10 Things to Do Before I Die Read online

  His eyes start to narrow. “She Wouldn’t … let you?”

  “No! She Wouldn’t!”

  “Burger, I think We should all leave. I think We should forget about this show and get you to the goddamn hospital. I think …” He doesn’t finish.

  “You think What?”

  At that moment his face goes slack—the Way it often does When he thinks he has a stroke of genius—and his gaze fixes squarely on something (or someone) behind us. I spin around.

  It’s Nikki.

  “Hi, Mark,” she says.

  “Hi, Nikki,” he says.

  There’s nothing between them. No long, meaningful exchange. They hardly even look at each other.

  “Ted, you’re coming With me,” she announces. She grabs my arm and yanks me away from him Without so much as another glance in his direction. Her ringed fingers dig into the flesh above my elbow. She slices through the mob, fearlessly, toward an unmarked door several yards from the entrance.

  “Where are We going?” I ask her.

  “To meet Shakes the Clown,” she says.

  The Indescribable Feeling You Get When Your Real Life Exceeds Your Dreams

  The Words don’t register at first.

  “Sorry, What Was that?”

  “You heard me.” She drags me the last few feet to the door, then turns and flashes a quick smile. “Are you psyched?”

  “Am I …”

  “Don’t answer.” She knocks in a deliberate, even rhythm, as if she’s tapping out code. Several of the more heavily pierced crowd members Watch her. My pulse skips a beat. These people could do anything right now: stab us, pull a gun—anything. And I’d be powerless to stop them. Then again, What difference Would my murder make? It Would only hasten the inevitable. I stand there, mute in Nikki’s clutches, feeling vaguely like a convict Who’s being transferred from one penitentiary to another.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice asks from inside.

  “Nikki,” she says.

  The door swings open. A pale arm slithers out of the darkness and latches on to her, dragging us both inside.

  Slam!

  For a moment it’s pitch-black.

  Then a lightbulb flickers.

  I find myself standing beside an emaciated kid With spiky black hair and dead green eyes. Eyes that are almost as familiar to me as my own. He’s Wearing leather pants and a White Wife-beater undershirt, on Which he’s scrawled I’M WITH STUPID in red marker. Below these Words he’s drawn a sloppy arrow, pointing straight down to his crotch.

  Wes Levitz. Aka Hip E. Shake.

  My hero.

  Okeydokey, Artichokey?

  “So, Who’s the skirt?” Hip E. Shake asks Nikki.

  The skirt?

  He turns to me and bursts out laughing.

  The vortex inside my head swirls at full throttle. Thoughts bounce around like popcorn in a microwave. He and Nikki know each other! (How did that happen?) Nikki must have told him about me! (But What did she tell him?) He already hates my guts! (He called me a … skirt?)

  “Well, he’s not much to look at,” Hip E. Shake says.

  Nikki doesn’t react.

  I try to smile. I can manage only a sickly grin.

  “Ah, I’m just clowning you.” He punches me on the arm, hard. Then he smiles, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth. The top row spells $I$$Y. This is new, as far as I know. “So, you’ve been poisoned and got twenty-four hours left. Is that right?”

  My grin fades.

  “Yeah,” Nikki pipes up, assuming the role of spokesperson. “Did you see it on the news today? It Was the fry cook at the Circle Eat Diner.”

  “I don’t Watch the news,” Hip E. Shake says. “I only Watch porn.”

  “Oh.” Nikki frowns. “Well. Anyway, like I said, you guys are his favorite band. So he Wanted to meet you before, you know, he …”

  “Before he croaks,” Hip E. Shake finishes.

  Her frown hardens. “That’s right.”

  “And your name is Tad, right?” he asks.

  I nod, unable to speak.

  “Actually, it’s Ted,” Nikki snaps.

  Hip E. Shake nods thoughtfully. “Hey, sister, I understand Where you’re coming from.” He lowers his voice, breathing the same stale beer stink into my face that Lou and Frankie did. “You see, I Was born into poverty. My mother named me Lester. Les for short. You know, since We had ‘less’ than most people. But she has a speech impediment. It came out sounding like ‘Wes.’ Sadly, it stuck. And I’ve been a Widdle ang-Wee ever since. So I’d like you to call me Wes. Or Wester. Nothing else. Otherwise I’ll cut you up Wike the Wox at Zabar’s. Okeydokey, artichokey?”

