10 Things to Do Before I Die (11 page)

Keep the Change

Maybe coming to this show tonight Wasn’t such a great idea.

Now that We’ve crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, I remember Why I don’t make it up to the Bronx very often. It’s a little sketchy. Sure, some parts are probably beautiful. I hear Riverdale is nice. But from What I can see right now (and this is just through a taxi window), the Bronx isn’t like the other boroughs, even at their Worst. It’s got this sort of post-apocalyptic Weirdness: deserted avenues littered With blown-out tires, old buildings Where every single window is smashed, empty lots knee-deep in discarded bottles of Elmer’s glue.

I mean, Elmer’s? How desperate Would you have to be to sniff Elmer’s?

Clearly this neighborhood is not meant for Manhattan-bound Wimps. Not by a long shot. I squint out into the night, trying to get some sense of Where I am. Is Yankee Stadium out there? No. No, it isn’t. All I see is a decrepit Warehouse. Wait … A sign is mounted on the door. It’s spray painted in black: THE ONYX.

So We’re here. Wonderful. There’s a big crowd outside, too. Mixed. Older. Rough looking. Lots of piercings and tattoos. All are bathed in a ghoulish White glow from a huge streetlamp overhead. (The industrial type, usually found in prison yards.) A few people stare at our taxi as it glides to a stop. None appear to be very pleased With its arrival.

“How much money do you have, Ted?” Nikki asks.

“Huh?”

She points to the meter. The fare is $25.80. “Don’t Worry,” she says. “If you pay for the cab, I’ll pay for the show. I’ll charge the tickets on my credit card.”

“Maybe it’s sold out,” I mumble. I fish through my pockets, cursing myself for not resisting the temptation to come up here. I should have gone straight to Rachel’s apartment instead.

“It’s not sold out,” Nikki says. “I called ahead.”

“Oh.” I hand over the remainder of my cash: three crumpled ten-dollar bills.

Nikki thrusts the money at the driver and leaps out onto the sidewalk.

“Keep the change!” she calls over her shoulder.

I stagger after her. “Hey, Nikki, does this place even accept credit cards?”

But she’s already halfway to the ticket booth, shoving her Way through the crowd, a determined smile on her face. A girl With purple hair screams an obscenity at her. Nikki pretends not to hear. I turn and Watch the cab as it disappears into the night. I can’t help feeling that by letting it go, I’ve signed my own death Warrant.

Of course, Leo already signed it for me.

The sidewalk starts to tilt. I tilt With it. I stare at a mishmash of gang-related graffiti on the club’s cement Wall, hoping that this Will stabilize me. It doesn’t. I suppose I should count my blessings, though. If I keel over and die right now, at least I’ll have avoided a violent beating at the hands of—

“Forrest Chump!”

Freakin’ Bold, Dude

No Way.

It couldn’t be. But I know it is, even before I spot the pair barreling toward me out of the mob. Lou and Frankie. The twins. There Would be no mistaking those two dopey Sopranos accents, shouting in unison. Those two red baseball caps, Worn backward. Those two sweatshirts, beer stained. The same sweatshirts, no less, With the same blue logos. Don’t twins stop dressing alike after the age of three?

“Whattaya doin’ here?” one of them yells at me.

I don’t answer. A few thoughts flit through my mind. One: I hate that New York is the Land of Extraordinary Coincidence. Two: I can’t tell Who’s Who. (Does it even matter?) I don’t understand how Rachel and these guys could have possibly been spawned by the same gene pool. There must have been a mix-up in the baby Ward When Rachel Was born. She doesn’t speak With an accent. Plus she’s not an ape. I’m also thinking: she Was right. Drunks do appear to suffer from the same symptoms I do. Their cheeks bloat; their eyes redden; their gait is unsteady.

“I thought you Were at home sick,” the other says, breathing beer into my face. Tawt yoo Wurr at ’ome sick.

Hmmm. What are they going to think When Nikki gets back here With the tickets? Actually, I know the answer. They’re going to think that I’m cheating on their sister.

“That’s freakin’ bold, dude,” one says.

“What?”

“That you busted it!” the other one cries.

My eyes flash between them. I can no longer tell if I’m in any immediate danger. Neither twin’s tone is overtly threatening. Are they setting me up?

“You must really dig Rachel,” the first one says.

“Of course I do!” I reply instantly. My voice squeaks. I try to smile.

They laugh.

“I’mma go get her,” the other one slurs, lurching back toward the club. “Cuz, you know, We Were thinking about lookin’ you up and beatin’ the snot outta you. She told us you lied to her. Big-time.”

My smile disappears. Blood pools in my feet.

“She’s here?” I gasp.

