10 Things to Do Before I Die (13 page)

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 can 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.

“Shake ’n Bake,” the three of them chant, With mystical zeal.

“It’s a dumb name, Ted Burger,” Wes says. “But We’re a little pressed for time.”

Glenda takes my arm and Whisks me to the door.

I can see how she Would have made a good cop. Her powerful fingers dig into the same sore spot Where Nikki grabbed me just minutes ago. Herbert and Wes follow. I catch a last glimpse of Nikki. She’s picking the napkin off the green tile— cautiously, With her thumb and forefinger, as if she’s Worried the filthy floor might contaminate her. I Want to tell her to forget about the stupid napkin, but it’s too late; I’m already marching briskly through a labyrinth of dim corridors. Along the Way ghostly figures hand the band members various instruments: Wes, a guitar (also purple, though not banjo shaped); Herbert, a bass; Glenda, her drumsticks… .

We hurry up a stairwell… .

Blackness.

I hear a massive, hollow, cacophonous buzz: the kind that indicates vast space and hundreds of people packed tightly together. Then there’s a light. A lone flashlight beam. It dances over amplifiers, a drum kit—and for a nightmarish instant, a sea of faces.

The stage? I’m onstage!! Holy—

My mouth dries up. I can’t breathe. (The clown nose doesn’t help.) My heart starts to thump like that rap song Joy and Mark Were listening to earlier. How the hell did I get here? Not that it matters because I’m certain the poison Will send me toppling to the floor—

“Where should he plug in?” somebody Whispers.

Twig? Is that you?

I can’t tell. I can’t see a goddamn thing.

“Plug him into the acoustic rig,” Wes Whispers back, sounding oddly professional. “It should be fine. We dealt With it in the sound check. We’ll get him off after the first song. Herbert and I can stall for time.”

Glenda suddenly lets go of me.

“Hey!” I protest. “Come back!”

Her grip Was viselike, but I preferred the pain because at least then I Was anchored somewhere. Now I’m just out here, blind, a free-floating entity in the final preshow chaos, the crucial Word being show, a show I have no legitimate part of …

The flashlight zooms into my face. I flinch, covering my eyes.

I sense that somebody is bending down next to my groin.

There’s a click. Whoever’s down there just plugged my guitar in. When my fingers accidentally brush over the strings—mostly in an attempt to get this mystery person (boy? girl? man? Woman?) away from my private parts—I produce the loudest, most horrific noise I’ve ever heard: Beeeow!

It echoes across the club: Beeeow … beeeow … beeeow …

A cheer erupts in response: “Woooooo!”

No. My blood runs cold. No. No! That Wasn’t some kind of signal! But the sound is overpowering. It’s a Wall, a force—I can feel it.

“You ready to lose your Shakes the Clown virginity?” Wes Whispers out of nowhere. “Are you ready to get stupid-smart, Ted Burger?”

Am I ready?

“‘Kosher Firth Day’ on four,” he instructs me. Seconds later his voice booms from a microphone: “One, two, three, four—”

The Answer to Wes’s Question

Before We get to all that, there’s something you should know:

I’ve never performed in front of a formal audience, except for one other time in my life. In other Words, until this very moment, the only time I’ve ever actually stood on a stage While people Watched me—and this is the God’s honest truth—Was at a school assembly in the sixth grade, When I sang “If I Were a Rich Man” from the musical Fiddler on the Roof.

That’s it.

It also bears mentioning that the performance Was a disaster.

I can’t carry a tune. So I spent the Whole time staring at Mark—he Was in the fourth row—and he cringed and tried to smile as I struggled through the entire song, painfully off-key. I sweated a lot. Needless to say, Mom and Dad Wasted an entire roll of film on this hellish torture. Many of the pictures still hang on our apartment Wall.

But as far as the guitar goes? Nope. Never played it in public. Nor have I particularly desired to. The prospect has always been too frightening. I’ve never auditioned for a band. I’ve never played With any other musicians. Not With a drummer, not With a singer, not With a bassist, not With any combination thereof. I’ve never even played With any other human beings—except Mr. Puccini. And Rachel, I guess, if you count one miserable attempt We made to “jam” before … Well, before.

So.

What I’m trying to say is: no, Wes Levitz, aka Hip E. Shake— in answer to your question, no. I am not “ready” to lose my Shakes the Clown virginity.

Ha! Sound familiar?

Note to self before dying: If I ever make up With Rachel, I Will never bug her about consummating our relationship again. Ever. Not even in the little time I have left. I should ask permission every time I kiss her. Because for once I can almost imagine What it feels like to stand in her sandals. (Almost.)

A person should never, ever feel obligated to agree to anything until he or she truly is ready. Period.

