10 Things To Do Before I Die Part 17

Betrayal.

"Sorry to break this up, but What airline?" the driver demands.

Nikki and I spring apart.

Holy-What did I just do? Poof! The euphoria vaporizes. The sense of destiny follows. Now I'm frightened and hyper-ventilating. Bad. Wrong. Betrayal. Dark Side. I shouldn't have gone there. So Why did I? Why? And ... Oh, boy, and now the tinnitus, the nausea, the vertigo-yes, the Whole Poison Crew has returned, bursting in on me like a bunch of old pals at a surprise party: We're ba-a-ack! Betcha Weren't expecting us! I clutch at the door handle. Jesus. We've already arrived at the international departure gates: a mora.s.s of traffic and pedestrians and luggage and security and lighted signs, EL AL, AIR INDIA, VIRGIN ATLANTIC, NIGERIA AIRWAYS- "What airline?" the Woman repeats impatiently.

"Wherever you can pull over," I choke out. I glance at Nikki in Wide-eyed horror.

"I think I should go home," she says.

"Right." The response is instant. She isn't coming With me. No surprise there. I can't read her voice, either, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Must escape. Now.

She bites her lip. "Ted, I-"

"Don't Worry about it. I'll pay Rachel back for the fare. Just tell the driver Where you Want to go."

Nikki's face falls. "That Wasn't What I meant. Ted, you need to come With me so We can get you to a hospital. We have to stop playing this stupid game-"

"Good night!" I say, With deranged cheer. I leap out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. I don't bother closing the door, either; I simply careen across the pavement toward the nearest entrance, doubled over and gagging. Several pedestrians pause to observe me. They appear understandably disturbed.

Sometimes it helps to be a sniveling coward.

Other times it doesn't.

Sleep on the Red-Eye.

I don't expect to get very far. I expect to start vomiting very soon after I barrel through the revolving doors at Terminal E. Especially since the light inside is of the same fluorescent prison-yard variety that blinded me on the sidewalk outside the Onyx. The air in here is frigid, too. It's even colder than the lobby at Billy Rifkin's. And the smooth granite tile is ... swimming toward my face?

I straighten up. I shake off the tinnitus and vertigo and nausea. I summon my Will. And Within a matter of seconds, With a concentrated effort, I'm functioning Well enough to purchase a ticket. I Whirl in place, searching for a clock. There are dozens of computer monitors, and people and-there. A big round clock, above the DEPARTURE GATES sign. 10:15. Perfect. I'll catch the red-eye to Lagos and sleep on the flight. Maybe I Won't even Wake up! I can always hope for the best. Because no matter What happens, I Won't be coming home. Not alive, anyway. It'll be impossible.

Right.

Lagos, here I come!

I figure by the time I've landed and cleared customs there, I'll have about one hour to live. Which Will be fine. I can already picture it: I'll be the mysterious, solitary American boy- ghostlike, known in certain circles as the Walking Dead. But the Nigerians Won't see my Wickedness and degradation. I'll keep it hidden deep inside. I'll have no past. Yet in that final hour, I'll become a legend out on those hot streets, shuttling between one McDonald's and the next, lending a hand to all those Who suffer before the poison shuts me down in a blaze of glory... . Oh, man! It's gonna be great!

Change of Plan.

Another ma.s.sive stroke of luck: there's no line at the Nigeria Airways ticket counter. Woo-hoo! I march up to a very nice-looking, heavyset black man in a green-and-White uniform.

"h.e.l.lo!" I greet him.

"h.e.l.lo!" he replies, matching my inappropriate enthusiasm. His accent is not unlike the cabdriver's. "May I help you?"

"I'd like one ticket to Lagos, please!" I say. "On the next available flight!"

"Certainly! I'll need your pa.s.sport and visa!"

"My pa.s.sport and ... What?"

"Your visa."

"Oh. Right." My enthusiasm fades.

"No visa?"

"Well." I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure a line hasn't formed behind me, and then I lean across the desk. "Let me ask you something," I Whisper. "Where can I go in Africa that doesn't require a visa?"

"And Why Would you Want to be flying to someplace that doesn't require a visa?" he asks me politely.

"Because I just Want to, all right?" I Whisper.

His smile evaporates. "No, young man, that is not all right. We have certain security procedures in place." He doesn't sound so polite anymore; he sounds perturbed. "Please Wait here." He picks up a phone, eyeing me cautiously.

Wait here?

Do I really Want to do that? No. No, I don't think I do. In fact, I Want to be somewhere else, fast, and I know exactly Where I can go-not just in terms of this airport, but also in terms of the World. Yes. My parents took me to London When I graduated junior high. And I specifically remember that I didn't need a visa. All I needed Was a pa.s.sport and my school ID- both of Which I happen to have on me right now. And We flew Virgin Atlantic, in this very terminal. So I'm set.

London, here I come!

No Credit.