“Yeah, she felt sorta bad about comin’ and all,” the remaining twin says. “I mean, seein’ as you Were sick. She Was gonna surprise you With the ticket. She bought two. You know, one for her, one for you. But then she Was like, Why Waste two tickets? I mean, you know Rachel, dude. Waste not, Want not! So she gave it to Lou. And I bought one here. She’s always Wanted to see this band ’cuz you’re always talking about ’em—and by the Way, I LOVE SHAKES THE CLOWN, DUDE! They’re just like … just like … you know?” He belches, frowning. “Wait, What Was I saying?”

Things I Love About Rachel Klein, Redux

I’m about to start sniffling again. I’m about to break down and bawl like I did on the subway home from Billy Rifkin’s. I stare up at Frankie’s beefy red face—it has to be Frankie because he mentioned Lou—and I Want to throw my arms around him. (On second thought, I don’t Want to do that.) But I Want to hug somebody. I Want to hug his sister. Because during his semi-coherent monologue, I ran the entire emotional gamut: from fear, to guilt, to shock, to understanding, to happiness, to more guilt, then to more … . and finally I Wound up With remorse.

I do love Rachel Klein.

What’s not to love? In no particular order:

She respects my opinion.

She respects it so much that she Wanted to see Shakes the Clown herself.

She bought me a ticket to see it With her. She Wanted to surprise me. Me! The guy Who runs away! The guy Who blows stuff off!

She knows me. She knew I’d be overjoyed With her offer to take me to this show. She’s Warm and generous and caring and beautiful and—

Here she comes.

Well Done

“See?” Lou drags her out of the crowd by the entrance and shoves her toward me. Her sandals crunch on broken glass. “I told you he Was here.”

Rachel freezes. “Ted?” she cries.

“Uh, that’s the name they gave me,” I say, With horrible bad-clown timing.

She gapes at me in the heinous fluorescent Bronx streetlight. I can’t get a bead on What she’s feeling. Is she suspicious? Relieved? Still pissed? Strange: even as my brain squirms, I find myself glancing back toward the ticket window, Where Nikki has been out of sight for some time. There isn’t really a line; it’s more of an unruly mob. Even so, I’m sure that Nikki has managed to buy us tickets by now. She’ll probably return at any second. At Which point I’ll be forced to admit to Rachel that I came to the Onyx With Nikki, alone—just the two of us—to see my favorite band.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asks.

“I came With Mark,” I lie, Without a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh,” she says.

I start feeling sick. What the hell Was that? Actually, I know the answer to this moronic rhetorical question, too. I Was looking to stall her. Of course I Was. I still am. I’m looking for anything to postpone having to tell Rachel the truth. And until the very moment Nikki appears With the tickets, I’ll have bought myself some time. I’ll have survived a few more seconds Without making Rachel miserable. It Was just a basic animal instinct, the instinct for survival and protection. A reflex. Like throwing up When you’re nauseated—

Uh-oh.

I throw up, With sudden violence.

“DUUUUUDE!” the twins cry in disgust. They back off toward the club.

A couple of people snicker.

“Shuddup!” Lou and Frankie bark at them.

“Ted?” Rachel says, very gently. She Wraps her arm around me and bends down. Her eyebrows meet in a soft arc. “Look. I know I asked you this earlier, but have you been drinking?”

“Yeah,” I confess. At this point I’m too miserable to lie anymore.

“When did you start?”

“I started at my apartment. But listen.” I take a deep breath and stand up straight. Amazingly, I feel much better. I’ve also avoided ruining my shirt this time. I run a hand through my damp curls. I steady myself enough to explain What’s really going on, to be honest, and to tell her that getting drunk earlier has nothing to do With this. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. This afternoon I Was—”

“Please don’t tell me that you’ve come down With some Weird sickness, Ted,” Rachel pleads. “I forgive you, okay? And I’m sorry I hung up on you earlier. But please don’t lie to me. Please don’t make up any more BS about how some friend of your parents’ came to check up on you and she gave you a two-hundred-dollar donation to Amnesty International… .”

Wait—that’s right. I have proof of my innocence. My face lights up With the same joy that Dad’s did When he first told me about the Napkin. “No, no, Rachel, look,” I protest. I jam my fist into my pocket and yank out the crumpled check. The spring break/death mission/ten things list pops out With it, fluttering to the sidewalk. But I don’t care. In sniveling fashion, all I care about is the immediate moment. About exonerating myself. “See? I Wasn’t making that up.”

Rachel steps forward. She plucks the check from my hand With her heavily calloused, gardening-scarred fingers. Her eyes Widen.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air. Yes! Victory! Everything’s coming up Burger! I snatch up the list and stuff it back into my pocket. My head spins With the bending over. I should probably avoid doing that again.

“What’s that?” Rachel asks.

“What’s What?”

“That thing you just picked up. That napkin.”

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“It looks like something Was Written on it.”