  In Order of Importance

  What happens next is a little foggy.

  Hip E. Sha—sorry, Wes—leads us down a long and dimly lit cement corridor, but that’s basically all I’m conscious of. I’m still grappling With a variety of issues and unanswered questions. In order of importance (at least, for the moment):

  How did Nikki arrange for me to meet Shakes the Clown?

  My hero is a psychopath.

  Mark and the three Klein siblings are outside, separately Waiting to see the show. Have they run into each other yet?

  Has Rachel found out about What Leo did to me?

  I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day, except for poisoned fries.

  What if I puke again?

  The show Was supposed to start at 9 p.m. It’s already 9:17.

  Myself, Ted Burger

  If there’s an appropriate Way to behave around famous people, I haven’t seen it yet. Granted, the members of Shakes the Clown aren’t exactly famous. (And granted, I’ve never hung around famous people in the first place.) But from What I’ve gleaned off TV, there are generally three types of behavior. (1) There’s the sycophantic: “Yes, Mr. Rock Star, I’ll be getting those slippers for you right away!” (2) There’s the inner circle Wannabe: “So, Mr. Rock Star, after the show tonight let’s ditch these hangers-on and go to that bar We snuck into in the eighth grade because I knew you before you Were famous and We’re lifelong buddies, right?” (3) There’s the purposefully aloof: “I’m going to ignore you, Mr. Rock Star, because you’re just another human being, and I could easily do What you do, so the truth is, you make me sick.”

  So When Wes crashes through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY (protected by a mountain of a bouncer Who makes the obese security guard at St. Vincent’s look like a famine victim), I make a mental note not to behave in any of those Ways. I’m just going to be myself. Ted Burger. Appropriately sycophantic. Not part of the inner circle. Too sycophantic to be aloof.

  It should be easy. All I have to do is stand there like a dope. I’ve had plenty of practice doing that.

  Human Sacrifice

  The AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY door opens on a stuffy green-tiled cell. It’s approximately the size and shape of a gas station restroom. It smells like a gas station restroom, too, except there are no toilets. There are no furnishings at all, aside from a battered vinyl seat, Which appears to have been torn out of a van or minibus.

  In my Wild daydreams I’ve always imagined backstage areas to be glamorous and over the top—loaded With catered sushi and lighted mirrors, beautiful groupies, rampant sex … a seething den of iniquity and mayhem, dripping With unseen cash. Was I Wrong? Where’s the champagne? The hors d’oeuvres? Spreadwise, I see only a rusted bucket full of canned Budweiser. And there are no groupies, aside from a pasty guy in a flannel shirt. He’s standing over the other band members, Phurm Hand Shake and Sheik Down, Who slouch together on the vinyl seat, silently nursing beers. That’s it. There aren’t even any other people in the room.

  Phurm Hand Shake is squirrelly. Literally. Much more so than I remember him in the photos on their official Web site. He’s got the same frizzed-out dull brown hair, and he’s hunched over his beer the Way a squirrel Would hunch over an acorn, picking at the label. His yellow buckteeth hang over his lips. He has no neck, either—just a long
, flaccid chin that seems to extend from the bottom of his face to the top of his tattered AC/DC concert T-shirt. He’s also Wearing a kilt.

  Sheik Down is a lot more imposing in person than she is on the site. She’s easily a foot taller than Phurm Hand Shake, even sitting down. She sports big bug-eye sunglasses and a gaudy denim suit: lots of silver snaps and Nashville-style embroidery. In fact, she reminds me a little of Lenny Kravitz, but only if Lenny Kravitz decided to turn country and get a sex change.

  The pasty guy starts running his mouth: “What I’m saying is, Wicked Records gets you. We understand your thing. You’re smart-stupid. Am I right? You know? Like sexy-ugly? Like if I could sum you up in a gag, it Would be When a piano drops on a guy’s head, and the guy turns out to be a piano tuner? Smart-stupid, right? You think a major label Would get that? And if you sign Wicked Records, as in now, tonight, We can guarantee you distribution that no other independent label can… .”

