Gerascophobia
On a blustery November afternoon, Lionel Penn pulled his MG into one of the few vacant spots in Meyer Funeral Home's parking lot and turned the engine off.
"Thanks for coming down to Falmouth with me today," he told Dr. Sarah Ryerson, who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him. "You know how much I hate going to these things."
"I'm always willing to tag along, especially when there's something in it for me," the emergency room physician said with a playful grin.
"Oh? And what's that?"
"There's a great little restaurant here on the Cape, not far from ...."
Sarah stopped speaking. Her attention was diverted from the psychiatrist to a man standing outside the entrance of the funeral home, smoking a cigarette.
"Isn't that ...? Yes, it is. Oh, my God! I can't believe he's here!"
Lionel turned to look at the man who seemed to have captivated Sarah.
"You mean him? That's just Chad Renner."
"You actually know him?"
"Sure. We went to the same college, although he was a year behind me. How do you know him?"
"He was a model for Armani. His photographs were everywhere: magazines, television commercials, billboards, even in Times Square. I can't believe you didn't know that."
"You know me. I'm not into designer fashions," Lionel said.
"For the past five years, he has been the star of his own reality show."
"Really? What's it about?"
"About being a rich, good-looking, single guy living in L.A."
"Don't tell me you watch it?"
"I've seen a few episodes," Sarah replied self-consciously. "When there's nothing else on."
"Come on. I'll introduce you to him."
By the time the two doctors walked across the parking lot, however, the former male model had finished his cigarette and gone back inside the building.
When Lionel opened the front door of the funeral parlor, he was surprised to see that the place was packed with mourners. Although there were a large number of people in attendance, no one was standing near the casket. Thus, Lionel and Sarah had no difficulty getting close enough to view the body.
"Damn, he got old!" a familiar voice announced.
Sarah turned to see Chad Renner standing beside her companion.
"It's Lionel, isn't it?" the celebrity asked, shaking his old schoolmate's hand.
"Good to see you again, Chad. This is Dr. Sarah Ryerson."
"Nice to meet you, Doctor."
"Likewise."
God! He's gorgeous! Sarah thought, feeling her pulse race when their hands touched.
"So Old Man Milstead finally kicked the bucket?" the reality TV star said disrespectfully. "He must have been pushing a hundred."
"No," Lionel replied. "He was only seventy-eight."
"Really? Hell, I thought he was in his seventies back when we were in college. I always remember him as an old man."
"That's because we were in our late teens and early twenties. It's hard to believe we were so young once, isn't it?"
A brief frown momentarily clouded Chad's handsome features. The psychiatrist had obviously touched a sore spot.
As Lionel and Sarah walked away to pay their respects to the widow, the actor took a seat at the far end of the room where, bored, he examined the faces of Dr. Milstead's former students. Many of them he remembered by face if not by name. Time had not been kind to the majority of them, particularly the men. Wrinkles, receding hairlines, beer bellies and graying hair were the norm not the exception. No one was spared the indignities of advancing time, not the class president, the prom king or the captain of the football team. Although all were self-professed "babe magnets" in their day, there was nothing attractive about any of them now.
Despite having no desire to stroll down memory lane himself, he could not help overhearing snippets of conversations of the mourners standing and sitting in his vicinity. The topics discussed sounded more like those at a college reunion than at a funeral. Former students talked about classmates they had not communicated with or even thought about in years. It seemed as though every other sentence began with the words "I wonder whatever became of ...." Too often the reply was, "Oh, didn't you know? He"—or she—"passed away."
Feeling the need to escape the morbid atmosphere, Chad went back outside for another cigarette.
I really ought to quit smoking, he thought as he shielded the flame of his cigarette lighter with his hand. These things are going to kill me.
A biting wind caused him to shiver and pull his collar up around his neck. What had ever possessed him to leave sunny Southern California and travel to Cape Cod in November? Did he really want to spend Thanksgiving with his brother and sister-in-law?