Much to my dismay, there is a line at the Virgin Atlantic ticket counter. It's not particularly long, just a couple of people, but it is long enough to give me a few minutes to think. And that is not What I need right now. Since I left Nikki, I've come to the most important conclusion of my (short) life: thought in any form equals unhealthy. Lazy people think. Clowns think. We doers, however, We don't think. We just do. Which is Why I Won't allow myself to Wonder about Nikki's feelings, or about the fates of Mark or Rachel, or about Rachel's feelings, or Mark's feelings- "Next, please!" a cheery British voice calls out.

I'm up.

The Woman behind the desk is about my mother's age. She has the most grotesque set of crooked teeth I've ever seen. They're even Worse than Phurm Hand Shake's yellow, rodent-like chompers. I try not to look at her mouth.

"h.e.l.lo!" I say. "I'd like a one-Way ticket to London, please?"

She tilts her head. "Will you be traveling alone?"

"Yes. Yes, I Will." I fumble for my Wallet and pa.s.sport and slap them down in front of her. "No baggage, either. Just me!"

"I see." She looks me in the eye. "One moment, please."

She lifts her phone and presses a b.u.t.ton, then hangs up.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"No ... No problem at all." She flashes a brief, horrific smile before turning to her computer monitor. "Would you like to depart on the next available flight, then?"

I heave a sigh of relief. "Yes. Please."

"Well, let's see... ." She types rapidly on her keyboard. "Yes, I can get you on the eleven p.m. You'll have to hurry, though. The fare is fourteen hundred dollars."

My eyes bulge. "Fourteen hundred-?" I suck in my breath and muster a smile. "No problem." But as I fish the credit card out of my Wallet, I can't keep my hands from shaking again. They're shaking even harder than they Were in the cab. Is it the poison, or is it my anxiety? Maybe this isn't such a great idea.

The Woman plucks the card from my spastic fingers and swipes it through the magnetic reader. She then places it beside her, out of my reach.

Uh-oh.

The dizziness creeps back up again, like a strong tide, gathering force. The tinnitus rings at a fever pitch: EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! My breath comes in short gasps. My stomach doesn't even exist anymore. It feels as if it's been pulverized and discarded, surgically removed With a blunt hatchet. I hold on to the counter to steady myself. I don't think I can stand much longer. I might have to sit on the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir," the Woman says. Her voice sounds far away. "Your card has been declined."

"Declined?" I croak.

"Yes. It appears you have no available credit. Not on this card." She smiles once more. Her eyes flicker away from me. She nods, almost imperceptibly. "Now, if you'd like ..." She leaves the sentence hanging, staring behind my head.

Is somebody back there?

I Whirl around to see three large cops, all of Whom are reaching for me-

Black Hole of Nothingness.

That's pretty much it.

Honestly, that's all I remember. Pa.s.sing out is short on detail and long on aftermath, at least for the person Who experiences it. The best Way to describe it ... Well, it feels as if the swirling vortex somehow manages to bust loose from my skull, like a Wild animal escaping the zoo-and then it gobbles me up and swallows me down into a black hole of nothingness.

Only it's not nearly as exciting as that.

Preface to the Great Gig in the Sky.

Sometimes, even now, I Wonder if states of unconsciousness are like fingerprints, if no two are alike. I guess there are probably patterns, depending on an individual's psyche. Lots of people do share the same sorts of archetypal dreams, after all. So say, for example, that you're a chickenhearted, self-absorbed clown (among other things) and you believe you're going to die... . An unconscious state might trigger guilty visions of your own funeral. Yes? Maybe?

This is just a guess.

Death of a Clown: I.

SCENE: Outside our old synagogue on West Thirteenth Street. Pouring rain. A big sign on the little patch of gra.s.s: TED BURGER FUNERAL CANCELED.

My parents hurry up to the rabbi as he's locking the front door.

"Why Was our son's funeral canceled?" they ask.

The rabbi shakes his head. "Ted Was a coward, Mr. and Mrs. Burger. n.o.body particularly cares to mourn the loss of a coward."

They look at each other.

"I guess you're right," Mom agrees. "Besides that, he spent far too much time in his room playing guitar."

Dad shrugs. "Well, then, We probably should be heading back to that billboard convention ay-sap, Wouldn't you say?"

Death of a Clown: II.

SCENE: The Rikers Island morgue. My corpse on a concrete slab.

n.o.body Will claim the body. My parents disowned me after they discovered that a prost.i.tute ransacked their liquor cabinet. Nikki has long since renounced any friendship With me because I tried to run away to Africa-but then Was arrested and hauled away at JFK for suspicious behavior. Rachel has renounced me for the lies.

Finally Mark shows up.

"Yeah, I'm here for Ted Burger," he tells the guards. "I shouldn't be. I heard that right before he died, he tried to scam on my girlfriend. So if I Were you, I'd just toss this sc.u.mbag in the East River. Maybe the fish Will eat him. At least then he'll do some good for once. What goes around comes around. People are dogs, you know?"