  “How did this happen?” I Whisper to Nikki.

  “How did What happen?” she Whispers back.

  “How did you get me backstage? How did you meet these guys?”

  She lifts her shoulders. “It’s not that hard to meet a band if you’re a chick. I flirted With the bouncer. I gave him my number.”

  “You did?”

  “Actually, I gave him Mark’s number.” She Winks at me. “But the bouncer doesn’t know that.”

  “… With the proper marketing—”

  “Twig?” Wes calls, silencing the guy in the flannel shirt. “Can you come here for a minute, please?”

  An instant later the bouncer appears in the doorway. (Nine hundred pounds and his name is Twig?) He’s so huge that he practically has to ooze into the room, as if via osmosis. “Yeah?” he grunts.

  “Our little flannel friend has had too much beer,” Wes says. “It’s making him talk funny.”

  Twig grins. “You Want me to dismantle him?”

  “Yes, I do, please,” Wes says. “I’d go With a Mayan flavor. Human sacrifice.” He turns to the guy in the flannel shirt. “Or is that not ‘smart-stupid’ enough?”

  “Hey, What’s your problem?” the guy says. He backs away, glancing around the room. “What did I do?”

  “You have a severe case of diarrhea of the mouth,” Wes says. “Now it’s time to get constipated.”

  “I’m your one-ton barrel of Imodium,” Twig says, stepping toward him.

  The guy’s face turns paler. Suddenly he hightails it straight past Twig—down the hall, through the door, and out into the street.

  “Mayan Imodium!” Twig yells after him.

  Wes giggles. So do his bandmates.

  Nikki is starting to look antsy. I’m filled With anger. Not at her, of course, but at these morons. I’m no longer feeling detached enough to appreciate their absurdity. I feel like asking them a few questions. Like, oh, say: Why are you so violent and immature? Why Would you threaten a guy Who Was trying to offer you a record deal, even if he did talk too much? A deal With an independent label, no less? It Wouldn’t even be selling out! True, the guy Was foolish and annoying. But he Was right. He articulated exactly What I’ve maintained from the moment I discovered you: You are (for lack of a better term) smart-stupid. So Why didn’t you recognize his gibberish for What it Was? Namely: a huge compliment? Why don’t you care? Most important, Why are you deliberately trying to freak Nikki and me out? Forget the questions; I Want to slap all of you.

  But I don’t say a Word, of course. I just stand there like a dope.

  Contagious Electricity

  “Tad, We understand you have a list of some kind,” Wes says.

  “Um …”

  “Hand it over,” he commands.

  My shaky fingers plunge into my pocket. I force another idiotic laugh. I should really grab Nikki and get the hell out of here.

  Wes snatches the crumpled napkin from me. “Let’s see,” he muses. “Number one: lose virginity.” He glances up. “How’d that go for you? Yay? Nay?”

  My stomach twists. The room starts to spin. After a brief intermission Death has suddenly returned center stage. I Wonder What it Would feel like to beat the crap out of my hero. Probably pretty good. (A hell of a lot better than punching Billy Rifkin, for sure.) I don’t know if I could get a decent jab in, though. I’m too dizzy.

  Wes scratches his flat stomach for a second. Then he turns to Sheik Down. “Glenda, Will you have sex With Tad?”

  She slurps her beer. “I’m a lesbian,” she says. “Remember?”

  “No, I don’t, but I’ll trust you on that.” He glances back down at the napkin. “So that brings us to number two. Jam With Shakes the Clown.” He clucks his tongue. “Hey, man, you’re so lucky that you’re dying. We don’t let just anyone chill With us.”

  “Just shut up and let him play for you, all right?” Nikki snaps. “You told me you Would. If you aren’t going to, then I’d like to leave.”

  The room falls dead silent.

  But just like that, Wes is no longer angry. His dead green eyes dance With electricity. And the electricity is contagious. Herbert and Glenda leap to their feet. The Whole room springs to life. Happy life. They’ve suddenly become like the giddy little elves you see on cookie commercials. The three of them hoot and applaud.

  “Get a load of this clown!” Wes exclaims, slapping Nikki affectionately. “This chick has some serious balls. And she’s right!” He points to me. “Ted Burger, this is your life. And death. The time has come to prove yourself.”