As he puffed away on his Marlboro, inhaling all those deadly carcinogens, he watched several trees swaying in the wind. Most of their limbs were bare, but a few stalwart leaves clung to their branches. They were no doubt following Dylan Thomas's advice to "not go gentle into that goodnight." While Chad watched them desperately clinging for their life, thoughts whirled around his brain like the brown, brittle leaves that blew on the ground at his feet.
Foremost in his mind was his own future. The ratings on his show had been steadily dropping, and the network was debating cancelling the series at the end of the season. If it did, that left him in a precarious situation. He was too old to go back to modeling, and he had little hope of finding a serious acting job.
I'll wind up like them, he thought, referring to his former classmates inside the funeral home.
His only hope was to boost the ratings on his show. But how?
After extinguishing his cigarette, he went back inside the funeral home. He sat in an empty seat next to Lionel Penn who was talking with one of Dr. Milstead's former colleagues.
"Is your practice limited to treating phobias?" the chemistry professor asked his former student.
"No," Lionel replied. "I see other patients, as well."
"You're a psychiatrist then?" Chad inquired. "I thought you were going to be a surgeon."
"I changed my mind. My first year in medical school I met a man with a fear of dogs. It was the worst case of cynophobia I've ever seen. He would have a panic attack if an Alpo commercial came on television. I became fascinated with these extreme fears. Just google the word phobia and see how many there are. People are terrified of harmless, everyday items from telephones to string to flowers."
"My personal favorite is phobophobia," Sarah added.
"What's that?"
"The fear of fear."
Chad smiled politely at the physician's attempt to lighten the mood, but Lionel had ignited a spark in his mind, and he was busy mentally adding kindling to the idea.
* * *
On the Monday after the four-day holiday weekend, Lionel walked into his office with two large cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Judy Stanfield, his administrative assistant.
"Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?" he asked.
"Yes and no. Yes, I loved spending time with my family and being away from the office—no offence. And no because I slaved in the kitchen, ate myself into a Thanksgiving turkey-induced stupor and then took on the early morning crowds on Black Friday."
"Do like I do: shop online," Lionel suggested.
"How was your holiday?"
"Good. Sarah and I went over to my sister's house for an old-fashioned family feast. After we ate, she and April watched Christmas movies upstairs while Tom and I watched football downstairs."
"Men!" Judy exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, speaking of men. You got a telephone call from an old friend who would like you to take him on as a new patient."
"Do I have any room on my calendar?"
"For this one, I'll find room."
"Who is it?"
"Chad Renner."
"Ah! So you're taken with the former Armani model, too? I just saw him at a funeral last week. I wonder why he didn't say anything to me then about having a problem."
"Maybe he was too embarrassed to mention it at the time."
"That's possible. Not only was the room packed with people, but Sarah was sitting next to me, hanging on to every word he said."
"I don't blame her," Judy declared. "If I had been there, I wouldn't have been able to take my eyes off him."
Later that afternoon one of Lionel's regular patients, a man who suffered from chiraptophobia (the fear of being touched), cancelled his appointment due to illness. In his place, Judy scheduled Chad Renner.
"Nice place you've got here," the incredibly handsome reality star said when he was shown into the psychiatrist's office. "Heavy into the nautical theme, huh? As I recall, in college you liked to go sailing."
"I still do. There's nothing I like more than spending the day on my boat. But enough about me. What did you want to see me about?"
"I was hoping you could help me get rid of my fear of growing old."
Lionel stared at the man sitting across the desk from him, wondering if he was serious or joking.
"I think everyone is afraid of getting old," he said.
"Not like me. I suffer from an overpowering, irrational fear of aging. It's gotten so bad that I have difficulty sleeping at night."
The psychiatrist bristled. Had the television star come to him with a phony ailment in an attempt to coax a prescription from him?
"Psychotherapy can take months or even years. Since you live in Los Angeles, it might be more practical for you to find a doctor out there."
"I've looked at the credentials of a number of psychiatrists on the West Coast, but apparently you're considered the expert in treating phobias. Right now my show is on hiatus. We don't start filming again until March. If you agree to take me on as a patient, I'll find myself a room to rent nearby until then. Look, I'm not expecting a miracle, and I don't want to impose on an old college classmate. I'm just a man asking a doctor for help."
