10 Things to Do Before I Die Page 3

  Hooked on the Drug of Flattery

  The real conundrum has nothing to do With access to my parents’ liquor cabinet, obviously. The real conundrum is that Rachel has told me a dozen times that she Won’t have sex until she’s “ready.”

  Well, not precisely a dozen times. She’s told me nine times—the exact number of times We’ve made out. The pattern is always the same, too. I ask to kiss her; she says yes; I get frisky; she backs off. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t go any farther, Ted,” she Whispers sweetly, in a voice that’s like a cold shower, like an ice pick through my chest. It’s a pattern that dates back to the first time We ever hooked up, in fact.

  I’ll always remember that day very, very clearly.

  It Was just before Christmas break, about a month after We first met. A Wednesday afternoon. We Were alone in her apartment, sitting on her bed. Rachel’s room is a very mellow place to hang out. There’s lots of psychedelic art and a Lava lamp on her desk. Her paisley bedspread is made of “100% recycled fabric.” She Was trying to play the Beatles’ “Day Tripper” on her acoustic guitar. I Was grinning stupidly, trying not to stare at her cleavage. We hadn’t so much as held hands at this point.

  I mention these details because they cut to the very heart of our relationship.

  You see, When I first Walked up to Rachel on Mark and Nikki’s dare, I found out that they Were right: Rachel had been checking me out. But not for the reasons Mark and Nikki thought. It seemed she and I shared the same guitar teacher, Mr. Puccini. Rachel said she’d been hoping to meet me because Mr. Puccini claimed I Was his prize student. She needed someone to help tune her battered six-string. “I’m so glad you introduced yourself!” she told me. “Would you mind giving me a hand With the tuning?”

  Needless to say, I felt like pinching myself. I’d been expecting her to ignore me or tell me to get lost. Instead she Was inviting me over to her apartment.

  That same day, though, I learned she Was telling the truth. If I didn’t help her tune her guitar, it produced the same kind of flatulent noises you Would generally associate With ant-squashing or With pipes that are about to burst. Worse, she didn’t seem to notice. So after that, We started hanging out a lot. I felt I owed it to her. I forsook the Circle Eat almost every day to go to her apartment. Still, it Was Weird … our conversation Was always Wry and flirtatious, but We never talked about anything other than guitar tuning. Were We friends? I Wasn’t sure. But if We Weren’t friends, then What Were We?

  On the other hand, I discovered We shared the same fundamental flaw. We both craved the validation of others. We bled for it. So in a Way, We made the perfect pair. Two addicts, hooked on the drug of flattery. I bombarded her With phony compliments: “Rachel, you’re really getting great at tuning that thing!” In turn, she obliged me With phony adulation: “I can’t believe how talented you are!” It felt so good. I’d never heard a line like this before, not from any girl, anyway. Not from Mark, either, disregarding his “sick guitarist” comment. And forget about my parents. Honestly, I don’t know if they’d ever even listened to me play or tune the guitar—I mean listened, With their ears—aside from yelling at me to put it down so I could come Watch an important commercial.

  But something changed that day in her bedroom.

  “Maybe I should just take up the harmonica,” Rachel joked. (It Was abundantly clear that she Would never master “Day Tripper,” no matter how many years she put into it.) “I mean, you’re Working so hard showing me all this stuff, and I’m still not getting anywhere.” She bent over and gently placed the guitar back in its case. “Christmas is right around the corner. I could donate my guitar to that secondhand shop—”

  “Rachel, you can’t give up,” I cut in. “You’re making a lot of progress. You’re great for a beginner. You know that.”

  “I don’t know, Ted. You’re always so nice… .” She scooted closer on the mattress, so close that our butts Were practically touching. “You know What my problem is? I don’t have the passion you have. I need to find music that I’m really passionate about. Like you did.”

  “Uh … What do you mean?”

  “You’re passionate about that band,” she said.

  “That band?” I repeated inanely. My voice squeaked. Our noses Were eight inches apart. Suddenly I Was fighting to ignore two simultaneous crises—the first being that I’d never seen Rachel’s face in all its Wide-open beautiful perfection, down to the tiny pores above her nostrils, the second being that my heart Was about to explode.

