A glass-walled
restaurant, slowly revolving 800 feet
above the bright city lights of Las
Vegas seemed a far from ideal dining
experience for a man afraid of heights,
confined spaces and crowds.
"Agora-acro-claustrophobia?"
Valentine asked, eyebrows raised.
It sounded too ridiculous
to be true and, squeezed into a large
red Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, the
little man looked as if he should
be joking; he was the embodiment of the
Pillsbury doughboy on vacation. The
expression on his face, however, was as
sober as a ‘Mothers Against Drunk
Drivers' meeting.
Pillsbury took a
handkerchief from his pants-pocket and
dabbed at the sweat that ran like a
mountain spring from the dome of his
bald head. "I'm not sure that's a real
word, but yeah, it sums up the condition
pretty well."
"So what possessed you to
have dinner at the ‘Top of the World'
restaurant?" Valentine continued, hoping
conversation might distract the man from
his impending coronary.
"My psychiatrist said I
needed to face my fears," Pillsbury
said, unleashing another barrage of
finger-prods upon the elevator's call
button.
"Sound advice, no doubt,
but are you sure he meant you to face
them all at once?"
Pillsbury's hollow laugh
came devoid of humor. "It's quite funny
really, isn't it?"
"Not at all - I admire
your courage. To tell you the truth, I'm
scared shitless of rodents. There's no
way in hell you'd get me to face off
with three of them all at once."
Pillsbury drew his
longing stare away from the red digital
display of the elevator's control panel
and looked up at Valentine for the first
time. Amusement flashed behind the fear
in his eyes. Valentine checked over both
shoulders before leaning forward, as if
about to impart a national secret.
"I think my fear of being
savaged by a hamster is slightly more
pathetic than what you're facing right
now, don't you?"
The elevator dinked, the
doors opened and Pillsbury's fervor to
return to terra-firma was now in direct
conflict with his fear of entering a
small metal box, dangling by a wire at
the top of a long, narrow shaft.
"Come on, let's get this
show on the road," Valentine said,
rubbing his palms together. Pillsbury
took a deep breath and stepped inside.
A rotund woman in a gray
business suit and devil-red blouse
lunged towards them. Valentine faked
pressing the ‘Open' button and gave her
an apologetic smile as the doors swept
closed. Pillsbury's cheeks puffed out
like a trumpet player as air escaped
from between his clenched teeth in a
relieved hiss.
"Thanks. I hate enclosed
spaces. I hate sharing them, even more."
His anxiety level rose and ‘dome-head
spring' flowed freely again.
"Deep breaths, man. Deep
breaths," Valentine said. "Breath in,
breath out. Wax on, wax off." He placed
a calming hand on Pillsbury's shoulder
and a spark of static electricity arced
between them.
Pillsbury's name was Steve Falvey.
He was staying at the MGM Grand. He
lived in a small apartment in Pasadena
and earned a modest living designing
websites from the comfort of his own
living room. His fears were real and
extraordinarily acute. Although
Valentine couldn't immediately locate
their source, Steve's level of
self-control was striking, considering
the intensity of his anxiety.
Valentine removed his
hand from Steve's rounded shoulder and
the connection was gone without the man
knowing of the mental intrusion. Light
scans usually went unnoticed or at most,
left the subject with a vague sense of
somebody reading over their shoulder.
Steve continued to
struggle for composure, tugging at his
collar of his shirt and wiping his palms
on his pants. His cheeks turned rosy,
then scarlet; his breath grew quick and
shallow. He was on the verge of a total,
head-exploding, meltdown.
"I can probably help
you," Valentine said. The air crackled
and the faint smell of thunderstorms
filled the elevator. Polaroid flashes of
Steve's thoughts jumped into his head:
smoldering electrical wires; fraying
cables; a plummeting elevator. Placing a
hand on either side of Steve Falvey's
saturated face, Valentine drew him
closer, tilting his own head down so
that they stood nose to nose.
Bewildered, Steve tried to pull away but
Valentine held him effortlessly in
place. Great! Steve thought.
The walls are closing in, ready to
crush me to death, and this freakin'
‘Chippendale' wants to get it on with
me!
"Chippendale?" Valentine
said, offended. He decided his flowing
locks would have to go. Re-focusing his
attention on Steve Falvey's mind, he
began picking the locks. Falvey's eyes
dulled. He stopped struggling against
Valentine's grip and then his arm fell
limp at his side.
***