Against his better judgment Lionel agreed to treat Chad Renner.
* * *
Lionel escorted Sarah to Puritan Falls Hospital's annual staff Christmas party held at Chez Pierre. The emergency room physician felt like Cinderella. Having cast off her lab coat and flat shoes, she was dressed in a floor-length royal blue gown and high heels. It was the consensus of the attendees that she and the psychiatrist, decked out in a formal tuxedo, made quite a handsome couple on the dance floor.
The two sat down at their table with three other couples when the appetizer was served. During the dinner's first course, Sarah noticed that her date seemed uncharacteristically quiet. After the salad dishes were taken away, the three other couples resumed dancing, leaving Sarah and Lionel sitting alone with their drinks.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. "You're not yourself this evening."
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "My mind is on my work."
"Is there a patient you're worried about?"
"Yes."
"Someone who needs to be committed?"
"Oh, no. It's nothing like that. In fact, I'm not sure he needs treatment at all."
"Then why worry about him?"
"It's Chad Renner. He's now a patient of mine."
"Are you kidding?" Sarah asked with surprise.
"He claims he suffers from gerascophobia, or the fear of growing old."
"I'm not surprised. He's an actor. I imagine losing his looks presents a serious threat to his career. There's just so much facelifts and Botox can do."
"Chad has convinced himself—or rather, he's trying to convince me—that his fear is a full-blown phobia. He claims to have most of the symptoms, but I just don't believe him. It's like he's acting the role of a person in need of help, and he's not doing a very good job of it."
"Why would he pretend to have a phobia when he doesn't?"
"At first I thought he was trying to get drugs, but he hasn't asked me for anything. Anyway," Lionel said, wanting to conclude the conversation and put Chad Renner out of his mind for the evening, "for now, I'll continue treating him as though he really has an illness. But if I discover his phobia is nothing but an act, I'll drop him as a patient—old college acquaintance or not."
* * *
Lionel saw his famous patient twice a week throughout the months of December and January. At the conclusion of his first appointment in February, Chad brought up a question that took the doctor by surprise.
"I was talking to my producer," he began. "He would like to send a camera crew with me to my appointments with you."
"That's highly unorthodox!" Lionel exclaimed. "I'm afraid I can't allow it."
"Why not?"
"Psychotherapy must be based on complete honesty and the patient's trust in his doctor. That's why our sessions are conducted under the strictest confidentiality."
"I know all about my right to privacy," the patient assured him. "I'll sign a release."
A look of annoyance crossed Lionel's face as he finally ascertained the actor's motivation for seeking psychiatric treatment.
"This has all been about your reality show, hasn't it?" Lionel demanded to know.
"I admit my falling ratings played a part in my coming to see you, but I really am afraid of getting old."
"I'll have Mrs. Stanfield cancel the rest of your appointments," the psychiatrist announced, looking at a seascape hanging on the wall rather than at his patient.
"You mean you're not going to treat me anymore?"
"Treat you? There's nothing wrong with you!" Lionel exclaimed.
The doctor closed his eyes, took several deep breaths and tried to control his temper.
"There are many people who actually need my help. I can no longer waste my time listening to your lies."
"All right," Chad said with a smug smile. "I've got two months' worth of material I can use right here."
He put his hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew a microcassette recorder.
"You recorded our sessions?"
"My lawyer assured me that doctor-patient confidentiality is meant to protect me, not you. If I want to make our sessions public, that's my prerogative. See you around, Doc. Oh, and give my regards to Sarah Ryerson. If I weren't going back to L.A., I might ask her out."
As Chad had suspected, once he revealed on his show that he suffered from gerascophobia, the ratings went up. Sarah and Lionel had mixed feelings about his using the excerpts from the taped sessions on air. The former was disappointed and the later was grateful that his name was not mentioned.
"I'll bet the reason why they never refer to you by name is that they would have to pay you if they say your name on the air."
"They can keep their money." Lionel said as he lit the kindling in his living room fireplace. "I want nothing to do with either Renner or his reality show."
"Are you sure? You might become famous," Sarah teased.
