Agoraphobia and Ecstasy Ch. 01-10

When the trade center towers came down all I could do was watch the news reports of other journalists and see the story of a lifetime pass me by. When Bin Laden was taken down, I drooled with jealousy every time I read a news article. Hell, I'd have even taken a large sports piece if I'd been given the chance, but there was something about mental handicaps that didn't seem to be covered under laws designed to stop discrimination. I didn't know what type of story Gary had in mind, but Barbra's face told me she wasn't exactly pleased that he was giving it to me. Of course, I didn't think she was entirely pleased about anything ever. Her face was always screwed up into a scowl of one variety or another. Major RBF.

"The string of disappearances..."

I couldn't help but gawk at him. This didn't seem like a small story in anyway. All the city's news outlets had been covering it, talking about where the people had gone, if they were connected, or if there were any similarities in any of the cases. This didn't feel small time to me, and I wasn't sure this was even something I could handle.

"But--"

"Gary--"

Barbra and I spoke at the same time, and she glared at me with a pout turning her lips downward.

"I know what you're going to say." Gary eyed her then me and settled on my face. "But this story, which none of the other reporters think is worth their time, could be the thing that makes your career."

My stomach roiled, anxiety making it churn like my grandmother's old ice cream maker, spinning and stirring it up until I felt like I had to run to the toilet. The last time anxiety hit me this bad was when I had tried to go in public, the mall to be exact. Probably not my brightest idea come to think of it; I should have started somewhere much less populated. Regardless I was in the public restroom losing my shit--literally.

My hand hovered over my mouse, ready in a split second to click the end call button, as I had done on a number of occasions in the past when my anxiety levels got too high. Cut and run, my life's escape plan for difficult or stressful situations. I could see Barbra's face growing darker, like she was about to lose her shit, and Gary just sat there with a goofy grin on his face, staring at me, waiting for my answer, but I had no words. In fact, I felt something else coming up out of my body and it wasn't words.

Swallowing the bile in the back of my throat I fumbled a response. "Sure."

I sounded stupid. I'm such an idiot. I didn't know why the other writers didn't want the story, or how I would even manage to do the legwork needed, but Gary was right. This story could make my career and prove to the higher-ups that my so-called disability did not hinder me from doing my work well, and I say "sure." I had to forcibly restrain my own hand from covering my face in shame, cramming them both beneath my thighs on the chair.

"Great!"

"Gary, this is ridiculous. Sheffield will have your head when this moron miffs the story up. Carter or Reese would have been much better for this story. You don't just give them stories they want, you assign them. Look at my team. Look what they've done, breaking the Grismer investigation wide open. They didn't want that story, but I told them to, and we had the first headline before anyone else in the city. Kittle even got an award for her work in outstanding journalism. The police took her files into evidence. That is how you get a job done..."

I zoned out mid-stream as she lectured Gary, focusing in on my little chair out back. Barbra was wrong. I could do this job. I knew I could. I just needed someone to believe in me. If I could only force myself to be okay with going outside, the rest of my irrational phobias would be tiny little speedbumps. I could wear gloves, not touch people, have earbuds in at all times so I wouldn't have to talk to people at all, wear my heavy coat, even if it was July--sunburns, ick. I just needed to force myself to go outside.

And suddenly the idea of actually attempting Daphne's homework for me was beginning to sound necessary. The post office. I mean who is afraid to go to the post? Apparently only paranoid, phobia-laden people like me, because everyone else did it, or at least that is what Daphne had told me when I protested her list of things I had to do. Post office, grocery store--that one wasn't ever going to happen--too many germs. A park? She'd asked me to visit a park.

A park where birds would fly over my head, insects would get in my hair, children would be touching everything and shouting, and random animals that other people called pets would be relieving themselves in the open, and God forbid I ever have to look at a steaming pile of dog shit. I think I'd have a heart attack right there. And don't get me started on portable toilets. The only thing worse than using a public toilet with a warm seat was the idea that I would be walking past a fiberglass box full of other people's excrement, potentially while they were inside of it leaving their deposit to the cause. No thank you!

"Kenji!"

