’t you?”

“You killed your maid?”

“No, I didn’t kill her. Jesus, whatever you do, don’t write that. No, it was another shooting.”

“In your house?”

“No, not in my house, but there was definitely someone else in my house the night of the shooting, and that person could’ve had a gun. The police know the guy I killed, Sanchez, was involved with my maid. They were lovers, boyfriendgirlfriend, whatever. It was either my maid with the gun or someone my maid knew. So it was just by chance that Sanchez wasn’t armed. You get what I’m saying?”

She didn’t seem to get it, or want to try to get it, and asked, “But doesn’t it bother you that you killed an unarmed man?”

Adam took a few moments to collect his thoughts, choosing his words carefully, then said, “Of course it bothers me. I didn’t ask to be in that situation, it wasn’t something I sought out. I’m sure I’ll be thinking about it for the rest of my life. But that doesn’t make me an aggressor, a vigilante.”

“So you’re saying you’d kill him all over again.”

“Kill is a strong word. You know, I really think you’re-”

“Would you shoot him all over again?”

“Yes,” he said. “I mean, I wouldn’t do anything differently except-”

She turned off the recorder, put it away in her purse, then stood up and said, “That should do it, Dr. Bloom.” She stuck her hand out to shake. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Yeah, sorry to run, but I have to get back to the office and write this up so we can post it this afternoon.”

“Post it?” Adam was confused. “Isn’t it going to run in the magazine?”

“No, it’s for Daily Intel, our online blog. But I got everything I needed, it should be great. Thank you so much, Mr. Bloom.”

On his way back to his office, Adam decided that it was better that the story was running online. He wanted to set the facts straight as soon as possible so he could start to put this all behind him and go on with his life.

Late in the afternoon, he went online to Daily Intel and saw the headline:

“That fucking bitch,” he nearly shouted. The story was even more skewed than the ones in the morning papers. It made him sound like a gleeful white- collar sociopath who’d been brooding for years, waiting for an opportunity to blow somebody away. Everything he’d said during the interview was taken out of context, and the article was filled with misquotes. She wrote that he “often fantasized” about using his gun to kill someone and that he had a lifelong disgust for crime and criminals. She added that he claimed he was “following his gut” when he unloaded ten shots into the unarmed intruder and observed that he expressed no remorse for the shooting. She ended with the completely fabricated line “ ‘I’d love to shoot him all over again,’ Bloom boasted.”

Adam called Grace Williams up, ready to give her hell. Of course he got her voice mail, and he left a message. “This is Adam Bloom. If you don’t take that bullshit off your site I’m gonna sue you and your fucking magazine!”

He must’ve been screaming into the phone, because Lauren rushed into his office, asking, “Is everything okay?”

“Just leave me alone!” he yelled, and when she left he picked up his phone’s handset and flung it across the room. It hit the filing cabinet, and part of it broke off.

This day was rapidly turning into the day from hell. And to think, he’d been convinced he was going to be the next Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever.

He didn’t hear from Grace, and the story was still online. No big surprise there. Why would they care about what he thought?

He rode the subway in rush hour back to Forest Hills. On the crowded R train, he felt like strangers were looking up from their newspapers and noticing him, scrutinizing him. At Northern Boulevard, a group of laughing teenagers got on. Adam didn’t know if they were making fun of him or not, but he felt like they were.

Adam decided there was nothing he could do to control what other people thought. If the press wanted to keep attacking him, and the public wanted to keep judging him, that was beyond his control.

In Forest Hills, he stopped at Duane Reade and picked up some stuff for the house- toilet paper, paper towels, dishwashing liquid- and then he went to the wine store around the corner and bought a bottle of $12.99 merlot, figuring, Why not splurge? He felt bad for arguing so much with Dana over the last couple of days, and he was looking forward to having a nice, relaxing evening at home. Maybe they’d order in some Chinese, have a couple of glasses of wine, and then make love. He had so much going for him in his life, and he wanted to start appreciating what he had instead of constantly wanting more. He didn’t need to be hailed as a local hero and be the basis of a Russell Crowe biopic in order to be happy.

When Adam turned onto his block in Forest Hills Gardens, it was starting to get dark. There were several teenagers playing touch football in the street, and as Adam got closer he recognized a few of them- Jeremy Ross, Justin Green, Brian Zimmerman. It brought back memories of when he was their age and used to play football on the street with his friends, not going inside until it was pitch dark.

“Hey, right here,” Adam said, and Jeremy tossed him the ball. Then Adam said to Brian, “Okay, go deep.”

Brian sprinted down the block, and Adam faded back and shouted, “To win the Super Bowl!” and then unloaded a bomb. Well, he tried to. The wobbly ball bounced off the windshield of a car about twenty feet in front of Brian.

“Next time,” Adam said, smiling, and headed up the walkway to his front door. When he went in he announced, “I’m home!” Then he saw the piece of paper on the floor. It was plain white, eight and a half by eleven, folded in half. He opened it and saw, written in Magic Marker in block letters:

YOU THINK YOU’RE SOME KIND OF HERO, HUH? YOU THINK YOU’RE A BIG SHOT. I’M GONNA MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN, YOU LITTLE COCKSUCKING SON OF A BITCH.

He went into the living room and saw Dana watching TV. Her feet were on the ottoman, a throw covering her legs. She looked very tired, maybe depressed.

“Did you see the note on the floor?” he asked.

She was slow to respond. Eventually, in a monotone, she said, “Note?”

He handed her the paper, watched her growing concern as she read it.

“I think we have a situation here,” he said.