10 Things to Do Before I Die Read online

  “Wherever you can pull over,” I choke out. I glance at Nikki in Wide-eyed horror.

  “I think I should go home,” she says.

  “Right.” The response is instant. She isn’t coming With me. No surprise there. I can’t read her voice, either, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Must escape. Now.

  She bites her lip. “Ted, I—”

  “Don’t Worry about it. I’ll pay Rachel back for the fare. Just tell the driver Where you Want to go.”

  Nikki’s face falls. “That Wasn’t What I meant. Ted, you need to come With me so We can get you to a hospital. We have to stop playing this stupid game—”

  “Good night!” I say, With deranged cheer. I leap out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. I don’t bother closing the door, either; I simply careen across the pavement toward the nearest entrance, doubled over and gagging. Several pedestrians pause to observe me. They appear understandably disturbed.

  Sometimes it helps to be a sniveling coward.

  Other times it doesn’t.

  Sleep on the Red-Eye

  I don’t expect to get very far. I expect to start vomiting very soon after I barrel through the revolving doors at Terminal E. Especially since the light inside is of the same fluorescent prison-yard variety that blinded me on the sidewalk outside the Onyx. The air in here is frigid, too. It’s even colder than the lobby at Billy Rifkin’s. And the smooth granite tile is … swimming toward my face?

  I straighten up. I shake off the tinnitus and vertigo and nausea. I summon my Will. And Within a matter of seconds, With a concentrated effort, I’m functioning Well enough to purchase a ticket. I Whirl in place, searching for a clock. There are dozens of computer monitors, and people and—there. A big round clock, above the DEPARTURE GATES sign. 10:15. Perfect. I’ll catch the red-eye to Lagos and sleep on the flight. Maybe I Won’t even Wake up! I can always hope for the best. Because no matter What happens, I Won’t be coming home. Not alive, anyway. It’ll be impossible.

  Right.

  Lagos, here I come!

  I figure by the time I’ve landed and cleared customs there, I’ll have about one hour to live. Which Will be fine. I can already picture it: I’ll be the mysterious, solitary American boy— ghostlike, known in certain circles as the Walking Dead. But the Nigerians Won’t see my Wickedness and degradation. I’ll keep it hidden deep inside. I’ll have no past. Yet in that final hour, I’ll become a legend out on those hot streets, shuttling between one McDonald’s and the next, lending a hand to all those Who suffer before the poison shuts me down in a blaze of glory… . Oh, man! It’s gonna be great!

  Change of Plan

  Another massive stroke of luck: there’s no line at the Nigeria Airways ticket counter. Woo-hoo! I march up to a very nice-looking, heavyset black man in a green-and-White uniform.

  “Hello!” I greet him.

  “Hello!” he replies, matching my inappropriate enthusiasm. His accent is not unlike the cabdriver’s. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like one ticket to Lagos, please!” I say. “On the next available flight!”

  “Certainly! I’ll need your passport and visa!”

  “My passport and … What?”

  “Your visa.”

  “Oh. Right.” My enthusiasm fades.

  “No visa?”

  “Well.” I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure a line hasn’t formed behind me, and then I lean across the desk. “Let me ask you something,” I Whisper. “Where can I go in Africa that doesn’t require a visa?”

  “And Why Would you Want to be flying to someplace that doesn’t require a visa?” he asks me politely.

  “Because I just Want to, all right?” I Whisper.

  His smile evaporates. “No, young man, that is not all right. We have certain security procedures in place.” He doesn’t sound so polite anymore; he sounds perturbed. “Please Wait here.” He picks up a phone, eyeing me cautiously.

  Wait here?

  Do I really Want to do that? No. No, I don’t think I do. In fact, I Want to be somewhere else, fast, and I know exactly Where I can go—not just in terms of this airport, but also in terms of the World. Yes. My parents took me to London When I graduated junior high. And I specifically remember that I didn’t need a visa. All I needed Was a passport and my school ID— both of Which I happen to have on me right now. And We flew Virgin Atlantic, in this very terminal. So I’m set.

