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.