FIFTEEN
Before the Streamify contract
Finn
Maeve and I are on our way to a restaurant in DUMBO, after spending the day at a rooftop pool, swimming, reading, and drinking with fans who showed up after someone posted about us being there. It’s in the nineties in New York, which feels more like the hundreds, and despite having showered off the sunscreen and chlorine only an hour ago, I’m sticky again with sweat.
“What do you think we should talk about this week?” I ask Maeve halfheartedly. It’s hard to even think about the episode when it’s this hot, and we’re both scrolling through our phones mindlessly.
“Blow jobs? Anal? That’s all anyone wants to hear about.” She starts ineffectually fanning herself with her purse, and I join in, flapping hot air toward her with my paperback. “Let’s check the DMs.”
Since we end each episode with Questions of the Week, our fans are constantly DM’ing us questions and topics they want us to cover. At least, at first it was just questions and glowing messages. Now, we also have a lot of solicitations, and a variety of complaints, largely from fans of The Paul Myers Show , egged on by the host himself. Maeve gets the brunt of those, disgusting men with no followers or posts or profile photo, telling her she’s a slut, going to hell, and a variety of other awful things. It’s unclear why he hates us so much, but ever since we bumped him from the number one spot during our third week, he’s been constantly running his mouth about us, and getting rewarded with tons of views.
I open my Instagram and navigate to message requests, then start scrolling through. The first three messages are women asking me on dates, which I ignore. Next, there’s a very graphic photo (block and delete). I glance at Maeve’s phone and see her systematically delete ten messages in a row with dick pics. I definitely have it easier. Back on mine, I scroll through questions about who should pay on dates, whether their boyfriend can stay over at a female friend’s house, anal and oral sex questions, as well as a few about what to wear on a first date.
“We haven’t done this yet,” I offer. “Are shorts acceptable to wear on a first date? What about polo shirts?”
Maeve looks up from her phone, brow furrowed. The subway door opens and more people get on, packing the car so tightly that we can barely see each other’s face despite sitting next to each other. “That’s tough. I’m inclined to say no to both. But also … maybe some girls are into that?”
“I’ll keep looking,” I say. I continue scrolling until I get to a message that makes my stomach drop.
Go kill yourself. U r disgusting. No talent, prob not even from ur parents. Going to hll.
This person can’t even spell. They have no posts and don’t know me. But the message still makes my pulse race. The moment when I first read it, I get a jolt of pure adrenaline.
Talentless hack. DIE. Your movie sucks 2
I block and delete. But after a few more nice messages, there’s more.
I’m gonna kill you and Maeve. I no where u live. Your show is disgusting, making women whores. Devil’s work.
U think ur funny? Show sucks. Nepo baby w no talent. Mommy nd daddy bought ur fake fans. Loser
“People are awful,” I complain to Maeve.
“Tell me about it,” she agrees. “This guy told me he hopes I choke on a dick and die. Like, what is wrong with them? At least five of these are verbatim from lines Paul said during an episode.”
In a recent episode, Paul Myers gave his fans word-for-word hate mail lines to send us, about how our show is corrupting the youth, is un-Christian, and contains bottom-of-the-barrel talentless content. He’s going after the two of us in an alarming way given that we’ve never said a word about him. At least since it’s Maeve and me together, we can laugh about it sometimes and try to make it seem more wild than scary.
“Maybe we should do one about what the ideal first date looks like for each of us,” Maeve suggests finally. I’ve stopped scrolling and am just trying to ignore the sweat dripping down my back, since with each person who gets onto the train it gets hotter. “Show that they’re different but talk about the similarities. And the things people should absolutely not do. We can ask for bad date stories for Questions of the Week!”
“I like that.” I would like anything at this point. It’s too hot to think.
Maeve posts a photo of us at the pool with a Q&A feature asking for bad-date stories and first-date noes, and then I post the same question but with a selfie of us jammed between the thighs of subway riders standing, our hair disheveled and faces shiny. By the time I’ve done mine, Maeve’s is already getting responses, but we both put our phones away.
“Only five more stops,” Maeve remarks listlessly.
I don’t answer. I feel like I’m sweating more than I should be, even in this heat, packed into a subway car like sardines. And I feel a pressure in my chest, like my heart is being squeezed and it’s getting harder to breathe. I try to take a slow deep breath but it just makes it worse.
Another stop comes and goes and the feeling gets worse. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest and I feel both cold and hot, drenched in sweat. We get to another stop and suddenly I just have to get off this packed train. “I’ve got to go,” I say, too quietly. Why am I speaking so quietly? I push through the crowd, leaving my book on the bench and into the still muggy air on the platform. I want to get outside, to the real air, but I don’t think I can. I drop into a seat, gasping, and drop my head between my knees.
“Finn! Finn!” Maeve spots me and runs over as other people filter away to the exit. She’s holding her things and my book, and drops to the dirty ground in front of me. “Finn? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I choke out. Is that possible? Can day drinking and a life of excess drugs, alcohol, and good food give me a heart attack in my twenties? I’m sure it happens.
