10 Things To Do Before I Die Part 11
Because I'm a coward! I'm terrified! Because I don't Want to! Because I'd much rather go to a Shakes the Clown concert than think about it! (Forget the doctor; I need to see a shrink.) "Because I have to live life to the fullest, remember?" I reply casually. "I have to bungee jump off the GW Bridge. I mean, come on, Nikki. You said it yourself. Right?"
And I get the desired response: She laughs. It isn't much of a laugh, but it's a start. She looks as if she's about to add something.
"What?" I say.
"I don't know if it's my place to ask. It doesn't really have anything to do With ... tonight. Well, no, that's not true. It has a lot to do With tonight."
"I don't have much time, Nikki," I joke lamely. "So you better ask away."
She stares at me from across the long gulf of the cab seat. "Have you been happy With Rachel? I mean these past few months, going out With her?"
"Have I ..." Wow. I Wasn't expecting that one.
Of course I've been happy With Rachel. I've been happy because I know What it's like not to have a girlfriend. I know What it's like to be h.o.r.n.y and lonely. I know What it's like to sit across from a couple that is absolutely, completely, 100 percent in love, day in and day out. It's all I've ever known. On the other hand, I still am h.o.r.n.y and lonely. And now it's looking like I'll die that Way.
"Yes, I have been," I end up telling her. "I've been happy because she likes me."
Nikki laughs again.
"That's funny?" I ask.
"No, Ted. Sorry." She shakes her head sadly. "It's just, a lot of people like you. A lot of people love you. You know that? Ah-forget it. I really am sorry."
But I can't tell if she's sorry because she laughed or sorry because she implied that a lot of people love me. Unfortunately, she doesn't pursue it any further.
A Brief History of Shakes the Clown.
So. Since Wondering about my best friend's girlfriend's motives for asking me such a Weird question isn't a Whole of fun, I'd like to take a quick time-out here to tell you a little about my favorite band: The singer/guitarist and ba.s.sist (Hip E. Shake and Phurm Hand Shake, respectively1 met at the EZ-LERN Driving School in Brooklyn three years ago, When they Were both sixteen.
Both Were music geeks, so they Were naturally drawn to each other.2 They Were kicked out of cla.s.s When they decided to spike their instructor's coffee With Manischewitz. (Their instructor, Mr. Firth, caught them in the act, an incident that Was later memorialized in the song "Kosher Firth Day."3 Not long after their expulsion from EZ-LERN, both discovered that they shared a love of the epic film Shakes the Clown, starring Bobcat Goldthwait.4They decided to renounce their previous ident.i.ties, adopt stage names, forget about learning how to drive, and start a band named after the film.
They placed an ad in the New York Press: TWO LOSERS SEEKING DRUMMER FOR PURPOSES OF SCAMMING OLDER CHICKS. REQUIREMENTS: MUST BE AN OLDER CHICK OR HAVE PUNCHED A COP IN THE GROIN. MUST HAVE A CAR AND/OR VALID DRIVER'S LICENSE. MUST LOVE THE EPIC FILM SHAKES THE CLOWN. MUST ACCEPT TO BE CALLED BY A NEW NAME OF OUR CHOOSING. MUSICAL SKILLS A PLUS BUT NOT NECESSARY. NO PETS.5 A twenty-year-old, six-foot, 180-pound, black female drummer With a five-inch Afro Was the only person to respond to the ad. She met every single requirement. She agreed to be called "Sheik Down"6and joined immediately.
Thus the greatest band in the World Was born.
An Overwhelming Urge to Lean Over and Hug Nikki.
"What are you thinking about right now?"
Until Nikki said the Words, I'd almost forgotten We Were in the backseat of a taxi.
For a While now (I don't even know how long) my mind has been festering With questions-the questions I'd managed to stave off since she and Mark showed up at my door. As in: Why the h.e.l.l did Leo poison the fries? Why Would he kill the people Who Were loyal to him, Who ate his product? Who else Was poisoned? Should I notify the cops? File a report? Call my parents? They don't even know yet! Should I forget everything and finally take my friends' advice and just go to the stupid hospital? What Would my parents say about What I'm doing right now?
"Ted?"
I take a deep breath. "I Was thinking: I hope Shakes the Clown is good tonight."
