10 Things to Do Before I Die (7 page)

Down to Business

Mark responds by kneeling in front of my parents’ liquor cabinet.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m going to get drunk,” he states very matter-of-factly. “If you aren’t going to the hospital, then you leave me no choice. And you’re gonna get drunk, too.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. We all are. It’ll help us think.” He leans forward and peers closely at the mahogany door. It’s got an old-fashioned brass lock. For a moment he hesitates. Then he makes a fist and punches the lock, knuckles first: Smack! The door gently swings open, Without so much as a creak.

Mark turns and beams at me.

I have to smile back. Mark may be an impulsive maniac, but he’s got flair.

“Now, let’s see …”

He reaches in and grabs a bottle of foul-looking liquid. It’s roughly the same color as gasoline. Judging from the classy font on its label, though, it must be expensive. I lean forward and squint at the lettering. Glenmorangie? Never heard of it. Mark stands up straight. He Waves the stuff in front of all of us, swishing it around like a magician about to perform a signature trick. Then, in a single deft maneuver, he yanks out the cork cap—thwok!—and shoves the bottle against his lips, tilting it up and chugging furiously. Glug glug glug … he sputters. His face shrivels like a popped balloon. Brown liquid drips to the floor. He looks as if he’s just been forced to ingest sewer sludge. Yet somehow he musters a demented grin.

“Yeah!” he chokes out. “This stuff rocks!”

I glance at Nikki. She shrugs.

“I’ve had scotch before,” she says nonchalantly. “It’s better With ice.”

Mark thrusts it into my hands. “It’s fine Without ice, though,” he croaks, his voice hoarse. “Just take a pull, Burger. Right now.”

“I …” I turn to Nikki again. Her saucer eyes are moist. She looks as if she’s about to cry. I can tell that this is a decision I’ll have to make on my own. (I hate that kind of decision.) My gaze falls to the heavy bottle. I catch a Whiff of What’s inside. Jesus—my parents actually pay for this crap?

“Come on, Burger,” Mark Whispers. He claps me on the shoulder. “Get down to business. Do this. It’ll help me out. I mean it.”

I can’t argue. Clearly Mark does need help. Why is his reaction to this Whole poisoning thing so much more out of control than mine? But I suppose I shouldn’t think too hard about that. Screw it. I should just take a pull. It’s not as if it’ll endanger my health. I don’t have any health anymore.

I upend the bottle, trying to imitate What I just saw him do. Shockingly, I don’t barf. Scotch seems to be one of those rare liquids that taste better than they smell. Sure, it burns a little going down, but then it feels Warm in my belly. And the Warmth lingers. More shocking still, it buries the nausea. After two more swigs I find that it actually helps me, too. There’s still a little vertigo, a little tinnitus—but as long as I stay seated … this is the best I’ve felt since I’ve been poisoned.

“Now you’re talking!” Mark exclaims. He swipes the bottle back. “I’ll grab us some glasses, okay, Burger? Nice ones. Highball glasses. And some ice, too.”

He scurries into the kitchen.

Meanwhile Nikki stares at me, blinking the Wetness away.

I have no idea What she’s thinking. I have no idea What any of us is thinking. It’s a unique experience. Usually I can at least speak for myself.

Moments later Mark returns With glasses and ice. We squeeze into the couch together: boy-girl-boy. He pours us all generous servings.

The ice crackles as We lift our scotches for a toast.

“To life!” he shouts.

I have to smile. I’ve never even had such lousy comic timing.

Nikki shakes her head, embarrassed for all of us.

“What?” Mark says. He sounds genuinely puzzled.

“The toast, you dope.” Nikki groans.

He blinks. “Oh. Well, What should I have said? To death?” He slurps his drink, draining about half of it. “Hand over that napkin. We’re here for Burger, remember? And if he isn’t gonna think about dying, then neither am I.”

Heroism, Nigeria, Bank Robbing, and Suicide

Within the half hour, We’ve each downed two jumbo-sized scotches apiece. Mark has been a dervish of energy: putting on CDs, taking them off, refilling our drinks … and now he’s back on the couch, scribbling on the napkin. As the level of liquor in the bottle falls, the volume in the room rises. Soon We’re all shouting at one another. We can’t stop giggling, either. The three of us seem to be experiencing the same simultaneous hearing loss. Hey! I think, a lopsided grin on my face. Hearing loss is another one of the symptoms of Ménière’s disease! So now I’m three for four. And What Was the last one? Pressure in the ears?

“Mark!” Nikki yells. “What are you Writing?”

