People had different reactions to the whole thing. Some were surprised that anything had happened at all. Some were disgusted, angry at Essjay (inexplicably) for provoking Baruch; put off by the actual violence; made nauseous by the sight of blood and a distinctly out-of-line nose; frightened of Baruch; sympathetic of Essjay but only in a generic way, sympathetic more for his situation than for his actual person; and so on.
…
“Hello, is this Dr. Wilson?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Yes, this is Stanley Mortenson…”
“Bleeder?”
“Yes, well—how are you?”
“I haven’t heard from you in years. I’m fine, I guess. Doing pretty well yourself? How are you holding up?”
“Oh, pretty good, I’d say. Listen, I was wondering if I could call on you for a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“It has to do with— I’m running for Congress, is what it has to do with.”
“No shit?”
…
“I don’t know,” I shouted back. You had to shout to be heard over the TV, blaring, set to vol level 37 to cover our conversation, as it were. None of us was tech-savvy enough to sweep the room for bugs (surveillance devices), so we opted for background noise. Sure, there was the possibility that some sunlight-deprived maven at the NSA could break through our shoddily-constructed sonic barrier; we hoped no one cared enough to be thusly motivated.