10 Things To Do Before I Die Part 3

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 d.i.c.khead, 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. "d.a.m.n. 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 pus.h.i.+ng away from me in her seat, mas.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.t.t 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-s.h.i.+rt ... after all that, the full impact of Mark's last Words. .h.i.ts 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 cla.s.sic 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 doing 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 Napkina"!"

They burst into laughter. Ted storms over and s.n.a.t.c.hes 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?

Gla.s.s-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.

It's still a gorgeous day, too. It's literally picture perfect, the kind of afternoon they use in commercials to promote tourism in New York. The sun is just starting to sink toward the Village, a golden ball hovering over the Water towers and town house roofs. The traffic isn't so bad yet, either. There's hardly any honking or yelling.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that I'm still about a mile away from home. I'm only crossing Seventeenth Street, and We live on Barrow Street- on the top floor of a renovated brownstone just West of Seventh Avenue. So even if I hop on the subway, I doubt I'll get there any faster. It's only two stops. Plus I'll be trapped underground.

The Worse news is that although I'm no longer queasy, I feel as if somebody is repeatedly jabbing my abdomen With a White-hot fire iron. I'm still dizzy, too. I've also noticed a high-pitched ringing in my left ear. It sounds like amplifier feedback.

All of Which tells me that Whatever sickness my body tried to barf out back at the diner hasn't quite left me yet.

But I'm not Worried. Being the gla.s.s-half-full kind of guy that I am, I know that I'm not in any serious danger. After all, even if I Were to collapse face-first in the intersection (I'm presently staggering across Sixteenth and Seventh), St. Vincent's Hospital is only four blocks away-hey, that reminds me! Mark's dad just got a job there ... he's the new hospital administrator of ... What? Something! Doesn't matter! I bet if I go right now, he can make sure that I see a doctor ASAP!

"Ay-sap!"

Crimes Against Humanity.

Six minutes later I'm standing in front of a bulletproof Window, desperately trying to convince a four-hundred-pound, rayon-clad security guard that I'm not insane.

"I'm telling you, he Works here," I repeat as patiently as I can. "Mr. Joshua Singer. He's my best friend's father. He's an administrator."

The security guard glares at me from deep Within the folds of his pasty face. His skin is the color of a fast-food egg breakfast.

"I'm telling you, kid," he growls. "We have no record of a Joshua Singer at this hospital. Not as an administrator, not as a doctor, not as a nurse, not as an intern. Not even as a patient. Understand? Now if you Want to see a doctor, go to the emergency room and Wait With everybody else-"

"But I-"

"Next?" he shouts.

I slither away from the line that's beginning to form behind me. Unlike Seventh Avenue, the traffic in this hospital is stuck in a serious jam-and the sunlight is no longer tourism-commercial perfect. No, the Way it's streaming through the floor-to-ceiling Windows somehow makes the hustle and bustle that much more confusing. The longer I stand there, the more everything is thrown into jumbled disarray: the inst.i.tutional tile, the sad-sack visitors, the doctors With their clipboards ... all of it grotesquely lit by this horrible, slanted, dizzying glare... .

I have to get out of here before I get sick again.

The gla.s.s is no longer half full. Not even close. It's not even half empty. It's dishwasher clean. I stagger back toward the exit. Odd: my head feels as if it's revolving like a radar dish on an ocean liner, like one of those Whirligig towers that pirouette relentlessly, around and around, spinning and spinning and- "Can I help you?"

I look up. I realize I've been doubled over. I'm also clutching my ears in a vain effort to drown out the peculiar Wailing screech that n.o.body else seems to hear. But now I'm saved. Saved! Because the young Woman Who asked this extraordinarily considerate question-this beautiful doctor (she has to be a doctor; she's Wearing green hospital scrubs), this gorgeous nerd With the thick gla.s.ses and ponytail-she Wants to help me!

"Yes, please, thank you," I gasp.