10 Things to Do Before I Die (4 page)

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-shirt … after all that, the full impact of Mark’s last Words hits 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 classic 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 Napkin™!”

They burst into laughter. Ted storms over and snatches 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?

Glass-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 glass-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 institutional 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 glass 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 nobody 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 glasses and ponytail—she Wants to help me!

“Yes, please, thank you,” I gasp.

“What’s the matter? Is it your ears?”

“No. I mean, yes, but not totally. My ears are only part of it. I feel really dizzy. There’s a pain in my side. I just threw up. And I hear this Weird ringing—Wait a second. Actually, you know What? It’s starting to die down a little. But it Was really loud there for a bit.”

She gives me a quick once-over. Her eyebrows are tightly knit behind the Coke bottle lenses. She sniffs loudly.

“What is it?” I ask.

Without a Word, she takes my elbow and escorts me to a more private spot at the end of the hall. We pause next to a big, fake palm tree.

“Have you been drinking?” she Whispers.

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“I have to ask,” she says.

“No!” I bark.

She flashes an apologetic grin. “Okay, okay, I believe you. Let me ask you something else: Have you eaten anything unusual recently?”

I hesitate for a moment. “Just some fries. But I eat fries every day of the Week, pretty much.”

“Oh, I see.” She laughs. “Very healthy.”

Maybe she’s trying to be overly friendly now to compensate for the drinking accusation, but I relax a little. I admit: I’m a sucker for the attention of a female, any female. What sixteen-year-old isn’t?

“Well, not every day,” I say sheepishly.

“Do you notice if the ringing is louder in one ear?”

“I … louder in one ear?” It strikes me as an odd question, but she’s the doctor. I concentrate for a moment. “Yeah. I think it is. I think it’s louder in my right ear.”

“I see,” she says. She scans my entire body again, pausing briefly at the vomit stains on my T-shirt. There’s zero emotion involved. She studies me the Way a butcher might study a spoiled side of beef. Any meat Worth saving on this carcass? she’s asking herself. Or so I imagine. She chews a nail. “I think you should Wait here.”

“Why?”

All of a sudden she grins again. “I’d like a doctor to take a look at you,” she answers, a little too cheerfully. “I’ll go see if one’s available.”

“You’re not a doctor?”

She laughs. “No, I’m just an intern. Don’t Worry!”

Until she brought it up, I Wasn’t Worried. Now I feel a shudder of fear creeping up my spine. “Why should I Worry?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Okay.”

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Sixteen,” I tell her.

Her smile falters.

“What?” I say, alarmed. “Is that a problem?”

She forces another laugh, peering through the sunlight toward a bank of elevators. “Of course not. Listen, Why don’t you call one or both of your parents and tell them to meet you here? I’ll be right back. Okay?”

Alarm turns to full-fledged panic. “My parents? Why do I have to call them? They’re on a business trip. What’s going on? I really—”

“Shhh,” she Whispers. She casts a furtive glance back toward the security guard, then lays a hand on my shoulder and puts another phony smile on her face. “If We’re going to conduct any kind of examination procedure, We need the consent of a parent or guardian. You know, for X-rays and stuff. Or maybe minor surgery. Okay?”

Minor surgery? What are you, nuts? No! It’s not okay! Not in the least!

That’s What I’d like to tell her. But I’m too frightened. Because that phrase, that one phrase, is stuck in my brain for all time. I’m talking about the phrase that instantly conjures a thousand different visions of twisted hospital horror movies and sadistic torture and crimes against humanity—the crimes that Rachel Works so hard to prevent as a member of our school’s chapter of Amnesty International, that go Way beyond minor surgery… .

“Examination procedure.”

Everyone knows about phrases like that. Evil geniuses use phrases like that. Maniacal dictators. Movie villains. They use them to cover up awful truths.

“I’ll be right back,” the intern is saying.

“Huh? No! Where are you going?”

“To find a doctor.” She hurries toward the elevators. “We might as Well rule some things out, right? I’ll be right back. Call your parents, okay, sweetheart?”

The Creeps

No Way am I Waiting around for her to find a doctor.

For one thing, hospitals give me the creeps. Not just because “examination procedures” are performed here and “things” need to be “ruled out.” It’s the Whole atmosphere: the blinding sunlight, the stale air, the miserable patients With the massive bandages on their arms (because blood has just been drawn)— not to mention that every single bench and cafeteria and pediatric Wing is “Memorial” this and “In Honor of” that, so there’s this unseen shroud of death hanging over the Whole place—

Wait.

For no reason Whatsoever, I suddenly realize Why the security guard Was such a jerk to me. Mark’s father just got the job as an administrator here. So he hasn’t started. His name isn’t in the computer. He’s not an employee yet.

Which means he can’t help me.

But that’s not even the issue. The real issue is that even if I did call my parents (Which I have no intention of doing), they can’t help me, either. They’re in Denver at a billboard convention. They’re a good two-thousand miles away.

I catch a glimpse of the intern’s ponytail as it swishes into one of the elevators.

The doors close behind her.

My eyes zero in on a glowing sign nearby:

Cardiology: 2
Transplant: 2
Radiology: 3

The list goes on. The sign is also illustrated With those universal stick figures that represent all humanity: Mr. and Mrs. Public Toilet—a triangle skirt for her, a blank formless body for him. Except here the couple don’t just provide helpful directions to the nearest bathroom. No, here they’re stricken With terrible diseases and injuries. Mrs. Public Toilet has to go to the ER. Mr. Public Toilet is due for chemotherapy. The prognosis is not good for either of them. Okay. I’ve seen enough. Time to split. I know exactly What Glasses and Ponytail has in mind for me. It’s not just X-rays. She’s thinking stomach pumping, invasive surgery—that’s What she meant When she said “examination procedures.” She Wasn’t talking about checking my pulse or sticking a thermometer in my mouth. You don’t need a doctor or your parents’ consent for that.

And all I did Was throw up! So I have some ringing in my ears. So I’m dizzy. What’s the big deal?

The truth is, I have no desire to find out What’s really Wrong With me. Maybe that’s a character flaw. But that’s Who I am. We all have problems. I just don’t care to know What my particular problems are.

Once again I’ve been given my exit cue. And this time, thank God, Mark and Nikki aren’t around to stop me.