  “You know, that band from Brooklyn?” she said. “Snakes the Clown?”

  “Shakes the Clown. See, they’re named after this movie that—”

  “Yeah, but What I Want to know is: What Was it about them that inspired you? What Was it about them that made you so passionate about music? That turned you into this incredible guitar player?”

  I blushed. “Rachel, I’m not that good.”

  “Yes, you are.” She patted me on the thigh. Her hand lingered.

  With that one little gesture, something inside me snapped. I’m not sure Why. But I started jabbering about Shakes the Clown. About how they’re a joke band but not, because they’re amazing musicians. About how I first discovered them by accident, as I Was channel surfing. About how I skimmed past a local cable-access show called Bad Manners, but I had to go back because I glimpsed an off-kilter trio … so off-kilter that I thought I Was hallucinating—two scrawny White guys in matching prison overalls (barely older than me!) plus a huge black Woman With a massive Afro on drums—and they Were playing a deranged acoustic Black-Sabbath-meets-bluegrass cover of “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” … or they Were, until the singerguitarist, Hip E. Shake (I didn’t even know his moniker then), stopped the band midsong and asked cryptically: “How can I start a War if I have no beer?”—then Walked off, ending the performance.

  Words gushed from my mouth like a froth of exploding toilet Water.

  I stopped listening to myself. I Was conscious only of Rachel’s attentive eyes. I gazed into that sea of gorgeous blue. I realized that I must have been desperate to share my love of Shakes the Clown With someone because nobody else seemed to care about it.

  But Rachel Klein did. Rachel Klein Was my ideal Woman.

  I leaned forward and kissed her.

  She flinched. Her face turned pink.

  “Ted!” she gasped.

  The moment came to a terrible, screeching halt. I just made a move on Rachel Klein. While talking about Shakes the Clown! What Was I thinking? I Wasn’t thinking. Oh God. OH GOD! That Was the stupidest—

  “Don’t you ask permission?” she murmured.

  I blinked a few times. I Wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly. “Permission?”

  “Don’t you ask a girl permission before you kiss her?”

  “I … uh …”

  “You can kiss me, just so you know.” She smiled shyly. “But in the future, just ask my permission, okay?”

  I couldn’t answer. I’d lost the ability to form Words. Luckily it didn’t matter. Before I could nod or even grunt, she pounced on me.

  And What ensued—

  It Was great, of course. It defied description. (Well, I could describe it, but personally I think that getting into the nitty-gritty of a fervent make-out session is in poor taste.) Yet at the same time, I Was a little sad. I couldn’t help glimpsing the future.

  It’s true. I saw it all. I saw how things Would change between us. I saw the end of the Guitar Tuning Flirtation. I saw that if I had to ask permission every time I Wanted to kiss her, I’d Want to hide from that—hide in anxiety and embarrassment—so I’d start making up lame excuses to avoid Rachel Whenever I could, despite everything else I liked about her. I’d start hanging out at the Circle Eat Diner again. I’d hang out there more than ever. Yes, I’d slink back to the very place Where I spent so much time daydreaming about having a girlfriend, and I saw that my life Would come full circle … and maybe I even saw myself sitting there With Mark an
d Nikki on that glorious first day of spring break, knowing that Rachel Would never, ever, grant me permission to lose my virginity to her, no matter What.

  That Dickhead, Billy Rifkin

  “Look, man, I’m really not feeling Well,” I mumble to Mark. “I have to split.”

  “Five more minutes, Burger,” he insists.

  I shake my head and clutch my belly. Maybe it Was the near-death experience or maybe it Was Leo’s last batch of fries, but I’m on the verge of barfing.

  “Two more minutes,” Nikki bargains, seizing my arm again.

  “We’ll speed up,” Mark promises. He leans over the napkin. “So, after you’ve taken care of business …”

  2. Jam With Shakes the Clown

  “Of course!” Nikki cries. “You’re a genius, sweetie! Ted, you’re their number one fan. They practically know you.”

  “Well, actually, I’m just on their mailing list. A thousand people are on their mailing list. Probably more. But—”

  “Whatever.” Nikki Waves her hands. “The thing is, We should figure out a Way for you to meet them. Or better yet, play for them! You know? So you can blow them away With your guitar!”