She laughs softly. "That's really What you Were thinking?" she says. Her black eyes glisten in the pa.s.sing lights.
"No," I admit. "Well, sort of. I mean, this is the only time I'm ever gonna get to see them in my life, right? And they're my heroes. And I know that's lame and dorky, but it's true. So they better be good. What if they aren't as messed up as they make themselves out to be? What if they're a bunch of poseurs? What if they suck tonight?"
"They Won't suck," Nikki says in a soothing voice.
"Yeah, but you see ... Okay. I Was really thinking about my parents. I Was thinking about how they used to idolize Martha Stewart. I'm dead serious. They Worshiped her. You know, before all the scandals and stuff? *She's a brand ident.i.ty unto herself!' they used to say. I mean, it Was kind of twisted. They'd be staring at her on TV like they Were Watching the Pope or something, like a religious service. *She's a genius, Ted! Just Watch her!' And then, When all the allegations came out, they felt totally betrayed. It Was like ... she Was a mirror to them. She reflected What they Wanted to see in themselves. So When it turned out she Wasn't perfect, they started doubting themselves. Because the mirror revealed these blemishes, you know?"
Nikki swallows.
"Ted, are you sure you're okay?" she asks. "I mean, how do you feel right now? How does your head feel?"
"Actually, it doesn't feel so bad. I mean, I feel Weak and dizzy and nauseated, but it's not as bad as it's been."
"Oh," Nikki murmurs in a quavering voice. She turns toward the window.
I try to chuckle. She isn't going to start crying, is she? I Wanted to lighten the mood. Time to change the subject. Or at least change it back.
"Look, I'm just saying that if Shakes the Clown sucks tonight, then that'll say something bad about me," I go on. "I'll spend the last hours of my life doubting myself. I swear. Because-and don't laugh-they embody Purity for me, With a capital P. They've never cared about anything except themselves. They've just played and played, and they've invented an entirely new joke-but-not-joke style of music... . They've had the b.a.l.l.s to do What I Would never do. They've pursued their dreams at any and all costs. They always believed in their twisted agenda, and-Well, now I'm starting to sound like I'm narrating a VH1 doc.u.mentary. But it's true-"
"So in a Way, they can't suck tonight," she gently interrupts.
"Huh?"
A sad little smile curls on her lips. "They can't suck, Ted. Even if they stumble off the stage p.i.s.s-drunk, even if they refuse to play a single note ... The thing is, you love them too much for them to suck. Just seeing them in person Will be enough. Anything they do Will make the show worthwhile. Anything."
I smile back. "You think so?"
"I know so. Ted, the Whole point of having heroes is so you can look up to people Who can get away With Whatever they Want. Because like you said, they've always had the courage to do Whatever they Want. Right?"
"I ..." I bite my lip.
"What?"
"I Was just thinking ... Maybe, it sounds like you're talking about Mark?"
Nikki laughs bitterly. "Well, maybe Mark Was my hero once," she says.
"He's not anymore?" I hear myself Whisper.
"Ted, this is your night." She turns toward me, trying to act upbeat. "Let's not talk about my heroes. Let's talk about yours. Let's talk about how you're going to see Shakes the Clown in a few minutes, and party with them afterward, and jam all night into the Wee hours. I'm serious. I'm gonna make this happen. I swear I Will. The second We get there. Okay?"
I nod. "Okay."
I feel an overwhelming urge to lean over and hug her. But I don't. I simply turn back to my cab window, Watching the East River as it rushes past.
We leave it at that.
Keep the Change.
Maybe coming to this show tonight Wasn't such a great idea.
Now that We've crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, I remember Why I don't make it up to the Bronx very often. It's a little sketchy. Sure, some parts are probably beautiful. I hear Riverdale is nice. But from What I can see right now (and this is just through a taxi window), the Bronx isn't like the other boroughs, even at their Worst. It's got this sort of post-apocalyptic Weirdness: deserted avenues littered With blown-out tires, old buildings Where every single window is smashed, empty lots knee-deep in discarded bottles of Elmer's glue.
I mean, Elmer's? How desperate Would you have to be to sniff Elmer's?
Clearly this neighborhood is not meant for Manhattan-bound Wimps. Not by a long shot. I squint out into the night, trying to get some sense of Where I am. Is Yankee Stadium out there? No. No, it isn't. All I see is a decrepit Warehouse. Wait ... A sign is mounted on the door. It's spray painted in black: THE ONYX.