My eyes snapped back to the screen where both Barbra and Gary were staring at me, both of their voices having called my name loudly, breaking my reverie.

"Sorry."

"So you'll take the assignment?" Gary asked, typing something into his computer. I assume it was my name on his roster which he would turn in to Sheffield.

"Yes. I will. And I'll do a better job than Carter and Reese combined."

Barbra's pursed lips but silent voice told me Gary had shut down her protests. While equals, he still had the say because I was on his team not hers, though I did freelance work for her still. I was happy to have a boss like Gary who believed in me, even when he was an idiot for doing it.

"Good then. I expect updates every morning as usual. The faster you work the better. I'm sending a list of our known contacts at the precinct and the information we already have on this case. You let me know what you need as far as stipend for services. This one could take quite a bit of leg work, so call Jerry over at the firm and make sure he's free to cover this one. We need feet on the ground. And if you need anything from me you let me know immediately."

"What makes you think this is such a big story? I mean, if none of the other reporters want it? And the TV stations are already reporting... Maybe there is nothing there?"

"Kenji, you just listen to me. You're the man for the job, alright? I have believed in you from the time you proved yourself with that story on the late doctor. That was smashing work you did. My gut tells me this is going to be huge, and I want you on it before Sheffield forces my hand because I think you're going to be able to break this story wide open, especially since no one else is even looking at it."

"Yes, sir."

The rest of the call we discussed frivolities of day-to-day work around the office and my latest obsession with the manga graphic novels I ordered from Amazon. Barbra had heard of the series and hated even the concept, saying "Hentai is a perversion of sexuality that should be banned and it's followers put on an island to rot." Clearly she knew nothing about it, but Gary and I had found a soul mate of sorts in each other, both of us liking the Death Note books enough to be able to hold a forty-five minute conversation.

I think Daphne would have been proud of me.

4

Everything has its place, and my bathroom was proof. Stark naked and still dripping from my shower I stood in front of my mirror, fogged from the steam of the hot water that had made my skin bright red. The white hand towel I had laid out for this exact reason easily wiped away the condensation on the glass, and I could see my face, too, had been brought to a rosy-pink complexion from the heat. I leaned close to the mirror, examining the grey hairs at my right temple, their presence since my sixteenth birthday the only reminder of the bicycle accident I had survived, fracturing my skull and suffering a severe concussion that left me lying in a dark room for six weeks with not even so much as a book to keep me company.

Brain rest, they called it, but it was more like torture to my sixteen-year-old brain. People shuffled in and out of my parents' house for weeks, bringing food and stopping by my makeshift room on the first floor, a necessity so the dizziness that plagued me wouldn't cause me to topple down the flight of stairs if I tried ascending them to my actual room. Probably one of the only times in my life my mother even cared about me long enough to put down her bottle of whiskey. Five days in that damn children's hospital, I hated that memory.

The grey hair had grown over the scarred area where they had placed the shunt to drain fluid from my brain so swelling wouldn't get too bad. I'd been known in college as the silver slut, not for any reason other than my hair had a grey streak and I liked to play the field a bit. Strange that when a man played the field they called him a stud, but when a woman did the same thing she was a slut. Double standard really.

I toweled off my hair as I stared at my reflection, noticing the tiny wrinkles beginning to form around the corners of my eyes. At thirty-two you'd have thought I'd have met Mr. Right, had two-point-three children, owned a golden retriever, and had my retirement all planned out, but here I was still single with no prospects in sight. Most of my neighbors thought I was a lesbian, and but truly it was none of their business, despite a fling with my sister's best friend in high school and a few one-nighters here and there. Lesbian no, bisexual, maybe.

Still it didn't stop gossip girl across the street and two houses down from sharing my personal life with the entire neighborhood watch association of which I was president. Our Facebook group continuously blew up with stupid complaints from her, Jaymee, the Nosy Nelly of the street. Sometimes I wished her house was infested with mold, or termites, anything that would send her running for the hills and far away from here. She was strange. And not that good strange where you want to learn more about them. The secretive strange where you wonder if they're really an ax murderer or have split personalities.

