Breathing

It’s very easy to get stuck—much harder to intentionally get stuck. About five minutes ago the ringing started. News rooms aren’t supposed to have alarms go off like this—what if it interrupts the show? Has no one thought about silent alarms? I swear I only work with morons who’ve never heard of the word Solutions. 

This is only the second alarm I’ve ever heard in this building. This is the first time I’ve been stuck in a supply closet. There’s a lack of air in here. But, ten minutes ago things seemed fine. I was walking to go give the scripts to Paul; it was early, and that’s when he usually wants them. He even wrote it on his office door:

Paul Schumacher

CEO

Better Early Than Late

Strange to make that your whole thing. My door says Dan Strider and Mary Walberg. I have to share. I’ve been here for eight years, five more than Paul has, and I still share an office. And I think Paul is beginning to notice when I walk past him, or when I speak to him, or when I am remotely near him breathing in the same air as him—my eyes must give it away.

*

The alarm is vibrating the storage closet. There’s a rolling thunder of footsteps passing by the door as well. It’s a musty little place. There’s a little dingy iridescent light hanging on a string in here but I can barely see. It reeks of manila file folders. I swear I’m breathing out that tangy-orange colour. Rather quickly I should add. Rapid even. 

“Hey I swear to GOD Dan,” Paul intrudes,  “if you don’t walk out of that storage closet in the next five seconds I’ll have you shot! I’m skipping right over any kind of job termination—not even gonna give you that option.” A moment passes and silence draws. “Okay, yeah, I’m not going to shoot you… but if you don’t have that door open in—”

“I’ve tried the door for fuck sakes!” I say, leaning forward from my spot in the corner on the floor.  My voice is already growing hoarse. Trying to convey information this way is exhausting. With the alarm and all. 

“Jesus Christ,” Paul says, as I picture him throwing his lanky arms up into the air. There’s loud shuffling. I heard panic attacks come in waves. He probably has a posse surrounding him. Do they know what panic attacks look like? He always has a posse. They actually seem to like the guy.

Our office, or I should say, the news room, is really not that big. Everything’s analog and sometimes with Paul’s cigar smoke it feels like the goddamn 70s. One time I tried sending Paul a digital copy of an article and it ended by quickly being the last. Paper copies are all we use.This means the only scripts of mine that exist are the ones in paper, in my hand, in this folder. And Paul needs them oh so badly. He has been running out of air to breathe every time he has talked about in the last few days. Even our anchors, as useless as they are, are excited about it. But, that’s no real excitement. Paul doesn’t really care. Nor do our anchors. The only reason they can pretend to sound coherent is because of me. No amount of pasty makeup or heel lifts can fix that. It’s my scripts that make them only slightly likeable. But Paul has never seen it that way, my way. 

“You have those scripts don’t you?” Paul screams through the door, reminding me my heart’s in my chest.

“Yes, Jesus, I have the goddamn scripts!” 

“If we open that door and you don’t have those scripts—”

“How many times do you have to hear this? I needed to grab a folder, so I came in here, and I grabbed a folder, and I put the scripts in the folder, and now the fucking door is locked and all I have to show for that is a set of scripts in a fucking manila filing folder!” Every new word I speak comes with a new rinsing of sweat down my back. 

“You watch your goddamn tone,” Paul clarifies. 

The room seems to be breathing at the same rate I am. The air feels thick.

I’ve heard panic attacks happen to lots of people—I’ve read up on it and it starts with a person experiencing a lot of stressful things at once, and usually, but not always, a combination of a lack of sleep, food, water, and stuff like that, but every so often it happens to a person who takes really good care of themselves and their heart, even though it’s working well, will begin to kind of swell back and forth, back and forth but if we’re all being honest with each other it’s more like a jackhammer. Sometimes, even if the heart is pumping double the resting rate, it will feel slow. It will go up, punch your ribcage, and slam back into the backside of your ribcage. It happens a lot, I’ve heard. 

We go on air in five minutes. We’re definitely pushing it. It’ll be obvious. Won’t it be?

*

I don’t really know what our audience looks like. I don’t want to picture them. All I’d find is blobs without faces and minds without souls. We only do reruns of stories that have already been covered. We copy and steal from other stations, which makes our show good for those who have dementia. Maybe also, but probably primarily, idiots. 

Paul is pacing his all-bone legs on the other side of that door, or so I assume.

“Don’t you have a spare key or something?” I say.

“A spare what? Key? Are you a fuc— just wait a second. Don’t move,” Paul says.

The alarm is beginning to drown out my hearing. The scripts are beginning to get wet from my own sweat. It pools on the top of my head and clambers down my face and sticks to my hands and lurches from my ears. I look like I’m crying. I’m sure it does. It’s impossible to tell. My shirt is drooping more and more with every second that passes. How long has passed exactly? Did someone turn up the heat? Maybe that alarm tripped something else. I don’t know anymore. The footsteps that have come in waves have stopped almost completely. Now, only an alarm violates me. 

“Okay, I think we’re gonna grab some kind of like, I-don’t-know, crowbar. Someone’s grabbing it. You have those scripts, don’t you, Dan?” 

“Paul, how many times do I have to tell you?” Do I think he knows I’m lying? I don’t know. I mean, I have the scripts. But won’t it be obvious? Maybe he’s been catching on for weeks that I never planned to give him these scripts. He doesn’t deserve it. No one here deserves this. I am a writer for fucks sake, and I don’t think anyone really knows that. No one should breathe the same air as me. I mean, all we do is cover puff pieces for fuck sakes. And finally, a month ago, I brought something real to Paul. The first of a kind. This is how that went:

“You’ve got what, Dan?” Paul said, standing behind his thick, floor to top, mahogany desk.

