10 Things to Do Before I Die (14 page)

Now Get on Your Knees, Bend Over, and Thank Me

Five details surrounding the kick:

When I unplug Wes’s guitar, the speakers emit an excruciating shriek: EEEEEEEEEE!!! This retriggers the tinnitus.

When my right foot makes contact With Twig’s face (or his chins, really; he has several of them), my left foot slides out from under me. I fall hard on my butt in classic, third-rate, Borscht Belt clown style.

Since the attack Was unexpected, however—since I had the element of surprise on my side and Was a regular Angel of Kicking in the Face—I achieve the desired goal. Twig topples away from Nikki With a grunt, “Oof!”

Unfortunately, this sets off a chain reaction/domino effect of people falling backward over each other throughout the club.

Shakes the Clown continues to play the chorus of “Kosher Firth Day.” Its lyrics go:

You can’t teach me to drive, so don’t bother

Or I’ll put on some stale old slacks like your father,

Which means it’s time for a spanking,

Now get on your knees, bend over, and thank me.

Belly Flop

I try to ignore the havoc I’ve Wrought. In the midst of it all I try to ignore the music, the angry yelps from the audience, the shocked expressions of Rachel, Mark, and Nikki (Whose face I just barely missed With my toe) … and Wes, too, Who is in a strategic position to smash his guitar over me or Worse. I doubt he’ll try anything, though. I have a shield. His prized custom purple banjo-shaped guitar is still strapped around my shoulders. He Wouldn’t hurt that. Although he did toss a practice amplifier into a bucket of beer …

I scramble to my feet. “Nikki, come on!”

She gapes at me. “What?”

“Come on! Up here!” I seize her Wrists and tug her up onstage. Oops. Bad idea. She’s heavier than she looks. I Wince. My arms burn. Finally she belly flops at my feet. Success! I hear Wes chuckling ominously into the microphone: “Mu-hu-ha-ha!” He stops playing, but Glenda and Herbert still doggedly plug along. The noise reverberates through the club, a crazed goulash of bass and drums. I Whirl in place, untangling myself from the strap, shoving the guitar at Wes, hauling Nikki up beside me—

“Ted Burger, you’re a true clown,” Wes remarks.

I don’t answer. I grab Nikki’s hand and run. I’m afraid of What else I might do if I stick around any longer.

Not a Jovial, Retirement-Age Italian or Israeli Guy

“Whoa, Wait, Ted! Where are We going?”

“Out,” I say. My voice sounds strangely nasal. Then I remember: I’m Wearing a clown nose. I plunge back down the staircase into the dark maze of corridors, tugging her along behind me as best I can.

She Wrenches free of my grip. “Out Where?”

“Outside. Away. Far.” I skid to a halt in a long, familiar-looking hall. My sneakers screech on the concrete. My head jerks right—yes! There’s the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. Which means the exit is to the left … that big door shrouded in darkness at the opposite end… . I bolt for it. “Come on.”

“Ted, Wait—”

“Now, Nikki!” I run, grimacing over my shoulder. “We can talk later, okay? But right now a very large bouncer has got it in for me. Understand?”

“I …” She shakes her head but follows.

I tear off the clown nose as I burst through the door. The awful streetlamp bears down on me. Crap. I freeze. I’m back in the yard again—the huge, maximum-security prison yard that is the Bronx.

Nikki shuts the door behind us.

A stroke of temporary luck: the sidewalk is deserted. Nobody has managed to chase us. Not yet. It might have been Wise to come up With a plan before I kicked a four-ton bouncer in the face. Oh, Well. We can hide in a bodega or—

Wait a second.

There’s a big black Lincoln Town Car idling across the street. A cardboard sign is propped up in the driver’s side window:

TRIBECA LIMO 410

“Rachel, I love you,” I Whisper out loud.

Nikki stares at me. “What did you just say?”

“I’ll explain later.” I grab her hand again and dash to the car—throwing the back door open and tossing her inside as if she Were a piece of luggage—then tumble in after her. The seats are plush and velvety. The air is cool and quiet. Safety, I think. “Uh, hi,” I mutter at the driver as I fumble With the door lock.