  London, here I come!

  No Credit

  Much to my dismay, there is a line at the Virgin Atlantic ticket counter. It’s not particularly long, just a couple of people, but it is long enough to give me a few minutes to think. And that is not What I need right now. Since I left Nikki, I’ve come to the most important conclusion of my (short) life: thought in any form equals unhealthy. Lazy people think. Clowns think. We doers, however, We don’t think. We just do. Which is Why I Won’t allow myself to Wonder about Nikki’s feelings, or about the fates of Mark or Rachel, or about Rachel’s feelings, or Mark’s feelings—

  “Next, please!” a cheery British voice calls out.

  I’m up.

  The Woman behind the desk is about my mother’s age. She has the most grotesque set of crooked teeth I’ve ever seen. They’re even Worse than Phurm Hand Shake’s yellow, rodent-like chompers. I try not to look at her mouth.

  “Hello!” I say. “I’d like a one-Way ticket to London, please?”

  She tilts her head. “Will you be traveling alone?”

  “Yes. Yes, I Will.” I fumble for my Wallet and passport and slap them down in front of her. “No baggage, either. Just me!”

  “I see.” She looks me in the eye. “One moment, please.”

  She lifts her phone and presses a button, then hangs up.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “No … No problem at all.” She flashes a brief, horrific smile before turning to her computer monitor. “Would you like to depart on the next available flight, then?”

  I heave a sigh of relief. “Yes. Please.”

  “Well, let’s see… .” She types rapidly on her keyboard. “Yes, I can get you on the eleven p.m. You’ll have to hurry, though. The fare is fourteen hundred dollars.”

  My eyes bulge. “Fourteen hundred—?” I suck in my breath and muster a smile. “No problem.” But as I fish the credit card out of my Wallet, I can’t keep my hands from shaking again. They’re shaking even harder than they Were in the cab. Is it the poison, or is it my anxiety? Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.

  The Woman plucks the card from my spastic fingers and swipes it through the magnetic reader. She then places it beside her, out of my reach.

  Uh-oh.

  The dizziness creeps back up again, like a strong tide, gathering force. The tinnitus rings at a fever pitch: EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! My breath comes in short gasps. My stomach doesn’t even exist anymore. It feels as if it’s been pulverized and discarded, surgically removed With a blunt hatchet. I hold on to the counter to steady myself. I don’t think I can stand much longer. I might have to sit on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the Woman says. Her voice sounds far away. “Your card has been declined.”

  “Declined?” I croak.

  “Yes. It appears you have no available credit. Not on this card.” She smiles once more. Her eyes flicker away from me. She nods, almost imperceptibly. “Now, if you’d like …” She leaves the sentence hanging, staring behind my head.

  Is somebody back there?

  I Whirl around to see three large cops, all of Whom are reaching for me—

  Black Hole of Nothingness

  That’s pretty much it.

  Honestly, that’s all I remember. Passing out is short on detail and long on aftermath, at least for the person Who experiences it. The best Way to describe it … Well, it feels as if the swirling vortex somehow manages to bust loose from my skull, like a Wild animal escaping the zoo—and then it gobbles me up and swallows me down into a black hole of nothingness.
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br />   Only it’s not nearly as exciting as that.

  Preface to the Great Gig in the Sky

  Sometimes, even now, I Wonder if states of unconsciousness are like fingerprints, if no two are alike. I guess there are probably patterns, depending on an individual’s psyche. Lots of people do share the same sorts of archetypal dreams, after all. So say, for example, that you’re a chickenhearted, self-absorbed clown (among other things) and you believe you’re going to die… . An unconscious state might trigger guilty visions of your own funeral. Yes? Maybe?

  This is just a guess.

  Death of a Clown: I

  SCENE: Outside our old synagogue on West Thirteenth Street. Pouring rain. A big sign on the little patch of grass: TED BURGER FUNERAL CANCELED.

  My parents hurry up to the rabbi as he’s locking the front door.

  “Why Was our son’s funeral canceled?” they ask.