So We're here. Wonderful. There's a big crowd outside, too. Mixed. Older. Rough looking. Lots of piercings and tattoos. All are bathed in a ghoulish White glow from a huge streetlamp overhead. (The industrial type, usually found in prison yards.) A few people stare at our taxi as it glides to a stop. None appear to be very pleased With its arrival.
"How much money do you have, Ted?" Nikki asks.
"Huh?"
She points to the meter. The fare is $25.80. "Don't Worry," she says. "If you pay for the cab, I'll pay for the show. I'll charge the tickets on my credit card."
"Maybe it's sold out," I mumble. I fish through my pockets, cursing myself for not resisting the temptation to come up here. I should have gone straight to Rachel's apartment instead.
"It's not sold out," Nikki says. "I called ahead."
"Oh." I hand over the remainder of my cash: three crumpled ten-dollar bills.
Nikki thrusts the money at the driver and leaps out onto the sidewalk.
"Keep the change!" she calls over her shoulder.
I stagger after her. "Hey, Nikki, does this place even accept credit cards?"
But she's already halfway to the ticket booth, shoving her Way through the crowd, a determined smile on her face. A girl With purple hair screams an obscenity at her. Nikki pretends not to hear. I turn and Watch the cab as it disappears into the night. I can't help feeling that by letting it go, I've signed my own death Warrant.
Of course, Leo already signed it for me.
The sidewalk starts to tilt. I tilt With it. I stare at a mishmash of gang-related graffiti on the club's cement Wall, hoping that this Will stabilize me. It doesn't. I suppose I should count my blessings, though. If I keel over and die right now, at least I'll have avoided a violent beating at the hands of- "Forrest Chump!"
Freakin' Bold, Dude.
No Way.
It couldn't be. But I know it is, even before I spot the pair barreling toward me out of the mob. Lou and Frankie. The twins. There Would be no mistaking those two dopey Sopranos accents, shouting in unison. Those two red baseball caps, Worn backward. Those two sweatshirts, beer stained. The same sweatshirts, no less, With the same blue logos. Don't twins stop dressing alike after the age of three?
"Whattaya doin' here?" one of them yells at me.
I don't answer. A few thoughts flit through my mind. One: I hate that New York is the Land of Extraordinary Coincidence. Two: I can't tell Who's Who. (Does it even matter?) I don't understand how Rachel and these guys could have possibly been sp.a.w.ned by the same gene pool. There must have been a mix-up in the baby Ward When Rachel Was born. She doesn't speak With an accent. Plus she's not an ape. I'm also thinking: she Was right. Drunks do appear to suffer from the same symptoms I do. Their cheeks bloat; their eyes redden; their gait is unsteady.
"I thought you Were at home sick," the other says, breathing beer into my face. Tawt yoo Wurr at 'ome sick.
Hmmm. What are they going to think When Nikki gets back here With the tickets? Actually, I know the answer. They're going to think that I'm cheating on their sister.
"That's freakin' bold, dude," one says.
"What?"
"That you busted it!" the other one cries.
My eyes flash between them. I can no longer tell if I'm in any immediate danger. Neither twin's tone is overtly threatening. Are they setting me up?
"You must really dig Rachel," the first one says.
"Of course I do!" I reply instantly. My voice squeaks. I try to smile.
They laugh.
"I'mma go get her," the other one slurs, lurching back toward the club. "Cuz, you know, We Were thinking about lookin' you up and beatin' the snot outta you. She told us you lied to her. Big-time."
My smile disappears. Blood pools in my feet.
"She's here?" I gasp.
"Yeah, she felt sorta bad about comin' and all," the remaining twin says. "I mean, seein' as you Were sick. She Was gonna surprise you With the ticket. She bought two. You know, one for her, one for you. But then she Was like, Why Waste two tickets? I mean, you know Rachel, dude. Waste not, Want not! So she gave it to Lou. And I bought one here. She's always Wanted to see this band 'cuz you're always talking about 'em-and by the Way, I LOVE SHAKES THE CLOWN, DUDE! They're just like ... just like ... you know?" He belches, frowning. "Wait, What Was I saying?"
Things I Love About Rachel Klein, Redux.