  “We should do even better than that,” Mark says. “We Will do better than that.”

  He Wriggles his eyebrows and scribbles down task number three in such large, bold letters that I can read it upside down across the table:

  3. PARTY With Shakes the Clown

  “Now, that’s What I’m talking about, Burger!” he shouts. “Partying like a rock star!” He slams his fist on the Formica, rattling the plate and silverware.

  Nikki nods at me. There’s a strange, Wistful sparkle in her eyes. It looks as if a tear might fall, as if she’s thinking: Oh, our little Teddy is going to party like a rock star. I’m so proud.

  Ironically, I’m getting a little teary, too—but only because my allergies have started to act up. This is puzzling. My allergies (dog hair, cat hair, et cetera) never bother me inside the climate-controlled, grease-saturated environment of the Circle Eat Diner. All right. Something is definitely Wrong With me. My body is protesting for some reason. Maybe it’s an aftershock from the Leo incident. Maybe it’s some sort of psychosomatic reaction. Whatever the reason, the discomfort has migrated from my stomach to my sinuses. I have to go home. As soon as possible. ASAP, as my parents like to say. As in: “Ted, put that guitar down and get in here ay-sap!”

  “What’s the matter, Ted?” Nikki asks.

  “Mmm,” I groan. “Not … feeling … Well. I really—”

  “I got it!” Mark cries. Then he grins. “Number four. Revenge!”

  “Revenge?”

  “Burger, you gotta get back at that dickhead, Billy Rifkin!” he yells at me. “Remember Billy Rifkin? That punk skate-rat? The dwarf With the mop-top haircut? Remember in the sixth grade When he stole your guitar strings out of your knapsack? And you couldn’t prove it because he threw the strings in the sewer, and everyone laughed at you? Remember?”

  Yes, I remember—but Why bring it up? I shoot a quick glance at Nikki. This is one Ted Burger anecdote she doesn’t need to hear.

  Mark’s elation just as suddenly fades. “Damn. There’s only one problem.” He chews on my ballpoint. “I don’t know Where Billy Rifkin lives or goes to school or anything. He switched schools after sixth grade. But Whatever. You’ll track him down.”

  And do What? I Wonder. Barf on him?

  “Hey, Mark, maybe We should let Ted go,” Nikki says.

  She’s eyeing me now With genuine concern. This time there’s nothing maternal or nannyish about it. It’s more the concern of someone Who’s face to face With a volcano that’s about to erupt. She starts pushing away from me in her seat, mashing her back into the vinyl.

  “But I’m on a roll,” Mark says. “It’s all coming together!” He chuckles. “I promise you, Burger: this is gonna be the sickest spring break of your life. This spring break is gonna be ill—”

  “Don’t say those Words,” I moan.

  Mark stares at me. But it’s too late. He’s already triggered some sort of reaction inside my intestinal tract. Bad, bad, bad. Now is the time to leave. No doubt about it. I gather What little strength I have. For once I have to follow Mark’s advice and get off my butt and do something. I grab my knapsack and hightail it out of the booth— dizzy, half blind, and With my stomach on the verge of exploding.

  “Burger, Wait!” he shouts.

  His hand clamps down my shoulder.

  Uh-oh. My head swoops down fast. My eyes are blurry. I feel as if I’m on a roller coaster. I cover my mouth.

  Mark spins me around to face him.

  “Burger, listen, I only—” He breaks off. “Wow, you’re really pale. Jeez. Maybe you should call a doctor.” Then he brightens. “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you! My dad just got a job at St. Vincent’s. He’s going to be the administrator of the pediatric—”

  “Mark, I don’t feel so Well,” I croak.

  He responds With a typical easygoing laugh. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But hey, at least take the napkin.” He shoves it into my knapsack. “And don’t lose it. I’m serious. We’re only up to number four. Besides, you know What they say. You know What they say, Burger, don’t you?”

  He escorts me to the door and opens it, accompanying me onto the sidewalk. I can feel the fries swimming up toward my throat… .

  “The best ideas are always Written on a napkin,” he concludes.

  And With that, I puke.

  Twenty Bucks

  No need to go into the gory details, obviously.