“What? What does it feel like?”
“I think I’m dying,” I gasp. “Can’t breathe.” It feels like this will never stop, like there’s no air, and the tight feeling, this weight on my chest, is going to kill me.
“Take a deep breath,” Maeve says as she pulls out her phone. “Try to breathe.”
A cop walks over to us. “Is everything alright here, miss?”
“I think we need an ambulance,” Maeve says, her voice panicked. “I have no service down here.”
“Langone Health’s emergency room is right outside. I’ll help you get him out.” The officer puts his arm under my shoulder. “Can you stand?”
Maeve tries to get my other shoulder, but she’s way too short. She keeps an arm pressed to my back, steadying me as we make our way outside the station and across the street to the automatic emergency room doors. The cop deposits me on a gurney in the hallway, then leaves, and Maeve stays glued to my side. “Just try to breathe, I’m going to get someone.”
I still feel like I’m dying, although the walk didn’t make me feel worse necessarily. Within minutes Maeve has returned, pulling an alarmingly young-looking doctor behind her. “He’s having a heart attack or something,” she yells. “Help him!”
The doctor looks at me skeptically, then starts taking my vital signs. I’m hunched over and my chest feels like it’ll explode, like I might die before we see a doctor who’s not ten. I’ve never felt anything like this, and it’s terrifying. Maeve takes my free hand and squeezes it, looking between me and the doctor expectantly.
“Is your chest pain sharp or dull,” she asks me.
“Sharp. I feel … it’s crushing.”
She nods and holds her stethoscope to my chest, listening. “I don’t think you’re having a heart attack. But let’s get you checked in, we can do an ECG to be sure.”
“Are you a doctor? Or, like, a Grey’s Anatomy intern?” Maeve asks.
The doctor glares at her as she helps me lie down and starts wheeling my gurney. “I’m a resident. And more than qualified to help your friend here. You can do the paperwork in the lobby while I administer his ECG.”
Maeve opens her mouth to argue, but before she can I’m whisked away into another room. The ECG feels like it takes a year while my chest is caving in, and I’m sweating more than humanly possible. “How long has it been?” I ask Maeve when she’s back by my side.
“Ten minutes,” she says, her voice tight as she looks toward the doctor expectantly.
“He’s not having a heart attack,” the doctor says firmly. “I believe he’s having a panic attack.”
Understanding flashes over Maeve’s face and she takes my hand. “Are you sure? Do you have any other tests you think you should do?”
“I can order blood tests. But I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Please order them,” Maeve commands firmly.
“Happy to. It might be an hour or two, though. We just had two gunshot victims come in, and it’s all hands on deck. Someone will come by.”
She opens the curtain and leaves, and Maeve turns to me and climbs onto the tiny bed. I’m just wearing underwear and a hospital gown, and feel mildly ridiculous. My chest is still tight and uncomfortable, in a way it’s never been before, but now that I know I’m not dying … it’s embarrassing.
“It’ll be okay,” she says as she rests her head on my shoulder.
I put my arm around her, and having her there, holding her against me, starts to make me feel marginally calmer. We lie like that as I try to breathe, the even rise and fall of Maeve’s breath the guiding light for mine. It feels like no time at all, but when I check my watch, it’s been over an hour.
“I’m sorry,” I say after a while.
She sits up. “For what?”
“Um, dragging you to the ER.” I glance at my watch. “Our reservation was like two hours ago now.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I don’t care about that.” She lies back down on my chest. “You scared me. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’ve never … I’ve never felt like that,” I say finally.
“I know.”
I’ve seen Maeve have a panic attack and helped her through it. I just didn’t realize it felt like this . Like you’re dying.
“I don’t usually even feel anxious. I don’t know what happened.”
It’s silent for a while. When Maeve speaks, her voice is quiet. “Death threats and hate messages could give anyone a panic attack, Finn.”
I know, logically, that I should just ignore the horrible messages. If you had asked me yesterday, or even a few hours ago, if they bothered me, I would have laughed it off. But reading messages from strangers saying they’re going to kill Maeve and me, or that we should kill ourselves, that I’m nothing, worse than nothing … it’s hard to shake off. My parents and I, especially my mom, have dealt with the press my entire life, which is why I wanted nothing to do with it. I’ve experienced the vitriol that one bad paparazzi photo can cause. So I thought I was prepared for this. I thought by podcasting instead of acting again I was avoiding the brunt of it. But nothing really can prepare you for what it feels like to hear how much people hate you.
“People suck,” I say quietly, wearily. My entire body is exhausted, and the nurse who popped in earlier said it will be at least another hour before the blood tests, since more pressing cases have come in. “Want to go home?”
“You don’t want to stay for the blood tests?”
I nestle my head into the top of Maeve’s. “No. I want to be doing this at home on the couch, fully clothed, with pizza and a movie. After a shower.”
And that’s exactly what we do.