Please shut up. Please just slam the door in my face and tell me to get lost—
“It is true, though, in a Way,” he continues. “See, When you lose the ability to Walk, and to skate, and to run, and Whatever—and most of all, When you lose the ability to be a little prick making everyone else’s life miserable …” He chuckles. “Well, you get some perspective on life. I mean, I think back on the Way I Was before the accident, and it makes me sick. You know? And I never realized it until I Was lying there in the hospital, With all the time in the World on my hands. It’s like … not to sound like Jesus or anything, but it Was almost like I died and Was resurrected. Or not so much resurrected as reborn. You know? Does that make any sense?”
No! I don’t know! How could I possibly know that? Just let me go! That’s all I ask! Please! I’m sorry! I should have never come here! I’m drunk and poisoned—
“I’m rambling, I know,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry to Waste your time, bro. I’m just psyched to see an old face. And I’m totally down for contributing to Amnesty International. That organization rocks. They get real, legitimate celebrities behind them, Which totally raises awareness … ooh, boy.” He shakes his head. “As if you don’t know that already! There I go again! Rambling and preaching to the converted!” He spins around and cups his hands around his mouth. “Mom!” he yells. “Bust out the checkbook, okay? These guys are in a rush! They’re old friends, and one of them is illegally parked downstairs!”
A foul taste rises in my throat. I clamp my hand over my mouth.
Billy turns and Winks at me. “Once my mom hears ‘illegally parked,’ she gets all stressed,” he Whispers. “She’s gotten, like, forty tickets outside our building. I bet We can get her to Write you a check for a hundred bucks. She’ll do anything just to make sure you get back to your car fast.”
Nutshell
No, I don’t barf. And in case you Were Wondering how low I could possibly sink, I don’t punch Billy Rifkin in the face, either.
In a nutshell:
Mrs. Rifkin approaches the door With her checkbook. She, too, is a hippie. She’s got a beautiful long mane of gray-black hair. She’s Wearing a purple batik skirt and a homemade sweater—and her smile is one of those full-face smiles. It’s utterly genuine. She shakes my hand With a sincerity that my parents can’t even begin to approach. Then she expounds upon the Rifkin family commitment to Amnesty International. She emphasizes the celebrity factor. “If Tim Robbins and Gabriel Byrne appear on TV as members, then the public Will learn about crimes against humanity. I think it’s great!”
Mrs. Rifkin quickly Writes a check out for two hundred dollars so as to expedite my return to the nonexistent illegally parked car.
I thank them, shake both their hands, and promise Billy I’ll keep in touch.
Billy apologizes one final time for being so talkative.
I hurry to the elevator.
When the doors close, I realize that my cheeks are Wet and that my throat is clogged. I don’t stop sniffling until I’m back on the subway, heading downtown.
The Meaning of Joy
When I finally arrive home a half hour later, I find Mark in my living room, dancing With a strange Asian Woman.
It’s a little past eight o’clock. The stereo is cranked. It’s some rap song I’ve never heard before. There isn’t much to it: just the same three-note bass hook a hundred times in a row. Every time it hits the lowest of the three notes, the photos on the Walls rattle in their frames. The chorus exhorts “da peeps” to “get buck Wild.”
Neither Mark nor the Woman hears me come in. They’re dancing on opposite sides of the coffee table—eyes closed, butts Wiggling, lost in their own trances. The bottle of Glenmorangie sits between them, empty. I Wonder Where Nikki is. I try not to stare at the Asian Woman. It’s difficult. For starters, there’s her outfit: an obscenely tight White T-shirt, cut high above her midriff, complemented by stilettos and a leather miniskirt. Her face is mesmerizing, too, coated in so much makeup that it looks as if she’s Wearing a mask. How old is she? Twenty? Thirty? Sixty? It’s impossible to tell. At least she and Mark aren’t touching each other, Which for some reason makes me feel very relieved.