  But once I escape—after apologizing to Mark for nearly throwing up on his sneakers, after promising him that yes, I’m fine, so he should just go back inside … after thanking him again for saving our lives (true, technically it Was only a Water gun, but none of us knew) … after lurching away from him With vomit on my T-shirt … after all that, the full impact of Mark’s last Words hits me.

  “The best ideas are always Written on a napkin.”

  You see …

  Often I refer to my parents as “out-of-their-gourds Wacko.” Sometimes even to their faces. You might think that this is kind of harsh. After all, everyone’s parents are Wacko in a Way. Just look at Mark’s dad, With his obsession about having a “thing.” Wackoness comes in a zillion different colors. The mere fact that my parents say everything With an implied exclamation point isn’t all that Wacko. Nor is the fact that they occasionally nag me to stop playing guitar to Watch an “important commercial!” That’s just typical parent stuff. (Sort of.) Even taking into consideration that every square inch of our apartment is smothered in framed photos of us and every single person We’ve ever met (I’ll get to this later), … you still might ask: What’s so Wacko about that?

  Good question. Nothing is really so Wacko about that.

  But at the end of this past summer, the day before school started, the following scene occurred. (Note: What you are about to Witness is entirely true. No artistic liberties have been taken. I only describe it in screenplay format because it provides me With the sniveling detachment I need to cope With it.)

  INT—BURGER FAMILY STUDY—DAY

  TED, a 16-year-old boy who rates a nine-point-five on the Afro Q-Tip meter, stands anxiously behind MOM and DAD, two forty-eight-year-olds in matching nylon sweat suits. Mom, a classic mother-in-advertising—expensive hairdo, slender build, deep wrinkles around her lips and eyes from the perma-smile—sits at a desk, typing on a laptop. Dad, a Distinguished Gray, sits next to her. He stares at the screen. Neither is aware that their only child is in the room.

  TED

  Hey, you guys? Sorry to interrupt, but can I have, like, twenty bucks? I really need to go shopping for school supplies.

  MOM

  Ted! I’m sorry we’ve been so busy.

  TED

  It’s okay, Mom. But I just—

  MOM

  Funny you bring up school supplies! Did you know that your father and I are doin
g the ad campaign for a school-supply company? We’re going on their corporate retreat next week.

  TED

  Yeah, you told me. Right now, though, I just really need to buy a notebook and some pens and stuff. School starts tomorrow.

  Dad whirls around to Ted, grinning.

  DAD

  Don’t worry. You don’t need a notebook this year.

  TED

  I don’t?

  DAD

  No. We’ve got you covered, kiddo! You need the Napkin.

  TED

  I need the … what?

  DAD

  The Napkin! It’s the latest digital organizer from the Y-Guys Company. Better than a PalmPilot, better than a notebook … it’s the ultimate high school study aid. No more wasting paper, no more worrying about your pens running out of ink—it fits into your jeans pocket, just like a napkin. And for safety’s sake, its memory can be backed up on any Mac or PC—

  TED

  Actually, I do sort of need a notebook, Dad. Okay?

  DAD

  I don’t think so, Ted. Wait until you hear what the ad slogan is. Or better yet, try to guess! Go on!

  TED

  Do I have to?

  DAD

  You’re really gonna love it. You’ll see.

  TED

  Can I guess after I get the twenty bucks?

  DAD

  Honey, should we tell him?

  Mom finally stops typing. She turns and beams at me.

  MOM AND DAD (in unison)

  “The best ideas are always written on a Napkin™!”

  They burst into laughter. Ted storms over and snatches Dad’s wallet out of his sweatpants pocket. Dad doesn’t seem to notice. He and Mom gaze proudly into each other’s eyes, laughing away. Ted removes a twenty-dollar bill and drops the wallet on the floor.

  FADE OUT

  Now do you understand Why I think they’re so out-of-their-gourds Wacko?

  Glass-Half-Full Kind of Guy

  Anyway, back to the story of my death:

  The nausea subsides as I continue hobbling down Seventh Avenue toward my apartment. The burning in my eyes subsides as Well. Apparently I’ve escaped Whatever unseen animal hair is floating around the Circle Eat.