“Yeah, you know—just … stuff.” I shrug and smile, blushing. I Wanted to tell her about the poisoning, but now I can’t. There’s no telling how she Would react if she saw that list in all its madness. I Would have to explain Why I’m not in the hospital. I Would have to explain Why I’m here With Nikki. I Would have to tell more lies… .

But she just smiles back. Incredible. She’s in such a forgiving mood, she decides not to be nosy. “Look, Ted, I don’t Want to sound like a nag or your mother or anything, but don’t you think you should go home and get into bed? It probably Wasn’t such a great idea to drink When you Weren’t feeling Well, you know? I’ll call you a cab right now.” She reaches into her sweater for her cell phone. “Where’s Mark, by the—”

“Getting the tickets!” I interrupt.

I scan the crowd near the ticket window. (Still no sign of Nikki.) I scan the twins. (Nothing there, no hint of any emotion or comprehension Whatsoever.) Then I scan Rachel. (Sadness and sympathy.) I make the loop again. A third time. Crowd, twins, Rachel; crowd, twins, Rachel; crowd … That brief, euphoric exultation vanishes. Despair replaces it. I’ve Woven a very tenuous Web of deceit for myself, and now it’s on the verge of unraveling.

Well done, Ted, I congratulate myself grimly. Very Well done.

“Ted?”

“Yes?”

Rachel looks at me. And then she does something that should make me feel extremely relieved but doesn’t. It makes me feel about as bad as I’ve felt since this Whole ordeal started.

She sweeps me into her arms for a hug.

Guilt by Self-Association

“I know how excited you are to see this show,” she murmurs into my ear. “And I’m sorry. But I really think it’s best if you go home.”

“Rachel?”

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk.” I step away from her and take her lumberjack hand. I can tell she sees an uncharacteristic sobriety in my bloodshot eyes. She senses that What I’m about to say is important. And she’s right because even though I don’t know What I’m about to say—not Word for Word—I’ve just had a minor revelation. I’ve just gone from loving her more than I ever have, to … Well, to still loving her, in a Way. Except now I know What I have to do. I have to make another speech. A tough one, along the same lines of the speech I made on the subway. It’s been building. It Was building even before I discovered I Was poisoned. The hug triggered it, though. That hug Was the final blow.

“What’s up, Ted? What is it?”

My fingers intertwine With hers.

“Come With me,” I say. I lead her away from the crowd, away from the offensive glare of the streetlamp, away from Lou and Frankie (and Nikki, too)—around the corner to a deserted side street, littered With blown-out tires.

“I …” I search for a delicate phrase. “I don’t like feeling guilty all the time.”

She laughs uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“You make me feel guilty.”

“I do?” Her lips quake. Her forehead Wrinkles. She Wraps her arms tightly around herself. Her oversized Wool sweater sleeves hang limply over her hard little fingers. She stares down at her sandals.

Way to go, Ted, I tell myself angrily. Now she’s hurt. Why did I say that? It Wasn’t just blunt; it Was cruel. I Wanted to spare her feelings. But given that outburst of stupidity, sparing her feelings probably Won’t be an option now. My guilty conscience is my problem, not hers.

“What are you trying to tell me, Ted?” she Whispers, glancing up again.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, Rachel. But really, What do you get out of this?”

“What do I get out of What? Ted, you’re not making any sense. I’m Worried about you.”

“I know you are,” I say. It’s crazy: as We both stand here in this godforsaken Wasteland, I start trying to dream up Ways of tricking her into getting mad at me—so she’ll take the initiative to break up With me tonight, so I Won’t have to feel guilty about not Wanting to spend the last few hours of my life With her. Which, of course, just makes me feel guiltier. What could I possibly say or do to make her mad at me? Tell her that I lied to her? Tell her that I came here With Nikki, alone?

“Ted, I’m calling a car service for you,” she says. She flips open her celly. “You Won’t even have to pay for it. My parents have an account at Tribeca Limos. It’ll be here in a half hour, tops. You can go home, and rest, and Wake up early, okay?”

She punches a few buttons and cradles the phone against her ear.

This is it. This is the time to do it. I have to swallow my fear. I can’t afford to blow things off anymore. It’s better for Rachel in the long run. It’ll spare her—

“Yeah, hi!” Rachel says. She shifts on her feet, smiling absently at a nearby pile of tires. “Account number two-three-eight-nine? Yes. Klein.” She pauses. “I’ll need a car to pick up one passenger at the Onyx in the Bronx. Brooks Avenue and 151st Street.” She flashes me a quick grin and nods. “Car four-ten? Great! No, not cash. Voucher. The passenger’s name is Burger. Ted Burger. Right. He’s going to Barrow Street in Manhattan. Thanks!” She snaps the phone shut. “So, Ted …”

Before she can say another Word, I turn and bolt.