“Are you Burger?”

The voice is female, heavily accented … almost musical. Caribbean, maybe? I squint up at the front seat. The driver is a slender, attractive black Woman. She looks to be in her midthirties. I’m surprised. Every single time I’ve taken Tribeca Limos in the past, the driver has been a jovial, retirement-age Italian or Israeli guy.

“Yes,” I say.

“Barrow Street?” she asks, pulling away from the curb.

I glance out the Window. Twig and several murderous-looking hoodlums have emerged from the front door.

“Ted?” Nikki prompts nervously. “Barrow Street?”

“No. We’re going to JFK.”

Appetizer

Only after the Town Car has safely zipped onto the Cross Bronx Expressway—far from the intersection of Brooks Avenue and 151st Street—does Nikki finally clear her throat and speak up.

“Ted? I know you said We had to go outside and away and far, but don’t you think the airport is pushing it?”

“Give me the list,” I say.

She lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“The list. You know, the list.”

“You mean the napkin?”

“Yes.” I nod. I don’t trust myself to talk much beyond that. Because I’m barely able to contain myself. I might start breaking into the funky chicken. Ever since We sped away from the Onyx, I’ve been overcome With a giddy euphoria. It ripples through my body in Wave after Wave. I forget the poison. I forget being mean to Rachel. And I thought that playing onstage With Shakes the Clown Was a rush? Or that anger alone could quash tinnitus and nausea? Ha! The real rush, the real salve comes When you finally prove—

“Ted, What happened back there?”

“Huh?”

“What the hell Were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed, you know that?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I know. I just—I saw that Twig Was putting his hands all over you, and … I don’t know.” I shift in the seat, too twitchy to keep still. “Now can you hand over the list?”

She looks at me the Way a psychiatrist Would look at a long-term patient Who can’t make progress. I’m sorry; the therapy has failed. You require institutionalization.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing, Ted. Nothing. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“I never said it Was.”

With a sigh she pulls the napkin from her pocket. It’s so Wet and crumpled that it’s close to disintegrating.

I catch a Whiff of Budweiser as I unfold it. To me, it smells like triumph. I take a moment to breathe evenly, to calm down a little.

BURGER’S SPRING BREAK

Lose virginity.

Jam With Shakes the Clown.

PARTY With Shakes the Clown.

Get back at Billy Rifkin.

Do something truly heroic. Like rescue a baby from a burning building.

Along these lines, actually GO to one of those third World countries Rachel is always talking about and do something positive THERE. (Like Nigeria or Wherever. But fast.)

Rob a bank.

Pull a crazy stunt, like bungee jump off the GW Bridge.

Start your own religion.

Get something named after you (like a park or a fountain).

The Words have been blurred With brown liquid and hours of abuse, but they’re still legible. I smile to myself as I reexamine the ten tasks. My mission is just getting started. Amen! With that single kick, I’ve tasted life. I’ve had an appetizer. Now it’s time for the main course. And I’ve got the next eighteen hours to gorge myself on it.

Another Big, Huge Favor

“So, Ted?” Nikki says.

“Yeah?” I say, my eyes roving over the list.

“Can you please tell me Why you kicked that guy in the face and Why We ran away from everyone? Not that I mind. I’m just curious. That’s all.”

Ran away?

I blink and look up. I guess I did run away. But that part of my life is over. Without a doubt.

“Well, it’s like this,” I tell her. “And I’m not joking, so don’t laugh.”

“I’m not really in a laughing mood,” she says Wryly.

I smile. For a second I find myself staring back at her in that dim, hallucinatory, speeding-cab light. How does she do it? I Wonder. How does she manage to appear so relaxed, as if this is all just part of a normal night? It’s making me relaxed. Which I know is intentional. But With her black jean jacket hanging off one shoulder, and her black hair a mess, and those benevolent alien eyes—

Hmmm. I really need to stop that: the thinking-too-much-about -Nikki’s-appearance thing. That part of my life is over, too.