Well. I’m sure I’ll get an explanation about all this sooner or later. Right now I have to get on With the list. Time is slipping away, and I haven’t made a Whole lot of progress. I can feel the poison Working through me, pulsing through my veins, sapping my strength. Why couldn’t Leo have synthesized a poison that kills a person instantly? It’s not fair. Nothing is fair. Nothing is really going according to plan, either. But I suppose it’s good that at least some people are enjoying themselves. I tiptoe past the dancers, down the hall toward my bedroom—
Nikki rounds the corner. She nearly slams into me. She’s pulling on her jean jacket, as if she’s about to leave. “Ted! Thank God you’re back. You didn’t have your cell phone on you! I Was just about to go look for you, actually. We’ve got to get you out of here. Mark is … I don’t know. But I’m not too happy With him right now.”
“Why? What’s going on? I don’t understand. I just Walked in the door two seconds ago. Mark didn’t even hear me come in. Who’s that Woman?”
“She’s a prostitute, Ted. A hooker.”
“Oh,” I say.
Is it my imagination, or is Nikki mad at me? Why? I have no idea Why Mark is dancing With a hooker in my living room. Still, I can’t help feeling responsible. It is my home, after all. Maybe it’s just some lingering guilt over What Went on at Billy Rifkin’s. I’m definitely guilty of something—I just don’t know What it is. I’m used to feeling this Way, though. I even have a name for it: guilt by self-association.
“Mark ordered her online for you With his dad’s credit card,” Nikki says. She drags me into my bedroom and points at the computer screen, then slams the door behind both of us— muffling the bass line but not by that much. “See?”
SHOWGIRL ESCORTS!!!™
I nod, chewing my lip. I’m not sure Whether to laugh or go kill him.
He ordered a hooker online for me. With his dad’s money.
Beneath the logo there’s an accompanying photo, except that the Woman’s face is blanked out. I can only see scantily clad body parts. But it includes a brief description, in language Worthy of my parents:
JOY: 5’4‘/36-24-36/105 lbs
This Asian beauty will leave you breathless with her sultry dancing and mystical philosophy! She knows the meaning of discreet! $400.00/hr.
The door flies open.
“Dude!” Mark yells, bounding into the room. He’s dripping With sweat. The hooker slinks in behind him. “When did you get back? I didn’t even hear you come in!”
I shrug, unable to talk.
“So this is your boy, huh?” the hooker asks Mark. Her voice is deep, husky.
“That’s him, Joy,” Mark says. He grins at her. “What do you think?”
Joy looks me up and down With the same butcherlike neutrality that the intern at St. Vincent’s did. Then she smiles.
“I like What I see,” she breathes. She steps toward me.
I step back.
“What are you scared of, sugar?” she Whispers. “I’m gonna teach you the Meaning of Joy tonight. You dig?”
“I …” I gaze at her in horror, feeling like a trapped animal. Suddenly, somehow, I’ve found myself in the impossible position of having to talk my Way out of sex. Me! A sixteen-year-old boy! A virgin! The human race’s most sex-obsessed demographic! But if that’s What I have to do, then so be it. I’ll talk myself silly. Because there is no Way I am getting near this Woman. NONE.
“What’s the problem, Burger?” Mark asks. “Don’t you Wanna get laid?”
“Of course I Want to get laid! That’s not the point!” I take a deep breath, struggling to calm myself. “I’m just … Listen, I appreciate What you’re trying to do here. Really. And I’m sorry if—you know—money has changed hands or Whatever. But I’m not gonna do this. That�
��s all there is to it.”
Mark looks baffled. “Why not?”
I frown at him. I don’t even know Where to start. Gee, Mark: because hiring a complete stranger to have sex With is Wrong, maybe? Because the Whole idea behind businesses like Showgirl Escorts!!!™ is utterly sordid—evil and exploitative for a thousand different reasons? Because the first time you have sex, it should be With somebody you love, With somebody you trust (or at the very least, With somebody you know), and it should be a Pure act … yes, Pure With a capital P, because sex is the Pure act, the ultimate expression of intimacy and—
“Because maybe Ted doesn’t Want to lose his virginity to a hooker!” Nikki yells.
Dr. Groove Meister, PhD
That sums it up.
Joy laughs. “Damn! You go, girl!”