  The rabbi shakes his head. “Ted Was a coward, Mr. and Mrs. Burger. Nobody particularly cares to mourn the loss of a coward.”

  They look at each other.

  “I guess you’re right,” Mom agrees. “Besides that, he spent far too much time in his room playing guitar.”

  Dad shrugs. “Well, then, We probably should be heading back to that billboard convention ay-sap, Wouldn’t you say?”

  Death of a Clown: II

  SCENE: The Rikers Island morgue. My corpse on a concrete slab.

  Nobody Will claim the body. My parents disowned me after they discovered that a prostitute ransacked their liquor cabinet. Nikki has long since renounced any friendship With me because I tried to run away to Africa—but then Was arrested and hauled away at JFK for suspicious behavior. Rachel has renounced me for the lies.

  Finally Mark shows up.

  “Yeah, I’m here for Ted Burger,” he tells the guards. “I shouldn’t be. I heard that right before he died, he tried to scam on my girlfriend. So if I Were you, I’d just toss this scumbag in the East River. Maybe the fish Will eat him. At least then he’ll do some good for once. What goes around comes around. People are dogs, you know?”

  Death of a Clown: III

  SCENE: A cemetery. A lone burial plot. My casket, descending into the earth.

  It’s the end of the service. Dad steps up to the podium. He pulls a folded letter out of his pocket. “Before We conclude here today, Ted asked that I read something. He Wrote it just before the poison consumed him completely. He Wanted to honor his friend Mark. It’s just a short statement.”

  He clears his throat: “‘Mark Was my best friend. We had our ups and downs. But I must say that I never met anybody more honest than Mark. And that’s a pretty Weird assertion, considering he Was an impulsive maniac.

  “‘Actually, forget that. It makes no sense. All I’m trying to say is that I Was lucky to know him. He made me realize that you don’t have to do a bunch of crazy stuff to make your life complete. You just have to DEAL With life. You have to hang out With the people you love and not BS them. And if more people Were like Mark, I personally think We’d be a lot better off. Then maybe We could start seeing the important stuff.’”

  Doubt

  The first thing I notice is that I’m lying in bed.

  It’s a good sign. Generally, in those documentaries about the afterlife, you hear about Walking into bright light. You hear about being on your feet. Except … Wherever I am, the light is pretty bright.

  “Ted?”

  I don’t recognize the voice.

  “Ted? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes?” Wow. I don’t recognize my voice, either. My throat is bone dry. I sound like one of those old guys Who hang out at the Off-Track Betting near our school.

  “How do you feel?” the voice asks.

  I’m not sure. I don’t even know if I’m still alive. It’s a man’s voice—but maybe not so deep and ponderous that it could belong to a divine entity. I hope not, anyway.

  “I don’t know,” I croak. “Pretty confused, I guess.”

  “Do you know Where you are?”

  “No.”

  “You’re at St. Mary’s Hospital in Brooklyn, Ted. You had a panic attack.”

  Brooklyn? I force myself to open my eyes all the Way, blinking rapidly to clear the glare. A fuzzy face floats directly above me, framed by several lights. Gradually the face grows clearer… . He’s bearded, ruddy, With glasses, in his late thirties or early forties… . He’s Wearing a White coat. He’s holding a clipboard.

  “You gave us all quite a scare,” he says. “For a lot of different reasons.”

  I shake my head, struggling to sit up straight. “I … I …”

  “Hold on!” he cajoles. He lays a hand on my shoulder, easing me back down into the pillow. “Just relax. The sedative Will take a While to Wear off. But I do have some good news for you, Ted. You Weren’t poisoned.”

  Once again I try to prop myself up on my elbows. It’s no use. I’m becoming aware of other details, though. My clothes are gone. I’ve been dressed in a hospital gown. Something is sticking into my arm, too, an IV of some kind. It stings. Clear liquid drips into it from a plastic Baggie suspended on the bedpost. There’s also an annoying beep beep beep.