“It all comes back to the clown thing,” I say, trying to focus.

“I Was up there With that clown nose on my face. I Was up onstage, knowing I’ve always been a clown, With a clown band, and …” I pause. “I figured I had to be more like Mark for once, you know?”

The eyes bore into my own. “Like Mark?” she repeats.

“Yeah. Like the kind of guy Who dives in and saves the day. It’s just … Mark has this incredible faith that something amazing is always just around the bend. And because he believes it, it’s true. Mark makes amazing stuff happen. He tackled Leo to the ground! He affects the World! But I’m the opposite. The World affects me. So I Wanted to change it up. Besides, you Were being molested.”

Nikki doesn’t respond. She smiles sadly.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Listen, Nikki, can you do me a really huge favor?”

“Of course.” She straightens and leans close. A few strands of black hair fall in her eyes. Reflexively I brush them out of the Way so We can see each other.

“Can you promise me that We Won’t talk about the past anymore? I mean, this is my night. Like you said? Not to sound ungrateful … the Shakes the Clown thing blew me away—but can you promise me that We’ll only talk about the list?”

She nods, looking down at her lap.

“Anything you Want,” she Whispers.

No Baggage

I spread out the napkin in front of her. My hands are shaking— more than they’ve shaken since I’ve been poisoned. I’m not sure Why. Probably not a good idea to dwell on it. Nikki doesn’t notice, or she pretends not to.

“See, the Way I figure it, I’ve already taken care of five and a half of these things.”

She laughs. “Five and a half?”

“Yeah. I mean, not exactly. But just look. Skip number one, obviously. Number two: I jammed With Shakes the Clown. And they poured beer over my head, so that counts as partying, right? Number three. Okay, number four’s a tough one. I didn’t get back at Billy Rifkin. I got With Billy Rifkin. So that’s a yes. Number five: No, I didn’t rescue a baby from a burning building, but I got Twig’s hands off you. So that’s another yes. And the Way I see it, kicking Twig in the face counts for seven and eight as Well.” I glance up at her, satisfied. “Five and a half. See?”

“Sure. But tell me, Ted. How does kicking Twig in the face count for robbing a bank or bungee jumping off a bridge?”

“It’s the spirit of the thing,” I explain. “It all comes back to What you said at the diner. It’s about embracing the Dark Side. Wouldn’t you say that kicking a guy in the face counts as embracing the Dark Side? Even more than robbing a bank? Because, you know, theoretically, nobody Would get hurt in a bank robbery. So painwise it’s a victimless crime. Kicking is much Worse. And similarly, kicking a guy Who’s ten zillion times your size—and Who’s a sex fiend With a penchant for dismantling people to boot—is a hell of a lot more dangerous than bungee jumping off the GW Bridge, right?”

Whew. Talk about diarrhea of the mouth. I haven’t run my mouth this hard or this fast since that fateful day I first explained to Rachel about Why I loved Shakes the Clown.

Nikki smirks. “Oh, I get it,” she says teasingly, in the sort of deadpan voice that late-night talk show hosts use to silence dumb hecklers. “As long as you kicked a guy in the face, you’ve lived. Gee, Ted. You make a very strong case. I apologize.”

“Ha, ha,” I tease back, in the same deadpan voice.

She lays her ringed fingers on my knee—just for an instant. “So you never answered my question,” she says.

“Yes, I did! I told you Why I assaulted Twig!”

“No, the other question. Why are We going to JFK?”

I point at the napkin. “Because, as you’ve suggested, I haven’t lived yet. See for yourself. I have to go to Nigeria. But don’t Worry. You aren’t coming With me. Well, not unless you Want to. Do you Want to? Just kidding. I’ll have the driver take you home. Which, by the Way, is another instance of robbery because Rachel’s parents are paying for this Whole entire ride—”

“Nigeria?” the cabdriver interrupts. “Did you say you Were going to Nigeria?”

“Yes? Why?”

She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “I have an uncle Who lives in Lagos. I’m from Sierra Leone.”

“Oh.” I smile back. I’m not sure What I’m supposed to say.