“Nikki, Why is this any of your business?” Mark says.
“It’s not,” Nikki snaps back. “But it’s Ted’s, right? Shouldn’t you have asked him if he Wanted you to do this? It’s his virginity to lose, isn’t it? It’s his body, right?”
Blood surges to my face for What seems like the thousandth time today. I cling to the desk. I cling the Way a drowning man Would cling to a life preserver. It’s not even so much the embarrassment that’s killing me right now (I’m plenty used to that); it’s that I’ve never seen the two of them fight like this. Even When they bicker, there’s a lot of horsing around. But this is ugly and uncomfortable—and it’s the last thing I Want to deal With, given that I’m about to drop dead. I Wish they had been on the subway to hear my speech about love and respect. I’ve based my entire existence on the premise that Mark and Nikki are too mature to fight like this. I aspire toward What they have. They’re my ideal.
“Yes, it is his body, Nikki,” Mark grumbles. “That’s the Whole point.”
Joy marches back out into the hall. “Hey, I’m down for Whatever. But at the hour of nine, it’s pumpkin time. If y’all are still looking for fun, y’all are Welcome to …” Her voice is lost in the hip-hop still blaring from the living room.
Welcome to What?
I feel sicker than I have since this Whole poison business started. Is she talking about some of that “mystical philosophy” she’s so famous for, as advertised on the Showgirl Escorts!!!™ Web site? Ha! Ha … Oh, man. I shouldn’t joke about this, even to myself. There’s nothing funny about the situation.
“Ted, do you Want to see Shakes the Clown?” Nikki asks me. “Because that’s Where I’m going to take you, right now.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. They start in less than an hour.”
“They do?”
“They’re playing at the Onyx in the Bronx. It’s a pretty big club.”
“But how do you even know? I thought you didn’t even know their name.”
“Because While Mr. Groove Meister here Was putting the moves on his new best buddy Joy the Hooker, I Was making calls.”
Mark smiles flatly. “Actually, that’s Dr. Groove Meister, PhD, to you. And I Wasn’t putting the moves on her. I Was teaching her the funky chicken.”
Nikki smiles back. “And they say people With no soul can’t dance.”
Mark’s jaw tightens. He storms out of the room.
I swallow. This is not how I Want to be spending my final hours.
“Ted … um, sorry if I embarrassed you just now With the virginity stuff,” Nikki Whispers, avoiding my eyes.
“It’s all right. But maybe you and Mark should Work this out.”
“What’s to Work out? I already know the funky chicken.”
“Nikki, seriously—”
“Listen, I meant to tell you: Rachel called a bunch of times While you Were out.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. She left a few messages on the machine. It Was hard to hear With all the music and everything, but I think she said she Was sorry. Or something. I heard your cell phone ring a few times, too.”
I glance at the nightstand beside my bed. Sure enough, my celly is sitting there, blinking. Damn. Why is Rachel apologizing? Why is she so nice? I should have called her first. I should have taken the phone With me to Billy Rifkin’s. (But then, I should have done a lot of things. Like abstain from drinking Glenmorangie. Like get my stomach pumped … ) If I’d taken the celly, though, I could have chosen the moral high ground for once, and apologized (it Was my fault!), and settled things With Rachel a While ago—
Bee bee beep! Bee bee beep!
Right on cue, the celly starts ringing.
“Go ahead and answer,” Nikki says, in barely a Whisper. “Take your time. I’ll hail a cab for us. Hopefully Mark Will come to his senses. But—”
Bee bee beep! Bee bee beep!
“But What?”
“There’s just one thing I Want to know. Did you really go see Billy Rifkin?”
“I did,” I admit. “And …”
Bee bee beep! Bee bee beep!
“… And he’s not the same person he Was before,” I manage. “He’s changed. So I didn’t … I mean, I just didn’t.”
Our eyes meet once more, briefly. Nikki smiles. I see a glint of understanding. In those alien orbs, I see everything that’s not said: that she knows I Would never punch anyone in the face … and also that she feels bad about Mark, and that telling him he had no soul Was unfair, and that she doesn’t know the funky chicken. I Want to tell her I understand. But I don’t.