“I know, it’s a bit hard to believe,” I answer back.

“Hard to believe? For fucks sake, it sounds goddamn Orwellian. Did you…?”

Paul’s watch shone bright gold across the room. It was practically the only thing that gave this hollow mahogany-plated room any glow. 

“Yeah, yeah, I… it’s not exactly all ‘on the book’ if you—” 

“Eeup,” Paul said, bringing his tightly closed fist up to eyelevel. “You’ve got the story. We can worry about logistics later.”

His body had a resounding plump-like sound when he fell into his leather desk chair. A box of cigars found their way up and out into our hands. 

“Have I ever told you about the time I was a hunter,” Paul said, leaning forward alongside his maniacal grin. His limbs draped among his desk like they had their own plan.

“No, sir.”

“I was a great, great hunter,” he said, taking a moment to watch his smoke curl. “It was unbelievable. I never missed. Every shot found its place. I put every shot where it needed to be.” 

The smoke continued to dance in circles while mine fell limp to the floor.

“That’s very nice, sir,” I responded. 

He got up from his chair and began escorting me out of the room that swapped its breathable air for cigar smoke. “You’ve finally come out of your little shell, haven’t you?” Paul said. “Out of your so-called ‘box’ with this story of yours, hm?”

I nodded briskly, and just before he closed the door for good he leaned back out: “Well, ya know, I did have to give up hunting some years ago. Just… not what it used to be.” 

His teeth shimmered a pale yellow before his nameplate and slogan became my only view.

*

I wish I could see the gleam and glow in his eyes now. Just once more. When I got him this story he turned down so much money because I’m the only one with these words, with these ideas, with these headlines. Of course everyone wants a piece of it. But, no, Paul turned them all down. This is what “gets us even,” Paul said. But maybe he could see it in my eyes. His skepticism right now maybe doesn’t feel that misplaced I guess.

“You ready, Dan?”

What time is it again? Why can’t I feel my fingers?

“We’re gonna count to three, and then—just make sure you’re standing back as far as you can, okay? Dan?”

I say something or other in the affirmative though I can’t recall what. They’ll know though. They must. For months they must’ve known. I’ve been nothing but goody-two-shoes for the last eight years. More so the last five. Maybe they all knew this was going to happen? The crowbar is assaulting the door and its wood that tears like cardboard. What time is it? Are we on the air yet? What stage of panic attacks feel like dying? I don’t think I read that anywhere. The snapping of that door frame is louder than the alarm; it’s stronger than the manila file folders odor; it’s bigger than my lies, my worries, my threats and my assumptions. What kind of writer am I anyway? Do I really have any stamina? They’re all clawing inside—a pile of hands reach out at me to give my corporal punishment. The door pulls out towards the hall. Morning light smothers my eyes. Won’t it be obvious? The door slams open and a wooden chair collapses and snaps just like the door. A chair. Why didn’t I sit in the chair? Doors don’t need chairs to stay closed, that’s what the lock’s for. Silly me. Why are they looking at me like that? Sweating is normal guys, c’mon. It’s actually healthy to sweat. Here’s the scripts… where’re the scripts? Hey guys can you help me find the… what am I looking for? Why’re you grabbing at me? Are you okay?

*

I remember lying on the floor very still. I remember a line of faces coming in and out of my vision. I remember being yelled at. I remember a second alarm, one coming from inside my own skull. 

Our show never made it to air. The scripts never made it out of my hands. They were never really there to begin with. They exist but I forget where. They are real, and I swear on that.

It was an intern that tripped the alarm apparently. It meant nothing. I’ve never heard that alarm before. It wasn’t a fire alarm. I don’t know what it was. But, it doesn’t matter. They had to take me to the hospital. That’s where I am now. My heart nearly exploded. That’s what they told me anyway. It doesn’t matter. I was fired on the spot, but I only figured that out an hour ago. 

Balloons and a vase of flowers now sit on my right, and there’s empty, white wall, space to my left. A window lets in just the recommended amount of sunlight and nothing more. My doctor—I think, anyway—is here.

“How are you feeling Mr. Strider?” My doctor says. He walks with a stutter and breathes out deeply once he finds himself a seat.

“Fine, I guess.” 

“Well, we’re going to send you home with some stuff that should help you with your panic attacks in the future, okay?”

He flips mindlessly through his notebook, his glasses nearly hanging off his face. He doesn’t even care. 

“Panic attacks?” I ask.

“Sir, you suffered a severe panic attack. That’s why you’re here.”

“No, I was having a heart attack.”

“The nurses can answer any more of the questions you might have,” the doctor answers with a cough.

Just as quickly as he showed up, he disappeared. 

I can’t tell if I feel regret yet. I know I never had those scripts. Never for them anyway. But it simply didn’t matter, did it? It’s hard to say. All I’ve done is feel tired today. It’s something more than this, whatever this is. This room feels cold and barren. I’m isolated, but against my will. There’s no real air in here. Nothing usable.

“Hey did you,” my nurse starts as he walks into my room, “see that story? It just broke on the news. Did you? Why don’t you have the TV on? Are you feeling okay?”

I only woke the next day. I remember seeing a TV. I remember seeing the nurse. I remember seeing the window. I remember naming two more things I could see.