“The reason I ask is because you have no baggage,” she adds. “How long Will you be staying in Nigeria?”

Nikki buries her face in her hands. I can’t tell if she’s sad or embarrassed. Maybe both. Why did I just invite her to come With me?

The driver laughs. She obviously doesn’t believe that I intend to fly to Africa tonight. For some reason, I find this extremely annoying.

“Another reason I ask: Do you have a passport?” she says.

“Yeah, I do,” I answer.

I yank my passport out of my back pocket and flap it in the air for her to see. It’s a little the Worse for Wear—having been stuffed into various pairs of pants for the past year—but it’s valid, and I’m sure it Will get me on a flight. So Why is she giving me a hard time? I’m utterly Wholehearted about this. I am going to Nigeria. As sure as I kicked Twig in the face. As sure as I’ll start a religion about a doughnut-shaped universe. The clock is ticking, and I’ve been galvanized.

“Do you mind if I ask you something else?” the Woman says.

“Not at all,” I lie.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

Good question. Excellent question.

I should answer it before that giddy euphoria slips away. I should be candid about my feelings. I should let loose in that honest, intimate Way that you can only With perfect strangers— With that freedom you get When you know you’ll never see a person again. I have nothing to Worry about. I can confess Whatever I Want to this Woman, Without any repercussions. I’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. And in answering her, I’ll have answered my own questions. I’ll have further liberated myself. Besides, Nikki deserves to hear this, too.

“You Want to know Why?” I answer. “Because I’m dying. I don’t have a Whole lot of time, and I’ve always lived a sheltered and lazy life. I Want to see how the rest of the World lives, just for a brief moment. Because if I go someplace Where there is real sickness and poverty and crimes against humanity and if I can help in some Way—if I can do just one little thing, once, I don’t know. I’ll feel good. Because for the first time ever— tonight, just now—I felt something. And I Want to hold on to that feeling. I Want to milk it for all it’s Worth. Okay?”

The Woman bursts out laughing.

Nice. Well. That Went over perfectly. I’m glad I could entertain. My sense of comic timing isn’t as lousy as I believed.

“Only a child Would say something like that!” she cries.

You can stop now, please. I slump down into the car seat. At least it’s dark in here. Wouldn’t it be great if I could die right this second and just get it over With? Nikki touches my knee again, very briefly. I’m not sure What the gesture means, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at her. No, I have a feeling this current bout of embarrassment Will last me a long, long time—as in forever.

“I don’t mean any disrespect,” the Woman adds apologetically. “I just mean that perhaps you should spend the time you have left With your girlfriend. You know, instead of running away? She’s beautiful!” She beams at Nikki in the mirror. “But you certainly don’t need to travel the World to do good things. The World is an ugly place. Every city is the same. Lagos is no different than New York. Both have McDonald’s. Both have suffering. There is only one difference between America and the rest of the World: people outside America know What it is like to live With death. They see death around them all the time. But people in America believe that they are going to live forever. Perhaps that is Why you are running. You are afraid of death. But no matter how fast and far you run, even to Nigeria, you are not going to outrun death.”

I open my mouth to answer, to argue—and then stop. What’s the point? I saw What opening my big mouth did for me the last time: it bought me a one-Way ticket to the Land of Humiliation. But that’s all right; I’m used to it there. I’ve lived there most of my (short!) life. Sure, I vacationed for a While back at the Onyx, but now I’m back Where I belong. The prodigal son has returned.

Except, Madam Cabdriver, you are Wrong about one thing: I’m not trying to outrun death. I’m just trying to run, period—to move, to go places, to do things instead of sitting on my butt during my last hours. Is that so bad? And so What if I’m afraid? Who isn’t afraid of dying? Name one person! And for God’s sake, lady, did you have to insinuate that Nikki Was my girlfriend? Thanks a lot! Way to make things awkward!

You’re Wrong about something else, too.

I have plenty of baggage. You just can’t see it. It’s swirling around With the guilt and the poison and all the rest of the crap I’ve got stowed up there.