"No, thank you. I prefer to live in obscurity. If you want to date a TV star, I suppose you'll just have to wait for Chad to come back to town."
"If it's all the same to you, I'll stick with the Old Man in the Sea," she said, nuzzling against the ruggedly handsome psychiatrist as the fire began to dispel the chill in the room.
* * *
When Chad was called into his producer's office, the TV star expected good news. Thanks to his going public in regards to his treatment for gerascophobia, his ratings increased dramatically. He was fairly certain the reason for the meeting was to announce that his show had been renewed for another year. When he was directed by the secretary to the conference room and saw the show's writers in attendance, he was taken by surprise.
"What's up?" he asked.
"I thought we should all meet and hash out our ideas for the series finale," Rob Lambie, the show's producer, replied.
"You mean season finale, don't you?"
"No. The network didn't renew the show. I thought you already knew that."
"But surely now that the ratings have gone up ...."
"That was temporary, I'm afraid. They're going down again."
"I don't see how. I've got more followers on Facebook and Twitter than ever before, not to mention the deluge of fan mail I receive."
"The network doesn't care about social media. They're only interested in keeping the sponsors happy."
"Look, I was the one who came up with the phobia angle, and it paid off. Let me think of something else. I'm sure I can think of another way to boost the show's ratings."
"Reality TV is a fickle business. Consider yourself lucky you had five good years. Viewers once couldn't get enough of Growing Up Gotti, Hogan Knows Best, Gene Simmons Family Jewels, The Osbournes and others. Now where are they? Not everyone has the longevity of the Kardashians."
"Well, I'm not giving up so easily. I'll think of something."
"Until you do, let's talk about a series finale. If we've gotta go out, let's go out with a bang!"
Although Chad remained in the conference room for the entirety of the meeting, he contributed nothing to the brainstorming session. As usual, the producer lacked vision and the writers showed no imagination. After two unproductive hours, Lambie called an end to the meeting.
"You have six more episodes left," he told the actor, by way of sage advice. "Enjoy them and move on to something else."
"Like what? I'm not likely to replace Daniel Craig as the next James Bond, and I'm too old to go back to modeling."
"There's always money to be made in commercials."
When Chad got behind the wheel of his Porsche 911 Targa 4, a wave of frustration came over him.
"Commercials!" he said as though the word left a bad taste in his mouth. "That's about as helpful as my agent suggesting I do a season on Dancing with the Stars!"
As the sports car's engine roared to life, the stereo began playing the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper CD. Halfway through "When I'm Sixty-Four," he remembered once reading that Paul McCartney wrote that song when he was sixteen years old. Now he was seventy-five.
Fighting off an onslaught of self-pity, Chad headed for the Santa Monica Freeway, which would take him to the Pacific Coast Highway and home to Malibu.
Maybe I really do suffer from gerascophobia, he thought as he maneuvered the Targa through traffic. The thought of getting old depresses the hell out of me. I can't imagine being sixty-four much less seventy-five!
Chad was deep in thought as the next three songs played. He considered using the Internet to appeal directly to his fans. Maybe a letter-writing campaign would convince the network to renew his show. Had such an effort ever worked in the past? He doubted it.
There must be something I can do!
At that moment, he heard the song playing on the stereo; it was "A Day in the Life." Lennon's voice and lyrics brought several images to the actor's mind in quick succession. The first was of the four Beatles walking across Abbey Road, supposedly representing a funeral procession with barefoot Paul as the corpse. The second was a license plate on a VW Beetle that read 28IF, signifying that Paul would be twenty-eight years old if he were still alive. These and other visual images from other albums as well as select lyrics from the group's songs were putative clues that Paul McCartney had died in a car accident.
Maybe I should fake my death, Chad thought, resorting to black humor. That might boost the ratings. What's that old line, something about dying young and leaving behind a good-looking corpse?
By the time he pulled the Porsche into the driveway of his beach house, the humorous aspects of his statement had faded away and he was convinced he had found a way to save his show.