She scurries out of the room, closing the door behind her. Which probably says something, too. I’m just not sure What.
Trusting a Person Is All That Matters
I grab the phone and collapse on the bed. “Rachel?”
“Ted?” Her voice sounds tiny, as if she’s calling from Bucharest.
“Listen, Rachel, I am so glad you called because—”
“Ted, I’m so sorry for storming off this afternoon.”
“No, no. It Wasn’t your fault. It Was my fault.”
“What’s all that noise?” she asks.
“What noise? You mean the static?”
“No, I hear music,” she says. “Can you turn it down?”
“No!” I bolt upright and then quickly collapse again. The vertigo seems to be Worsening. “I mean, no. You see … I Was in the living room earlier. I Was feeling really sick, you know? Music makes me feel better. So I turned on the stereo. Rachel, you have to understand: something really bad happened to me today.”
“Ted, I know. I’m so sorry.”
“No, I mean something really bad.”
“Yeah, I understand. You got sick, and then you acted mean. I know I should have trusted you. I know I can trust you.”
“Rachel, you have to listen—”
“Trusting a person is all that matters,” she continues, but her signal is starting to break up. “You don’t even drink! It’s just that When I saw your shirt this afternoon and the Way your face looked … I just … I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Rachel. I accept your apology. But look, did you see the news today?”
“Did you say the blues? Are you sad? Is this a guitar thing?”
“The news. Did you see it? Because—”
The bedroom door crashes open.
Joy stands before me, Wagging a crystal decanter in front of her face. It’s empty.
“Yo, sweetheart?” she squawks. “You got some more of this Wine?” She spots the cell phone and clamps her free hand over her mouth. “Oh, damn, sorry!” she Whispers. “That’s your old lady, right?”
“Ted?” Rachel’s voice rattles in my ear. “Is there somebody in your apartment right now?”
“Well, um …” Damn it. I can’t lie now. I scowl at Joy as she staggers back out into the hall. (Isn’t she supposed to know the meaning of discreet?) “Yeah, see, Well, one of my parents’ friends came to check up on me. My parents called her from Denver because they knew I Was sick. It’s Mrs… . It’s Mrs… .”
I feverishly hunt for a name—and then a miracle occurs: For the second time tonight, I co
njure a masterful lie out of thin air. (Is it possible that Leo’s poison increases the brain’s potential before killing you?) “It’s Mrs. Rifkin. She came to check up on me. She’s an old family friend. She’s a really cool Woman. She brought her checkbook, too.”
“Her checkbook? I don’t get it.”
“She knows I’m involved in Amnesty International, so she made a two-hundred-dollar donation. She thought it Would make me feel better.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Rachel?”
“Ted, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t?”
“No. You’re lying. I can tell. I can always tell When you’re lying. Just like I can always tell When you’re being honest. That’s how I knew you Were really sick today. But now … We Were just talking about this! We Were just talking about trust!”
Click.
“Rachel? Rachel?” I can’t believe it. For the first time ever, Rachel has hung up on me. She’s that mad. I stare up at the ceiling. I Watch it rotate slowly, like a giant Whirlpool. I should try to call her back. I should run over there right now. I should, I should … That’s What this day is turning into, my “should” day. But I can’t think about that right now. I have more pressing matters: namely, making sure that Mark gets Joy the hell out of here—and that he makes up With Nikki so We can all leave together. Because in spite of the fact that I feel terrible about Rachel, I’m suddenly filled With excitement.
I’m about to see Shakes the Clown!
Unbelievable. But I guess that’s What happens When you’re a sixteen-year-old music geek. That’s What happens When you’re an immature teenager Who Worships a bugged-out band. Even When you’ve just been a jerk to the one person Who doesn’t deserve it, you still fantasize about meeting these demented heroes of yours. Meeting them takes precedence over your own girlfriend.
Of course I Would never, ever admit this to anyone because it’s too ridiculous and loathsome. But at least I admitted it to myself for once. That’s a start, right?
10 Things to Do Before I Die Page 8