Eavesdropping on bizarre conversations. And you always hear one.
So When I board the uptown Seventh Avenue local, heading in the general direction of Billy Rifkin’s apartment, I know I’m in for a treat. As a matter of fact, I don’t even plan to get off. I’m just going to ride for a While, and people Watch, and bond, and eavesdrop (for the last time ever in my life!) … and somewhere in there, I’m going to make up the brilliant and hilarious tale of how I beat the crap out of Billy Rifkin—and When I get back home, Mark and Nikki are going to love me for it.
The Land of Extraordinary Coincidence
I first notice the couple at Fourteenth Street.
Did they get on before? I’m not sure. (Remember: I’m drunk.) They’re older than me, and judging from their too-cool and self-righteous vibe, I figure they’re students at Columbia or NYU. You can spot these college types a mile away. They never sit down on the subway. They insist on standing because it tells the World that they’re considerate enough to leave seats open for the elderly or disabled, even When the car is nearly empty, as it is now. Fakers. The girl, a hair-dyed-black goth, is heavily tattooed. The guy is small and pale, all glasses and dirty blond bangs. I catch a snippet of dialogue:
“… I’m not being a martyr,” the girl is saying.
“Yeah, you are,” the guy snaps back. He glances around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping. I stare at my lap. “You’re laying a guilt trip on me. I mean, come on, Charlotte. You know I have my hands full With Amnesty International.”
Amnesty International?
Naturally, my ears perk up.
Now, this might strike you as an extraordinary coincidence, the fact that two young people—a couple, no less—are fighting about something near and dear to my own girlfriend’s heart. And it is. But that’s the beauty of the transit system. Really, it’s the beauty of New York City as a Whole. It’s the Land of Extraordinary Coincidence.
“Oh, I get it,” the girl says, sulking. “You can’t help me out because you’ve used up all your altruism. You volunteer for an organization that just serves as a celebrity platform for … for … for narcissism. Amnesty International doesn’t accomplish anything, Thumb. It’s a bogus organization.”
Wait.
Did she just call him Thumb? Spelled like Thom, maybe?
Perhaps it’s the poison acting up … but no, I’m pretty sure she did. Thom. Thom Thumb. That’th thilly. I bite my cheek.
“How Would you know?” the guy says through his teeth. “And if you Want to talk narcissism, Why don’t you take a good long look in the mirror? Oh, but that’s right! You already do! You spend an hour in the mirror every morning! You’re the biggest narcissist I know!”
“But I have to sit at the mirror every morning. It’s the only Way I can focus my qi.” (Pronounced “chee.”) “You know that, Thom.”
“Charlotte—”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” An automated voice booms from above. “DUE TO TRACK SIGNAL PROBLEMS, THE NEXT STOP ON THIS TRAIN WILL BE FORTY-SECOND STREET. THIS TRAIN WILL NO LONGER BE RUNNING ON THE LOCAL TRACK. IF YOU WISH TO GET OFF AT INTERMEDIARY STATIONS, PLEASE CROSS THE PLATFORM AT TIMES SQUARE AND TAKE THE LOCAL DOWNTOWN TRAIN. THIS TRAIN WILL BE RUNNING EXPRESS.”
A collective groan rises from the passengers.
What did I tell you? Something always goes Wrong.
Now it’s bonding time. I catch Thom’s eyes. I search them for a flicker of recognition, an acknowledgment of shared suffering. We’re War buddies, after all. I feel for you, my man, I tell him With my sympathetic gaze. We’re in this together.
“What are you looking at, asshole?” he asks.
My Obligation
Until now, I haven’t fully taken stock of What’s happening to me. Yes, I’ve known and accepted that I’ve been poisoned… .
Or have I really? No, I don’t think I have. I’m still floundering in denial. But Thom’s question has brought my fate into stark relief. Not just for the obvious reason: that no matter how much I romanticize this last subway ride, I’ve just been called an asshole. It’s not even so much that my intestines suddenly feel as if they’ve been tied into neat little bows. It’s because I feel like saying something back.
Normally if I Were asked “What [I Was] looking at” by a pretentious jerk, I’d probably just stare at my sneakers. At Worst, I might mutter “not much” under my breath—inaudibly, of course. But at this moment, I don’t harbor any ill Will. Clearly this is a guy Who feels too much stress and anger. You can see it in the tight lines on his face, in the flatness of his bespectacled eyes. Thom, life is too short for all that, I think. I know how short it is, firsthand. I’ve got maybe twenty-one hours left. I’ve been granted a great gift of Wisdom. And it’s my obligation— better yet, my duty—to share it.
Thom raises his eyebrows. They vanish under his bangs. “You got a problem?”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “I’m at peace.”
He laughs shortly. “Excuse me?”
“Everybody, listen up!” I hear myself yell.
Poisoned blood pounds in my head. I stand in the middle of the car. I’ve never done anything like this in my life. I’ve never intentionally made a spectacle of myself. I’ve been made a spectacle of, many times—but it’s finally time for me to Wipe the symbolic pie off my clown face. It’s time to talk back, to take action.
Unfortunately, the only two people Who seem to be paying attention are Charlotte and Thom. Everybody else looks away. Why Wouldn’t they? A disheveled teenager has embarked on a loud monologue for no apparent reason.