She’s slouched deep into the couch now. She’s slouched so deep that she’s practically horizontal. Her tank top is rumpled. Her scotch rests on her exposed navel. She taps the glass With her silver rings, smiling up at him.

Mark tilts the napkin so all three of us can read What he’s jotting down:

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.

Somehow I muster the strength to speak. “Whoa, Whoa, hold on. Rob a bank? Why do I have to do that?”

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You have to do something bad to counterbalance the good, Burger,” he replies, slurring slightly. “Part of living life to the fullest is embracing the Dark Side.”

I momentarily forget the poison. “The Dark Side? What is this, Star Wars?”

Mark turns to Nikki, raising his hands as if to say: A little help?

“Ted, you have to do something totally beyond the confines of morality,” Nikki explains, as if she and Mark have plotted this robbery numerous times in the past. “But listen. You aren’t gonna be alone. We’re gonna be With you all the Way, one hundred percent. When it comes time to knock over the bank, We’re gonna knock it over With you. I mean, aside from the obvious—you know, that a strong-through-the-door operation always requires a lookout, a driver, and a vault man—aside from all that, Which We’ll Worry about later …”

I blink at her.

Knock over? Strong-through-the-door operation? Vault man?

She’s even drunker than I am.

Nikki grabs the napkin and snatches the pen away from Mark and starts scribbling something herself.

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

“See, Ted, your problem is that you don’t like putting yourself in dangerous situations,” she informs me. “You have to laugh publicly in the face of death—like that magician, David What’s-his-face. You know? The guy Who froze himself in a block of ice? That’s the key to living a full life. Damn, What’s his name? David …”

“David Blaine?” I say.

She nods. “Yeah, him.”

“That’s the key to living a full life?”

She nods again.

“Freezing yourself in a block of ice,” I repeat. “Bungee jumping off the George Washington Bridge.”

“Exactly,” Nikki says. “You know. Something stupid, like What Mark Would do.”

We both giggle again, like idiots.

I spot Mark in the corner, talking on the phone. When did he start making calls? He gives me a thumbs-up. There’s a satisfied “We’re all set!” gleam in his eye. Clearly he’s just confirmed something of extreme importance, but I have no idea What it could be or Who he’s talking to. He mutters something incomprehensible and hangs up.

“Dude!” he yells, elated.

“What’s going on?”

“I just found out Where Billy Rifkin lives,” he says.

“Billy Rifkin?” I don’t know Why, but this makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed all night. I double over in hysterics. Scotch spills onto the floor.

“Get outta here!” Nikki yells.

“You know What that means, don’t you?” Mark asks me.

Nikki swats me on the shoulder. “It means Ted’s gotta go get him!”

I stop laughing. “Huh?”

“That’s right, dude,” Mark concurs. His eyes are unsteady. “This is What you’ve been Waiting for. 525 West Seventy-third Street. Number 15E. You’ve gotta get back at that little pecker for making you look like a fool. I mean, you remember how you felt that day, right? With everybody laughing at you? With your guitar strings in the sewer—”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

I try to straighten up on the couch. A sudden onslaught of vertigo sends me crashing into Nikki. Oops. Best just to get off the couch altogether. With a mighty grunt I propel myself up to a standing position. (Or close enough. The teetering makes full uprightness impossible.) “What about the other stuff on that napkin?” I ask, trying not to slur my Words. “What about partying With Shakes the Clown? Billy is number four, right? Shouldn’t I party With Shakes the Clown first?”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Uh … Ted?” He shoves the napkin back in his pocket and Waves a drunken hand around the room. “I don’t see Shakes the Clown here. If you’re hiding them somewhere, fine. Let’s get started. Otherwise We have to be realistic. We have to Work With What We’ve got. Know What I’m saying?”

I do my best to stick my tongue out at him. It’s difficult. I’m smiling uncontrollably.

“Now, listen, Burger,” Mark says. “Don’t Worry about a thing.” He lurches forward and throws a sweaty arm around my shoulders. “We’re gonna take care of that other stuff, too. Even the first thing! That’s right. You’re going to become a man tonight. But you gotta trust me on this. Okay? Will you trust me? Will you trust your old pal Mark? You gotta beat the crap outta this kid. Say the address back to me: 525 West Seventy-third Street. Apartment 15E. And—Burger!”

“What?”

“Have you heard a Word I’ve said?”

“Have I heard …?” I crack up again. “That’s funny. Rachel asked me that exact same thing earlier.”

