With icy indignation, he says, “Because you know very well that I have dreamed of meeting your agent Melodie Jackman for years, if not decades. I’ve just finished writing my third unpublished novel, and I might be able to pitch it better in person. All I care about is making it past the doorman and to the party.”
“Listen to what you’re saying,” Georgia barks.
“It’s easy for you to get on your high horse. You’ve got it made. This is my chance. I’m not going to let some psycho doorman get in my way.”
“My agent isn’t coming. She never goes to author parties.”
“Ah damn,” the guy says and hangs up.
I grab the remote. “I bet it’s Adam. Let me put on the doorman channel.”
In my building, there’s a live security video that is viewable twenty-four hours a day on channel seventy-seven of all residents’ TV sets so we can see who enters the building, who leaves, who’s at the front desk, etc.
My friends and I stare in horror as the black-and-white image of the lobby appears on my TV screen. At this very moment, the doorman has lined up the other doormen and staff members against the wall. They’re standing side by side, facing him. His back is to the camera. He paces in front of his colleagues, holding a young woman in a choke hold and alternately pointing his gun at his colleagues and at her head. Judging from his body language, he seems to be ranting about something.
Just then, he turns his head enough for me to recognize him. “Shit, it is Adam,” I say.
“How did you know it would be him?” Jack asks.
“Because he’s crazy. He insults me all the time.”
My friends look at me.
Jack says, “He really insults you? Or are you just being hypersensitive?”
“Why would you ask a question like that, Jack?” Georgia says. “You know very well Barb is hypo-sensitive when it comes to herself. I’m sure he really insults her.”
“What does he say?” Jack asks me.
“You name it, he’s said it,” I reply.
“Hardcore insults?” Penelope asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Like what?” Jack asks.
I shrug. “Things like ‘Marinade of shit and piss’ and ‘Cocksucking bitch.’”
My friends look shocked. I remain silent, realizing how weird this sounds.
Georgia says, “It’s really crazy that you never reported him to the super or anyone.”
“Why do you assume I never reported him?” I ask, annoyed.
“Because he wouldn’t be in the lobby pointing a gun at people if you had.”
“I felt sorry for him. He assured me he insulted only me, no one else.”
Georgia frowns. “Oh, that must have been so reassuring.”
“I thought he was unwell, troubled — not dangerous,” I plead. “I was afraid he might get fired if I said anything.”
“Oh, yes, and that would have been so bad,” Georgia says, merciless.
“Thanks for making me feel better,” I murmur.
“Well you certainly do feel better than they do,” she snaps, pointing to the lined-up hostages and arm-choked woman on the screen.
Hardly able to contain my panic, I get up, wiping my moist palms on my pants. “I can’t stand to watch this.” I begin walking out of the room, feeling horribly guilty for not tattle-taling on the doorman.
“Barb,” Peter says, close behind me, softly.
The sound of his voice is comforting. I turn to him.
“Can we talk in private again?” he asks.
“Again?” Georgia says. “Oh, come on, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”
“We have to warn the guests not to leave the apartment,” Jack says.
“Peter, you’re the anchor. Can you anchor this?” Georgia asks.
“Wait,” Jack says, “let me first see if I can get any information from my buddies at the precinct.”
After his brief call, he tells Peter what he learned and gives him the go-ahead to inform the guests.
The guests are chatting. Clearly, they haven’t yet heard about the lobby situation.
Peter addresses the assembly: “Good evening.”
He gets most people’s attention.
In his TV anchor voice — authoritative, concerned but calm — he says: “I’m sorry to interrupt this party to bring you some breaking news from elsewhere in the building. Reliable sources have indicated that there is a lone gunman on the loose in the lobby and that a siege situation is ongoing. He’s a doorman, and has locked the exit doors and shut down the elevators. Law enforcement officers have surrounded the building. We have been told by authorities that no one should attempt to leave the premises until we receive the all-clear. They assure us there is no need to panic. There are no reports of any injuries. We will keep you abreast of any further developments as they unfold.”
A few guests nod their heads politely, and then most of them return to their quiet conversations and aggressive networking. Only a couple of them take out their phones to make calls.
“Wow, you really kept them calm,” Georgia remarks.
We retreat to my bedroom-office.
A guest follows us in and asks Georgia, “Do you think that if the crisis gets resolved soon, more guests will be allowed to come up?”
Georgia’s face hardens. “Who are you waiting for?”
“You told me your editor, Jen Bloominosky, would be here and that I could show her my manuscript.”
“Look here,” Georgia says, walking to the TV screen on which the scene downstairs is the same as before. She points to it and says, “Hmm… here’s a space behind the doorman who’s holding his gun against that woman’s head. I don’t see why the police might not allow a few guests, one at a time, to slink along the wall opposite where the doorman has lined up the other doormen to kill them one by one. I mean, technically there’s plenty of room behind him. So I think a few new guests might still show. While you wait, go back to your networking and have a good time.”
“Like they did on the Titanic as it was sinking?”
“Uh… right, except we’re not sinking. Notwithstanding that analogy, I’m sure your novel’s terrific.”
Instead of following Georgia’s advice to go into the other room, he sits on the couch and watches the lobby scene on the TV.
He is not aware that Jen Bloominosky actually is at the party already. He probably didn’t see her because she’s always hidden by several people trying to talk to her. Georgia is clearly in no mood to set him straight, which I find amusing yet cruel.
Not all of Georgia’s guests are shameless networking self-promoters, but a depressingly large number of them are. Jen Bloominosky is one of the few who are good, kind souls. She is beloved by everyone. And unlike many of the other guests at this party, she doesn’t strike me as superficial, but rather as quite genuine — in fact, unnervingly so. Earlier, she came up to me and raved about my living room decor and “breathtaking costumes on the animals.” As I was thanking her, I noticed her looking at my face carefully, which caused me to ask, “What?” thinking perhaps I had some dip smeared across my cheek.
She said, “For some reason you don’t want people to think you’re very pretty, do you?”
Flustered, I tried to respond naturally. “It’s very nice of you to say that. You look great too.”
“Your hairdo,” she said. “Not many women in their twenties would willingly sport short gray frizzy hair.”
“I know,” I said, smiling. “I like it.” I tugged on one of my gray curls fondly.
“You don’t fool me. Do you fool a lot of people?”
Rattled, I blinked. I didn’t know what to say. Jen Bloominosky is not only an editor but a respected author — clearly an alarmingly observant one. I hoped she wasn’t going to scrutinize me more closely and notice how my hands were a bit slender compared to the rest of my arms. I hid my hands behind my back. I closed my mouth, in case she realized that my ugly teeth were fake. I shrunk my head further down into my turtleneck so she wouldn’t spot my thin neck.