A COUPLE OF weeks ago, the Phoenix newsroom received a suspicious item of mail. It was a typed postcard, splotched with Wite-Out, no return address. The card was angry in tone, but there was nothing unusual about that. What was troubling was the note’s ending: a reference to anthrax and the line "Boston is good place to get out of." It wasn’t so much that the sentence ended with a preposition; it was the lack of an article before "good" that had us spooked. And, of course, that so-called Wite-Out. In a misguided attempt to calm people’s nerves, I grabbed the card and wagged it in front of my face.
"See," I said. "Nothing to worry about."
It wasn’t until an hour or so later, when the fingers of the hand with which I had held the card began to tingle and then go numb, that I myself became the worryingest person in Boston. I was riding in a cab at the time, on my way to a bar with my co-worker Mike. "I’ve got it," I kept saying, "I’ve got it," holding my hand up in front of my face like a claw. "I’ve got it." Mike, who had also handled the letter, concurred. We both had it, and we were screwed.
As Mike and I wondered aloud what the side effects of Cipro might be, the cab driver seemed to be engaging in a little localized terrorism of his own. At one point I happened to gaze beyond my plague-ridden fingers and was astonished to see an intersection hurtling toward us. Suddenly, the world came into focus. The cab groaned and juddered — like a ship whose hull was scraping the bottom of the sea. The driver, meanwhile, showed no sign of slowing down — ever. For the first time in weeks I thought, "We’re going to die" — as opposed to "We’re all going to die."
It was during the remainder of this white-knuckle journey that the truth hit me: none of us in that cab, including the cab driver, had particularly cared about the approaching intersection. The prospect of a traffic-related injury simply hadn’t occurred to us. In this, we were exhibiting symptoms of what is rapidly becoming a national neurosis: Osama-bin-phobia. The terrorists haven’t only filled us with dread, they’ve turned the survival instinct on its head. They’ve left us with a form of self-defeating self-interest. Americans are so busy being vigilant about the Terrorist Threat that we’re in danger of failing to look both ways when we cross the road, chopping our fingers off while preparing dinner, or tumbling headfirst down flights of stairs. We have effectively forgotten that peril is all around us, in countless forms. Osama bin Laden is but one of the many pianos waiting to drop on our heads.
I recently kept a diary of a 24-hour period, taking care to note events that could have resulted in death or serious injury. I was astounded by the results. Indeed, I was astounded that I was still here to be astounded by the results. Terrorism, I learned, could very well be the least of our worries.
6 a.m. It’s an ordinary day. I wake up feeling a bit bleary — as I always do after a night of sleep apnea. I get up and trot to the bathroom, toe-punting my dog, Yappi, on the way. It’s dark — there’s a bulb out — and I mistakenly pick up a tube of bonding cement instead of toothpaste. When I’ve finished cleaning my teeth (gargling turpentine gets most of the glue off), I jump into a hot bath and scream. Forty gallons of cold water and a tube of antibiotic cream later, I step gingerly into a now-warm tub.
6:30 a.m. As I listen to America Strikes Back on my radio — conveniently located on the edge of the tub — I fall asleep. I wake to a lungful of water and the screech of the smoke alarm. My circa-1960s pop-up toaster has set the bread on fire again. I leap up, grabbing the shower curtain for balance, and tear into the kitchen, where a pot of water barely gets the electrical fire under control.
7 a.m. Despite the flaming toaster, it’s a chilly morning, so I spark up the kerosene heater that’s been sitting out in the garage all summer. (Wasn’t it only a few weeks ago I’d spent hour after hour sizzling in the sun?) To fortify myself against the cold, I cook up a hearty breakfast: tea, three eggs sloppy-side up, pork sausages, blood pudding, fried bread, and a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes. Though still somewhat frozen in the middle, the sausages (left over from last Easter, I think) are sublime. I round things off with a smoke.
7:45 a.m. Before I leave for work, I decide I’ll change that light bulb — six months in the dark is a bit much. I don’t have a stepladder, so I balance a stool on top of my antique coffee table — careful to place a protective towel between the stool and the table’s veneer (I’m not stupid) — and clamber up. The job’s trickier than I had anticipated, and I spill quite a lot of my tea. In the end, I have to remove the old bulb with a fork. I drop the new one when Yappi jumps up and starts scratching at my ankles.
8:15 a.m. Having given up on the bulb, I reward myself with a swig of Robitussin and go down to my workshop, taking great pains to remember which of the basement steps are rotted through. Then I light a cigarette, fire up the buzz saw, and fashion Yappi a chew toy from a piece of asbestos. As I work, the ancient boiler burps and gurgles beside me. I fiddle with a few spigots, but that just seems to make matters worse. But I do manage to block up one flame-licked crack with some lint from the clothes dryer.
8:45 a.m. Doing all these chores has set me back, so I barely have time for my daily auto-asphyxiation session.
8:48 a.m. Panting, I run down the stairs three at a time and fall headfirst into the door. Picking shards of glass from my hair, I make a mental note to get the linoleum fixed. As if this weren’t enough of a scare, as I’m crossing the road outside my house a car screeches to a halt just inches from me, its driver leaning heavily on the horn. Honestly, if I hadn’t been wearing my headphones the incident would have given me a heart seizure. Then the driver — an undershirted, shaven-headed behemoth — has the temerity to get out and call me an asshole. Well, I tell him. "Who’s going to kick whose ass?" I hiss. Just then, I spot the bus, so I have to run like mad, which only leads to more screeching tires, more blaring horns. It’s incredible how many obnoxious drivers there are out there.