* * *
"Let me get this straight," Lambie said when Chad pitched his idea to him. "You want to plan your suicide and funeral on the air. What are you going to do for the finale, shoot yourself in the head? Hang yourself from a ceiling beam?"
"I'm not really going to kill myself. It's only a plot for the show. That's all. Just like the gerascophobia scenario wasn't real."
The producer drummed his fingers on the desk as he considered the absurd suggestion.
"Suicide has always been a taboo subject," he said. "Impressionable minds—especially young ones—might get the idea to follow suit. We don't want to open ourselves up to a lawsuit."
"That's what disclaimers are for."
"That's true. And God knows reality TV is already saturated with shows about housewives, washed-up celebrities, families with way too many children, morbidly obese people, men with multiple wives and midgets—or whatever politically correct phrase is used today to refer to little people."
"My concept is unique. You have to admit that," Chad said, trying to tempt the producer. "You'd get the reputation of being a maverick. No one else has ever taken on the concept of ars moriendi."
"Do I want to know that that means?"
"Ars moriendi is Latin for 'the art of dying' and refers to a good death, that is one of acceptance, a planned and peaceful exit from life."
Lambie's fingers stopped drumming.
"Let me run the idea past the network's legal department, and I'll get back to you."
This time when Chad left the producer's office and got behind the wheel of his Porsche, there was a wide smile on his face. As he headed for the freeway, he even sang along with Sir Paul.
"Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I'm sixty-four."
Three days later an ecstatic Chad Renner received a telephone call from Rob Lambie, informing him that the network had agreed to his proposal.
* * *
Lionel Penn walked into the Green Man Pub and spotted Sarah Ryerson sitting at a table, talking to Shannon Devlin, the proprietor.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he apologized, taking the seat opposite his dinner date.
"You're not late; I'm early."
"I was just telling Sarah I saw something on the news about your old friend," Shannon told him.
"Which old friend is that?"
"Chad Renner."
"I may have gone to school with him, but I wouldn't consider him a friend," Lionel said with a stern look on his usually pleasant face. "Especially after that damned stunt he pulled: claiming to have gerascophobia just to boost his ratings."
"Have you heard what he's up to now?" Shannon asked.
The two doctors indicated that they had not.
"I'm surprised. He's created quite a fuss in the media. It seems he's decided he wants to die young and leave behind a good-looking corpse."
"That's a famous line from an old movie," Lionel pointed out. "He isn't the first person to have quoted it."
"Oh, but he really means it. He's going to plan his own death and funeral on his television show."
"I swear! People will watch anything these days," Sarah opined.
"Apparently, a lot of people are taking his claims seriously," Shannon explained. "Parents groups are up in arms, afraid their teenage children might want to take their own lives. Then there are the right-wingers and religious groups demanding his show be taken off the air."
"The hoopla will only make his ratings go up, which is probably all that Chad wants," Lionel suggested. "In my opinion, he's not the suicidal type. He loves himself too much."
The psychiatrist was proved right. The more controversy the reality show generated, the more people tuned in to watch it. Soon, it was the number one rated television program on the air, even surpassing HBO's popular Game of Thrones. Whatever personal qualms the network or the sponsors may have had about suicide, they could not argue with the show's success.
* * *
After filming the season finale—a cliff-hanger that ended with Chad being taken off to the psychiatric ward and placed on a suicide watch—the actor decided once again to head back east and spend Thanksgiving with his brother and sister-in-law in Barnstable. He was so overjoyed by his good fortune that not even the cold weather bothered him.
"I've recently received generous offers to guest star on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and NCIS: Los Angeles," he proudly announced to his sibling as they sat down to the turkey dinner. "I might also host a segment of Saturday Night Live. My agent told me there's even a good deal of interest in having me star in a feature film."
"And you were afraid you would be forced to do commercials," his brother jokingly reminded him.
His wife, a guidance counselor, did not share her husband's good humor.
"There's been talk of our instituting a suicide prevention program at the high school. Maybe you can become involved," she told her famous brother-in-law. "It might be beneficial if you could let young people know that your desire to kill yourself is all an act."
"I'll talk it over with my producer and get back to you," Chad lied, having no intention of getting involved with the project.
