Panic Attack

by Jason Starr

  He got into bed and spooned Dana from behind for a while as she slept, then turned in the opposite direction. It was hard to fall asleep. He was so absorbed, replaying bits from the newscasts in his head and imagining what tomorrow would be like, that after about an hour he was still wide awake. He was about to get up to take an Ambien when he thought he heard a noise downstairs.

  He sat up in bed and listened again but didn’t hear anything. He knew rationally that no one was there, but he figured he might as well make sure just for peace of mind.

  He was on his way to the door when Dana asked, “What is it?”

  He looked back and saw her sitting up in bed. The lights were off in the room, but the bedroom door was half open, and there was enough light from the light in the hallway—which Adam had left on—to see her clearly.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Everything’s fine, go back to sleep.” He didn’t want to alarm her, so he was trying to talk in an overly calm voice, like an airline pilot trying to relax his passengers during a period of heavy turbulence.

  But Dana knew him too well to be fooled, and on the verge of panic, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  Trying to put it as casually as he could he said, “Nothing, I just . . . I think I heard something downstairs.”

  “Oh my God.” Her voice was trembling, and she was covering her mouth with her cupped hand.

  “Relax,” Adam said. “I’m sure it was nothing, but lemme go check just in case.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Dana said, and she reached for the phone. “Wait, don’t call the police,” Adam said. “I’m sure it was nothing.” “What did it sound like?”

  It had sounded like footsteps, but he didn’t want to tell her this, especially when he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t imagined it.

  “It was probably just the house settling or something. Just wait a second, okay?”

  He went to the door and listened for several seconds but didn’t hear anything. He looked back at Dana and held up an index finger and mouthed, “Wait,” and then he walked as quietly as possible toward the staircase.

  Unlike last night, when it had been almost pitch-dark, tonight he could see the staircase clearly because of the light in the hallway and a light he had left on downstairs in the foyer. He had a flashback to nearly twenty-four hours ago— firing off those shots. It was so vivid he could feel the gun in his hand, hear the shots, see Sanchez’s body falling. It felt like it was actually happening all over again. But what if it did happen all over again? Without his gun, how was he supposed to defend himself? He felt extremely vulnerable and defenseless. He didn’t care what he’d promised Dana; there was no way he was ever getting rid of the gun. If they were going to get rid of the things that protected them, why not get rid of the locks on the doors and the alarm system? Hell, why not just keep the doors wide open?

  He went to the top of the stairs and bent down to get a view of the front door. It was chained, just as he’d left it.

  Then he heard, “Dad.”

  It was just that one word, but it might as well have been a rifle fired right next to his head. He was so startled he jerked forward, lost his balance, and almost fell down the stairs. He had to grab onto one of the wooden posts on the railing to steady himself.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  He managed to stand up and turn around. His pulse was pounding.

  Looking at his daughter, who was by the door to her room, holding a glass of maybe diet soda, he said, “For God’s sake, Marissa.”

  “Is everybody okay?” Dana had come out to the hallway.

  “What’re you freaking out for?” Marissa said. “I just went downstairs to get something to eat.”

  Adam took a few moments, trying to catch his breath. Then he couldn’t restrain his frustration and snapped, “Just get the hell to bed right now, okay?”

  “What did I do?” Marissa asked. “Just go,” Adam said.

  She returned to her room, slamming the door. Adam shook his head in frustration and disgust and marched past Dana and got back into bed.

  “Are you okay?” Dana asked as she got in next to him. “Fine,” Adam said. “Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” They lay in the dark silently for a few minutes.

  Then Dana said, “Thank God you didn’t have your gun. You might’ve shot her.”

  Eventually Adam fell asleep.

  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 ones 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 stares, 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 you
r 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 process 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.