Failed with a Capital F

But When the stage lights explode in my face, and the audience responds With a fevered scream, and the band unites on the downbeat—somehow I’m right there: guitar number two. I’m on it, note for note. I can’t miss; I know “Kosher Firth Day” too Well. I’ve played along to the CD dozens of times. Hundreds. And right then I see that it’s true, that all the stupid MTV and VH1 interviews are dead-on: there is nothing like the blast of adrenaline you experience When you first lock into a tight groove, live, With sick musicians (your heroes!)—and a crowd of strangers is loving you for it. The energy feeds you, and it feeds them, and it grows; the reciprocity makes you mighty, invincible … a list of a thousand adjectives couldn’t come close to describing it.

And I’m pulling it off.

I’ve been transformed.

It’s not just that I’ve miraculously overcome any fears and neuroses, that I’ve conquered the swirling vortex. It’s not just that this is a historic moment for me. This is a historic moment for them. For Shakes the Clown. They’ve never invited another musician to play With them live before. I’m the first. I know this for a fact. I’ve downloaded every concert bootleg available. I’ve downloaded the set lists. I know their history probably better than they do. Which means … What, exactly? They’re cruel and twisted; they’re impulsive; they don’t give a crap about anyone but themselves … except that little ritual they performed backstage… . Does that mean …?

Am I in Shakes the Clown? For the next nineteen hours, at least? Is my new name Shake ’n Bake?

“Burger!”

The voice is tiny. It sounds like Mark.

“Burger!”

At first I think I’m imagining it. The monitors are deafening. I can hear every drum fill in my teeth and rib cage—but no, that’s definitely him. I squint out into the mass of Writhing bodies. My eyes still haven’t quite adjusted to the glare.

“Burger, your fly’s unzipped!”

There. He’s mashed up against the edge of the stage, directly opposite Wes—one hand cupped around his face, the other slamming down in time to the music, blissful. He isn’t cringing this time. He’s smiling. “Made you look!” he mouths. I shake my head and smirk back dizzily. Until I spotted him, I hadn’t realized how high the stage Was. Wes could kick Mark if he stepped out past his microphone stand. (Come to think of it, Wes Would kick Mark.) And—Jesus, there’s Nikki! Right next to him! Rachel is there, too, next to her, looking not so blissful … and so are Lou and Frankie—My God, they’re all in a row … all right up front … packed tightly… . I hope none of them get hurt… .

I stop smiling.

Suddenly the adrenaline rush fades. Suddenly the vortex starts to swirl again.

I don’t get it. I mean, from an objective point of view, everything is perfect. Everything. For Christ’s sake: I’m living out an impossible fantasy I’ve had more times than I’ll ever admit! How many people get to do that? Nobody! I’m the luckiest guy in the World! AND my girlfriend and best friend are front and center! This isn’t just a fantasy come true; this is a Hallmark moment.

But I can’t enjoy it. Because it’s bogus. It’s all a lie.

First off:

When I discovered Shakes the Clown, I felt as if I Were delving into a tiny, special, secret society. But now there are no secrets. Now I know these guys. They Won’t sell out (even though they should); they don’t suck live (not With a second guitarist, anyway); they are depraved. Or are they? Or is their depravity just a little forced? They aren’t particularly funny—at least, not in the smart-stupid Way I imagined them to be. There’s no grand scheme, no ironic unifying philosophy behind their dumb jokes. Even though they’ve technically met every single one of my obsessed-fan/music-geek requirements, they’ve Failed me. Failed, With a capital F. They don’t embody Purity. They embody nothing. They aren’t my heroes.

Second:

The only reason I’m even up here With them is because I didn’t have the guts to be honest With Rachel. I ran away from her in the most cowardly Way possible. And then as luck Would have it, I bumped into Mark, and then I bumped into Nikki, and yada, yada, yada. It Was a random series of pie-in-the-face events that saved me. That’s all. I had nothing to do With it. No, if I’d had the courage to do What needed to be done, I Would still be outside talking to Rachel. But instead I’m onstage in a clown nose—

Oh, crap.

Twig. He’s right behind Nikki. He’s …

Is he fondling her?

He’s got his hands on her hips.

She tries to swat them away. He Won’t let her. This is bad. Very bad. Why did she ever flirt With him at all? Oh, yeah, right: for ME—so she could introduce me to my “heroes” because I Would never be motivated enough to meet them on my own.

I scowl at Mark. He grins back at me, giving me a thumbs-up. No, no, no—I’m not scowling at you because I’m pretending to be tough and mean, like a rock star! Don’t look at me! Look at your girlfriend! … But thank God, the others start to notice that there’s something Wrong. First Rachel. Then Lou and Frankie. They twist toward Nikki, Watching uncomfortably. They can’t do much about it; it’s too crowded… . Nikki attempts to squirm free again. Nope. Twig Won’t let go.

Well. I think I’ve seen just about enough. I think I’m done blowing stuff off, too. I think I’m ready to take a cue from What Mark did to Leo.

Yes. It’s time to start living. It’s time to move out of the realm of “should.” It’s time to act on my anger.

So I unplug the guitar, I march to the edge of the stage, and I kick Twig in the face—as hard as I possibly can.