  He tosses the napkin on the floor and hurries out of the room.

  I turn to Nikki, speechless.

  She sneaks one last quick Wink at me While nobody’s looking. And I Want to hug her more than ever. Because I realize exactly What I love about my best friend’s girlfriend: Nikki can communicate a Whole night’s Worth of insanity Without having to utter a single Word. She never gets diarrhea of the mouth.

  Not many people are like that.

  The Magnificent Balloon Rhinoceros Analogy

  Wes returns With a guitar in one hand and a tiny practice amp in the other.

  “Let’s see What you’re made of,” he says, nearly tripping on the cord connecting the two. He shoves the guitar at me. “Let’s see it, Ted Burger.”

  Now, this is insane. Sure, I’ve fantasized about such a scenario a million times. But this is the guitar that Wes Levitz had custom built. I recognize it instantly from their fan site: it’s bright purple and shaped like a banjo. He never lets anybody touch it.

  I Wonder if he’s setting me up for a beating.

  “Take the guitar,” he orders.

  I obey. What choice do I have? I strap it over my shoulders. Wes cradles the little amp against his bony chest, fiddling With a few of the knobs. He pulls a pick out of his leather pocket. It’s emblazoned With a tiny picture of Bobcat Goldthwait’s face.

  “Now, rock,” he concludes.

  Rock?

  Well, beating or not, at least I can already tell that playing this guitar is going to be a joy. I take the pick and light right into “Kosher Firth Day.” (It begins With a heavy, distorted, ascending riff: a thinly veiled takeoff on Led Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker.”) My fingers fly over the fret board. The strings bend and shriek at my every Whim. Compared to my piece of crap electric guitar …

  No, there is no comparison. This is the best guitar I’ve ever played. The action is low, the intonation is perfect, and there isn’t a hint of buzz.

  I know that probably doesn’t mean much unless you play guitar, too—but imagine it this Way. Imagine you’re a professional clown. A big part of your act is making balloon animals. For years you’ve Worked With the same cheap and unforgiving balloons. They always pop. (Always at the Worst times, too. Always When the birthday boy or girl is Whining for one.) Then one day you find a new brand of super-strong, super-elastic balloons. Not only are they impossible to pop, you can finally twist up the magnificent balloon rhinoceros—Which you’ve never even tried before. But now you c
an pull it off Without breaking a sweat, and the birthday boy or girl is overjoyed at the sheer size and beauty and indestructibility of it … and, Well, you get the point.

  That’s basically how I feel right now.

  Give This Man a Clown Nose!

  “Hey! Schmucks!”

  It’s Twig. He’s back in the doorway, glaring at us.

  Whoops. I turn the volume knob down. How long have I been playing? I don’t even know.

  “You Were supposed to go on a half hour ago,” he says.

  Wes rolls his eyes. “I Was supposed to do a lot of things, Twig. Wasn’t I? Like finish driver’s ed? Like go to college, the Way my nana Wanted… . Oh, never mind.” He jabs a finger in my face. “Ted Burger, are you some kind of autistic savant?”

  I swallow. “Am I What?”

  “See, that’s What I’m talking about. It might be the poison, but you strike me as retarded. Yet you play much better than I do. You play my own songs better than I play them myself. It’s a problem for me.”

  I glance at Nikki. She Winks again.

  “WES!” Twig snarls. “Get onstage! NOW!”

  Wes gives him the finger.

  “Ted Burger must gig With us,” Herbert proclaims.

  “Ted Burger must gig With us tonight,” Glenda concurs.

  “So get him up there, already,” Nikki mumbles.

  “Yes!” Wes yanks the cord from the guitar and tosses the practice amp into the bucket of beer. It lands With a cannonball splash. “Give this man a clown nose!”

  Again, I’m a little too overstimulated to get a good handle on What comes next. It’s all pretty rapid-fire. Twig exits the room. The band members descend upon me. Glenda produces a rubber clown nose and straps it to my face from behind. Wes produces a red Magic Marker and scribbles the Words Shake ‘n Bake on my T-shirt. Herbert produces a beer and pours a few drops over my head, as if baptizing me.