Chapter 8

“Sounds like you’re suffering from anxiety, Sam,” Dr. Krupsky says, looking at me over the top of his glasses. A wisp of hair hangs down over his forehead. “I like the ginger ale going off in your head bit. You come up with that yourself?”

“I saw it on The Sopranos.”

“Good show.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Why am I having panic attacks?”

“Could be anything from shock to dehydration,” he says. He rubs his hands up and down his stubby legs. “We’re dealing with three things here, Sam,” he says, pulling on three fingers. “Serotonins, norepinephrines, dopamines. Don’t worry about the names. Sometimes they get out of whack. We use drugs to fix the problem. It’s a fiddle. See what I’m saying?”

“What sort of pills will he have to take?” Mary asks.

“He doesn’t have to take any,” Krupsky says. “I wouldn’t. I’m just saying it’s an option. What do you want to do, Sam?”

“I’d like to stop passing out.”

He puts his glasses up on his forehead. “So, sit down when it happens. Take up yoga.”

“What’s that going to do for me?”

“Calm you down.”

“And that’ll cure my panic attacks?”

“Who knows?” he shrugs. “Look, we’re human. You think you’re the only one? People come in here complaining about panic attacks all the time. I say, ‘Do meditation’. They say, ‘Give me a pill.’ What am I going to do? I give’m pills.”

“So he either takes a pill, or lives with it?” Mary asks.

“What’s so bad about yoga? Do it together. Add a little tantric sex.”

“Shouldn’t he stop drinking and smoking?”

“Sure he should,” Krupsky says. “Take away his nail clippers while you’re at it. Everything’s risky. He could die planting rose bushes.”

“Do you want the pills?” Mary asks me.

“I’m starting to wonder.”

“Sam, look,” Krupsky says. “If it bugs you so much, see a psychiatrist. Otherwise, do like the rest of us. Get lots of sleep and don’t be a big shot, wear a hat.” I button my shirt and Krupsky slaps me on the back. “You’ll live. Get out in the sun. Good source of vitamin D.”

He follows us out to the waiting room. “Any more episodes, call me. Now go forth and multiply.”

“We’ve already multiplied,” I say.

“Then I’m out of advice,” Krupsky says and goes back to his examining room with another patient.

Out on the street, I light a cigarette and stare at the sky.

“Krupsky’s got a point,” I say.

“What point?” Mary says. “He made tons of points.”

“Maybe I just have to live with it.”

“I can’t understand him half the time. Rose bushes?”

“He’s just saying anything is possible.” She takes my cigarette and throws it on the ground. “Littering,” I say.

“I’ll litter you in a minute.”

We stop at a bookstore and check out some yoga books. Mary chooses ones with lots of pictures. Most of the positions look painful as hell. What’s the point of putting your foot behind your head?

We go home and Mary shows the books to Judy. Muller’s making dinner. Tomato sauce bubbles on the stove and garlic bread warms in the oven. Judy licks her thumb as she turns the pages. “We could do this, Muller,” she says. “It doesn’t look that hard.”

Muller comes over, wiping his hands on his shirt. His stomach falls over the back of her chair. “I don’t know if I’m up for that, Jude.”

“Well, I want to try.” She takes the book in the living room and sits on the rug. Mary changes her clothes and joins her. They find a page with warm-up stretches. Muller and I watch.

“Are you two just going to stand there?” Mary says.

Judy’s trying to sit cross-legged. “Either get down here or quit staring,” she says.

Muller and I go out on the porch instead. I get the bottle of whiskey and fill the trophy cups. Muller sips and sighs like a buffalo.

“I don’t know what Judy wants anymore,” he says.

“I thought she wanted kids?”

“I can’t even get a stiffy.”

“I didn’t need to hear that.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re saying. I still didn’t need to hear that.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re talking to your father-in-law here.”

“I just don’t know what do, Sam. Judy finds fault with everything these days. She even pulled out all my pot plants before we left. Why would she do that?”

“Women don’t want distractions. They want babies.”

“But grass makes me horny.”

“Cut it out, for chrissake. That’s my daughter you’re talking about. I don’t need to know about your sex life. Especially stiffies.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop saying you’re sorry.”

Now he’s got me worrying about my own stiffy.