My afternoon run had taken me directly past her house where I pretended to not see her out front watering her begonias as she eavesdropped on Harold, her next-door neighbor, who was standing in his driveway with a mechanic, both bent over the engine talking about who knows what. Why Jaymee needed to eavesdrop on Harold and the greasy mechanic I'd never know, but there she was soaking up all the juicy details like they were water in a desert.

I'd gotten home, done my Pilates, scarfed down my Rocketpop protein shake, and escaped to my shower where I washed away the sweat and grime and frustration of a week's worth of stressful counseling, knowing that when I woke up in the morning after a probably restless night of sleep, I would be diving back into the same mess.

Kenji, Starla, Vicor, Kevin. Paranoid, depressed, addicted.

"Daphne, you are stronger than you think, braver than you believe, wiser than you know," I said aloud, as I applied moisturizer to the skin below my eyes. You could never be too proactive in taking care of your skin to avoid aging. My perfect complexion wouldn't keep itself perfect, and with my fifteen-year high-school reunion only a year way I needed to look amazing--if I decided to face up to my past and attend it.

I would be the talk of the event, rising up from the ashes of my childhood to gain my doctorate and open my own practice. Even Jenny Ausland hadn't done that, and she was voted most likely to become president. Valedictorian, graduating with a four-point-one-five GPA, top of her class in high school. After her pregnancy in college and subsequent abortion, her life took her spiraling downward into alcoholism. I knew this because she'd come to my office for therapy, and I had to recuse myself of her care, citing obvious personal conflicts.

She looked awful, and I for one would not be caught dead returning to a high-school reunion looking like she did that day. Wrinkly and depressed. So I religiously applied only the best cosmetics which I stored in meticulously organized containers--air tight and sterile so my skin was always given the best care. You only get one skin suit, might as well take good care of it.

After dressing in my glove-fit skinny jeans and blue souvenir T-shirt from my visit to the Outer Banks, I slipped on a pair of flip flops, tugged my hair into a ponytail, complete with tons of fly-aways that rebelled against the restraint, and headed downstairs. My face needed to breathe, so today would be a makeup-less day, which was okay. I only had to go to the grocery store and stop by the dry cleaners to get my black pantsuit. It would be light day and then off to the club, hopefully to pick up a cheap score, the way I had back in college, the way I did almost weekly now. My body needed release the way a pressure cooker needs its airlock popped; steam might as well have been shooting from my ears in sexual frustration.

I grabbed a granola bar from the canister on the second shelf of the cupboard and replaced the lid, sliding it back into its place. Everything has its place. Then I picked up my keys and rifled through my purse for my debit card, sliding it into my back pocket before putting my purse back onto the kitchen counter and heading toward the door. Nearly forgetting my phone, I returned to my purse again, plucking the rose gold iPhone out of it and zipping it shut. With a last glance around to make sure everything was neat and tidy, I punched in the alarm code and headed to my BMW.

For a Sunday afternoon, the streets were fairly busy. Utica wasn't a raging metropolis, but it was a decent-sized city. I mean we had our own zoo, so that says something. Sixty-some thousand people living all crammed into only about seventeen square miles of city made traffic a bitch most days, but weekends were typically slower. To my great displeasure, this was not one of those weekends. The art council hosted the Utica Summerfest every July, a few blocks off Bleeker street and this was that weekend. I wasn't averse to festivals, I just hated when they made traffic so bad.

The traffic seemed to slow my errand run significantly, and I grew more frustrated and more in need of that release as the minutes passed. Somewhere around six p.m. I finally arrived home. I found a home for my groceries, hanging the pantsuit on the coat tree by the front door for now, and managed to shovel a piece of leftover pizza into my mouth as I wiped down the counters and folded the grocery sacks, putting them in the recycling bin next to the bottles. And finishing my overly chewy meal, I tossed the napkin I wiped my hands on into the trash compactor, grabbed the suit and headed up the steps to find my slinkiest black dress.