  “We gave you an anesthetic earlier,” the doctor says. “That’s Why you’re just Waking up now. Nothing major; We Wanted to run some tests. Your friend’s father notified us.” He glances at the clipboard. “Joshua Singer, an administrator at St. Vincent’s? He contacted us immediately upon your friend’s request. He advised us of this incident at the diner in Manhattan, so We felt it prudent to rule a few things out as soon as possible. As I said, the good news is that—”

  “Wait, Wait,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry. How did I get here?”

  “Your friend took care of it.”

  My friend?

  His eyes fall to the clipboard again. “Yes. Mark Singer. He found you at the airport. Apparently he explained to the police What Was going on. You’ll probably have to give a statement at some point, but We can talk about that later.”

  A statement?

  It’s hopeless. The more this guy talks, the more baffled I become. I guess I should be glad that Mark knows What’s going on. I sure as hell don’t.

  “He can explain it to you better than I can,” the doctor says. “Would you like to see him? He’s Waiting outside.”

  I nod, very vigorously.

  “I’ll send him in.”

  He extends a hand. I shake it, on autopilot.

  “My name is Dr. Webb, by the Way,” he adds. “And just so you know, your parents Will be here soon. They’re on a flight from Denver right now.”

  “I … okay.” Mom and Dad are coming. I’m not quite sure how to feel about this news. I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. Which Will be difficult.

  “I’ll be back in a little While to check up on you and answer any questions you might have,” Dr. Webb says on his Way out the door. “Okay?”

  “Okay, thanks,” I call after him.

  Somehow I have a feeling that even if Dr. Webb gave me twenty-four straight hours of his time, he couldn’t possibly answer all the questions I might have. But I should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. Doubt is pretty much all I have to hold on to right now.

  Caveman Style

  “Ted!” Mark exclaims.

  “Ted? Did you just call me—?”

  “Yeah.” He pulls up a chair and sits beside me. “I called you Ted.”

  He looks terrible, exhausted. His hair is even messier than usual. He’s also Wearing a plain White T-shirt. This is unsettling because it indicates that a fairly significant amount of time has passed since I last saw him. I have no idea if it’s day or night, come to think of it. There are no windows in here.

  “You’ve never called me Ted,” I gasp hoarsely.

  “Yeah, Well, Burger died, dude,” he says.

  “What?”

  Mark leans back. The chair squeaks on the linoleum.

  “Didn’t you hear?” he says. “Burger Was po
isoned. He Went out strong, though. He played With his favorite band, and kicked a guy in the head, and then he Went to the airport and tried to steal away With his best friend’s girlfriend—and he keeled over, right before the cops could get him. But he’s gone now. Long gone.”

  I stare at him, speechless.

  “You Want to hear something funny about Burger’s final, glorious day, though?” he Whispers. He leans forward and glances toward the open door. “See, his best friend hired this escort named Joy. And it probably Wasn’t such a great idea. Because she snagged one of the receipts that fell out of the drawer—you know, When his best friend Was looking for his parents’ Polaroid? And she stole the credit card number and maxed it out. You see Where I’m going With this?”

  I shake my head, uncomprehending.

  “I’m sure you Will,” Mark says. “Just give it some time to sink in.”

  “But … airport … cops … how … What …?” I can’t do much more than produce monosyllabic grunts, caveman style.

  “See, after Burger ran out of the club, his best friend managed to slip out With his girlfriend and her two meathead brothers,” Mark says.

  I nod, still just as lost.

  “Forget it.” He drops the silly tone. “Here’s What happened. Rachel told me that she’d ordered a car service for you. And When she and I found out you took it, We found out you Went to Terminal E at JFK. So I thought that you’d lost your mind and decided to take this list seriously. The last part, at least.” He pulls the napkin from his pocket and Waves it front of me. “You know, this? So I chased you down at the airport. And When I got there … oh, man.” He shakes his head and laughs, running his other hand through his hair. “Well, I Was lucky I found you When I did because you Were lying on the floor, surrounded by cops. They thought you Were dangerous. You Were all disheveled, and you stank of beer, and you insisted on getting on an international flight.”