The day after Thanksgiving when his brother and sister-in-law headed off to the mall to begin their holiday shopping, Chad woke late and had a leisurely breakfast. As he sipped his second cup of coffee, he thought about Dr. Milstead's funeral—was it only a year ago? It seemed more like a lifetime since he was standing outside Meyer Funeral Home, smoking a cigarette and trying to avoid his aging classmates. He had not wanted to attend the service; it was his sister-in-law who talked him into going.
I'm glad I listened to her, he admitted to himself. If I hadn't gone that day, I wouldn't have run into Lionel Penn.
He pictured the psychiatrist in his mind, an image that created mixed feelings. On one hand, he was grateful to the doctor for inadvertently providing him with an idea to save his doomed career. On the other, he was angry at him for refusing to allow their sessions to be filmed.
And then he dropped me as a patient! he thought, letting anger win out over gratitude.
Feeling the irresistible urge to gloat over his recent success, Chad got into his rental car, drove to the Sagamore Bridge and headed north toward Puritan Falls. When he arrived in the quaint village, he drove past the psychiatrist's office, but no cars were outside. As he continued in the direction of Lionel's house, he passed his MG parked outside The Quill and Dagger bookstore. There was a vacant parking spot on the next block, and he quickly pulled into it.
As the television star was walking down Essex Street, he heard a voice call his name. He turned and saw a teenager running to catch up to him.
"It is you! I don't believe it!" the girl exclaimed. "I've seen every episode of your show. I've even got the first four seasons on DVD."
Although he had no time for the teen's gushing idolatry, he had learned never to brush off a fan. He needed as many as possible if he wanted to remain on television.
"That's great, but I'm in a bit of a rush. Do you want an autograph or to take a selfie with me?"
After taking a picture of the two of them with her cell phone, the girl expressed her sympathy for his alleged predicament.
"I can't believe the authorities won't allow you to commit suicide. It's your life, after all. You should be allowed to decide if you want to end it or not."
"Maybe next season I will, so be sure to keep watching."
He turned his head toward The Quill and Dagger in time to see Lionel walk out the front door.
"Dr. Penn!" he called.
"Is that the man who had you sent to the psycho ward?" the fan asked.
"No. He was my therapist for a brief time but not anymore. He stopped treating me when he learned I had taped our sessions."
"You poor thing! Won't anyone help you?"
"I suppose there are no Good Samaritans around anymore."
"The hell with doctors!" the girl cried. "I'll help you."
With physical strength surprising for one so young and petite, the teenager pushed Chad Renner off the sidewalk and into the path of a delivery truck driving down Essex Street.
* * *
Dr. Sarah Ryerson was on duty when the ambulance crew radioed that they would be arriving with a critically wounded pedestrian who had been struck by a vehicle. She had not expected to see Lionel Penn accompanying the EMTs, however.
"It's Chad Renner," he told her. "A young fan pushed him in front of a truck."
After a brief examination, the physician concluded that the actor needed emergency surgery if he was to survive. While the surgical team was being assembled, Sarah began prepping the patient.
"What about the girl?" she asked Lionel who was hovering nearby.
"The police took her in for questioning. I'm sure they're going to want to do a psychiatric evaluation."
Chad, who had been slipping in and out of consciousness, suddenly grabbed Dr. Ryerson's hand.
"Sarah," he gasped, groaning with pain. "You've got to help me. Please! I don't want to die."
Despite the surgical team's efforts to save his life, Chad Renner succumbed to his massive injuries. Sarah took his death hard.
"It's such a shame he had to die," she sobbed, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex tissue as she and Lionel left Falmouth's Meyer Funeral Home where the viewing was held. "He had everything to live for!"
"I'm not sure his fans would agree with you," the psychiatrist said. "I think they'll believe he got just what he wanted. He died relatively young and left behind a good-looking corpse. Besides, an early death is the only certain cure for gerascophobia."
"When I'm Sixty-Four" (written by Lennon-McCartney) was recorded at London's EMI Studios and released May 26, 1967.
Salem once wanted to be a fashion model, but he was too lazy to walk up and down the runway.