I had every confidence that my night would go as I planned. I was used to getting what I wanted, and I made every effort to take care of my body and keep it in top shape so eyes would turn when I walked into a room, my curvy figure never failing me before. I squeezed myself into the mini-dress, making sure the hem was low enough and the elastic that held the strapless top up was high enough, while still leaving plenty of skin to ogle, and then I grabbed my black patent-leather pumps and some silver dangly earrings to top off the look before twisting my hair into a messy bun with just the right amount of crazy stray hairs.

A pop of lip gloss, a smidge of mascara and my clean look was finished. I smiled at my reflection as I passed the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall adjacent to my canopy bed. I looked amazing. Hippy, but not too busty. No muffin top. The small black clutch I carried would hold exactly what I needed, my debit card, some Molly, a small canister of pepper spray, and a condom. Everything else I needed was safely tucked away under my dress, including the Beretta BU 9 Nano safely holstered between my legs high enough that even the most observant of men would never know it there unless their hands did a bit of wandering.

Off I went to the club, the Déjà vu, live music or a DJ, lots of liquor, hot guys, very little competition when it came to the ladies. Exactly what the doctor ordered. My BMW always turned heads, and the fact that I was exceptionally gorgeous didn't hurt either. When I walked into the club I wasn't even carded or charged a cover fee. I knew the place well and the place knew me. Siphon, the bartender--not his real name--spotted me from the door and waved me over, already pouring the first round of fireball before I rocked up to him.

There were no available stools to sit on, so I stood next to tall dark and dorky, and a Middle Eastern man, whom I could tell knew very little English, though he was quite handsome. Siphon slid my drink in front of me and jerked his head up while holding up one finger my direction and grabbing three beers from a cooler. As I tipped up the drink, downing the entire contents at once, I saw him expertly pop the lids off all three beers at once on the corner of the bar and hand them to a new blonde waitress who wore her hair in pigtails. Then he headed my way, wiping his hands on the towel he'd had draped over his shoulder.

"So what's the prospects like tonight?" I asked. He knew my game.

"How about you take me up on my offer?" he replied, winking.

"I don't do relationships." I cocked an eyebrow up at him and tapped my glass on the bar, indicating I wanted a refill. He continued talking as he reached for the fireball.

"Who said anything about a relationship?" His cheeky smirk was more of an invitation than he'd ever offered, though he'd definitely offered. I shook my head at his flirting and scanned the crowd myself, hoping to spot a prospective lay as I reached into my clutch and extracted the tiny pill in its small plastic zipper bag. Just as I placed it on the tip of my tongue, Siphon filled my glass. I washed the pill down and looked back at him.

"You sure you won't take me up? I'm off in fifteen minutes. It would be an adventure." His hand lingered on the bar, and I had a brief impulse to allow my finger to graze his but decided against it.

"Listen, I like you, man. But you know how that would work out. One-night stand turns into every other weekend, turns into you living in my house, leaving crumbs in my bed, and using my bathroom as your personal urinal. I told you; I don't do relationships."

His smile stayed bright, but I could see the glimmer in his eyes fade away. Siphon liked me; his body language and eyes told me as much. I had known it since the first time I came to Déjà Vu as a college grad, fresh in from NYC with a doctorate and a new practice. This became my regular place to be on the weekends because he'd been so welcoming. And after his horrible break up with Becky Ann, the Amish-turned-English girl with the wild red hair and the personality to match, I'd watched him get really down, turning to alcohol for comfort. Lately he'd really perked up, and it appeared his life was getting back on track, but boy was it hard for him to find someone he deemed acceptable. If anyone was worse than me in that department it was definitely him.

I had no intention of settling down. Children were not in my future, nor was a spouse and a cushy family home. But Siphon, a.k.a. Lester Gerald Unger, had hopes. They were written across his forehead like the lights on a billboard on the side of I90 at midnight. They read: Date me at your own peril. I play for keeps.

"Why you gotta go breakin' a man's heart?" he joked. His hand did what mine could not, his fingers reaching out and brushing the tips of mine. I felt electricity shoot up my arm at his touch, a feeling I didn't dislike, but I knew his type, and I was not the Holly Homemaker he wanted. I knew that, and so did he, though I had my suspicions that he thought of me as a challenge to conquer--could he tame the savage beast and make her a loveable mother hen?