Mark opens his mouth. Then he closes it and blinks a few times, gulping loudly. “Listen up,” he says, his voice strained. “We have a plan now. You’re gonna go uptown and beat the crap out of Billy Rifkin. In the meantime We’re gonna stay here and deal With the rest of this list for you. We’re even gonna figure out nine and ten. We’re gonna finish this thing. I swear it. Okay?”

I lift my shoulders, in no position to argue. In spite of the fact that Mark seems to be on the verge of a breakdown, I’m still laughing.

Call Me a Nut

Call me a nut, but I love the New York City transit system. Most people see it as a hassle. Some people even refuse to take the subway. But they don’t know What they’re missing. A subway car is the prime spot for such excellent pastimes as:

People Watching

Bonding With perfect strangers When something goes Wrong. And something always goes Wrong. That’s the beauty of it. You’re sitting next to a grizzled businessman— the kind of guy you have nothing in common With—When the train suddenly breaks down. You and the businessman exchange a smile. You roll your eyes. And just like that, you’re War buddies, comrades in arms, united by the heroic struggle to get from point A to point B.

Eavesdropping on bizarre conversations. And you always hear one.

So When I board the uptown Seventh Avenue local, heading in the general direction of Billy Rifkin’s apartment, I know I’m in for a treat. As a matter of fact, I don’t even plan to get off. I’m just going to ride for a While, and people Watch, and bond, and eavesdrop (for the last time ever in my life!) … and somewhere in there, I’m going to make up the brilliant and hilarious tale of how I beat the crap out of Billy Rifkin—and When I get back home, Mark and Nikki are going to love me for it.

The Land of Extraordinary Coincidence

I first notice the couple at Fourteenth Street.

Did they get on before? I’m not sure. (Remember: I’m drunk.) They’re older than me, and judging from their too-cool and self-righteous vibe, I figure they’re students at Columbia or NYU. You can spot these college types a mile away. They never sit down on the subway. They insist on standing because it tells the World that they’re considerate enough to leave seats open for the elderly or disabled, even When the car is nearly empty, as it is now. Fakers. The girl, a hair-dyed-black goth, is heavily tattooed. The guy is small and pale, all glasses and dirty blond bangs. I catch a snippet of dialogue:

“… I’m not being a martyr,” the girl is saying.

“Yeah, you are,” the guy snaps back. He glances around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping. I stare at my lap. “You’re laying a guilt trip on me. I mean, come on, Charlotte. You know I have my hands full With Amnesty International.”

Amnesty International?

Naturally, my ears perk up.

Now, this might strike you as an extraordinary coincidence, the fact that two young people—a couple, no less—are fighting about something near and dear to my own girlfriend’s heart. And it is. But that’s the beauty of the transit system. Really, it’s the beauty of New York City as a Whole. It’s the Land of Extraordinary Coincidence.

“Oh, I get it,” the girl says, sulking. “You can’t help me out because you’ve used up all your altruism. You volunteer for an organization that just serves as a celebrity platform for … for … for narcissism. Amnesty International doesn’t accomplish anything, Thumb. It’s a bogus organization.”

Wait.

Did she just call him Thumb? Spelled like Thom, maybe?

Perhaps it’s the poison acting up … but no, I’m pretty sure she did. Thom. Thom Thumb. That’th thilly. I bite my cheek.

“How Would you know?” the guy says through his teeth. “And if you Want to talk narcissism, Why don’t you take a good long look in the mirror? Oh, but that’s right! You already do! You spend an hour in the mirror every morning! You’re the biggest narcissist I know!”

“But I have to sit at the mirror every morning. It’s the only Way I can focus my qi.” (Pronounced “chee.”) “You know that, Thom.”

“Charlotte—”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” An automated voice booms from above. “DUE TO TRACK SIGNAL PROBLEMS, THE NEXT STOP ON THIS TRAIN WILL BE FORTY-SECOND STREET. THIS TRAIN WILL NO LONGER BE RUNNING ON THE LOCAL TRACK. IF YOU WISH TO GET OFF AT INTERMEDIARY STATIONS, PLEASE CROSS THE PLATFORM AT TIMES SQUARE AND TAKE THE LOCAL DOWNTOWN TRAIN. THIS TRAIN WILL BE RUNNING EXPRESS.”

A collective groan rises from the passengers.

What did I tell you? Something always goes Wrong.

Now it’s bonding time. I catch Thom’s eyes. I search them for a flicker of recognition, an acknowledgment of shared suffering. We’re War buddies, after all. I feel for you, my man, I tell him With my sympathetic gaze. We’re in this together.

“What are you looking at, asshole?” he asks.