“Listen up!” I repeat, fighting to milk the alcohol and adrenaline for all their energy. “I don’t Want any money, and I’m not trying to sell anything! I just Want to say that there’s no point in fighting! If you’re involved With somebody, I mean! Because, you know, if you’re in a relationship, even if you don’t necessarily love that other person With all your heart … you have to be considerate! You have to respect that person! You have to respect peace! And maybe you have to let them go! But if you do—”
“THIS IS FORTY-SECOND STREET, TIMES SQUARE,” the automated voice announces.
I frown at the loudspeakers. The train screeches to a halt.
The force of the braking sends me toppling to the floor.
My knees hit first. My palms scrape on the grimy linoleum.
“Ouch,” I grunt.
Miracle of miracles, the fall stops there. I’m able to maintain balance on all fours, like a child, awaiting a Well-deserved spanking. To be honest, I half expect somebody in the car to take advantage of this precarious position. Fortunately, nobody does. Every single passenger scurries out the door.
“Charlotte, promise me We’ll take a cab next time, okay?” I hear Thom mutter. “There are too many freaks on the subway.”
Surprise Attack
Screw it. I’ve changed my mind. I am going to beat the crap out of Billy Rifkin. Why the hell not, right? I’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. One concern: hopefully he hasn’t had a growth spurt in the last five years. He Was five inches shorter than me the last time I saw him. Whatever. Even if he is bigger, I’ve got certain strategic advantages. He isn’t expecting me. A surprise attack is always best—as I learned from Mark today at the diner, When he Wrestled Leo to the ground. Plus I’m fueled With rage. My judgment, or What’s left of it, is definitely impaired.
And I know What you’re thinking, but you’re Wrong; I’m not enraged because I’m lying on a subway-car floor after some little Wiener With a loser girlfriend called me names—When I only tried to help them. (Well, okay, maybe I’m enraged a little about that.) Mostly I’m enraged about everything. And I’m enraged at everyone: at myself, because I Was such a jerk to my girlfriend earlier this afternoon; at my parents, With their jabbering on and on about billboards; at Leo, because he poisoned me… .
Ugh.
Mark Was right that day he dared me to approach Rachel. There is a swirling vortex inside my head. And now there�
��s poison. And this freaking tinnitus. And several glasses of scotch. It’s getting pretty crowded in there.
I push myself up and collapse back into a cold plastic seat.
Next stop, Seventy-second Street. Billy Rifkin lives on Seventy-third. Number 525. Apartment 15E. Yes, I remembered the address, even at less than full capacity. I’ll be there in no time.
As the train pulls out of the station, I spot Thom on the platform. I give him the finger. He reciprocates. So completes the bonding of two comrades-in-arms.
The “Seal-a-Deal” Strategy
Just my crappy luck: 525 West Seventy-third is one of those luxury skyscrapers With a doorman. My heart sinks as I trudge up to the entrance. The place must be sixty stories tall—a massive steel-and-glass tower Whose apartments glow high above me, secure and impenetrable. Now I’ll have to convince a doorman to convince the Rifkins to let me up. Stupid. I should have planned for this earlier. I pause outside the floor-to-ceiling lobby windows, racking my brain for a legitimate-sounding lie. Can I say that I’m an old friend? Nah, the Rifkins probably Wouldn’t even recognize my name. Can I pretend to be a delivery boy? No, that Would only Work if the Rifkins had ordered food… .
Suddenly I realize that the doorman is staring right at me.
He’s rotund, uniformed in a red suit (complete With tassels and a cap), and sports a Santa Claus beard. Except that he isn’t nearly as jolly as old Saint Nick. In another few seconds he’ll probably call the cops to inform them that a suspicious-looking juvenile is loitering near the premises.
Well. This is it.
Either I grab life by the proverbial cajones, as Mark said, or I slink away in shame. And I can just picture What Will happen if I do the latter. Yup: I’ll get back on the subway, and I Won’t say a Word to anyone. I Won’t eavesdrop, and I Won’t cause problems—and instead I’ll daydream about all the things I should be doing, and When I finally get home, I’ll find Mark and Nikki buck naked in my parents’ bedroom… .
Billy Rifkin, here I come.
I breeze through the revolving doors, conjuring the perfect lie from thin air, like magic. Thank God for booze, rage, and poison! The lobby is richly furnished and ice cold. It smells like carpet cleaner, the Way all luxury high-rise lobbies do. I stroll up to the front desk.
“Can I help you?” Sour Santa asks.
“Yes, thank you. My name is Mark Singer. I’m raising money for Amnesty International. Are you familiar With our organization?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “We don’t allow solicitors here.”
I chuckle apologetically. “No, of course not. I understand. But I’m not here to solicit money from random strangers. I’m here to see the Rifkins? Number 15E? I Went to grade school With their son Billy, and part of my assignment is to raise awareness about our organization among kids my age.”
The guy doesn’t answer. His face might as Well be carved from Sheetrock. I Wonder if he’ll ask me for ID. I actually have my passport on me. I always carry it in my back pocket (probably not the Wisest idea) because I don’t have a driver’s license yet. The problem is that it’s my passport, not Mark’s.
“If you Would just buzz them, I’d really appreciate it,” I continue, not missing a beat. My tone is courteous, nonconfrontational. “And if they aren’t home or if they have no interest in talking to me, I’ll just be on my Way. I Won’t take up a minute more of your time. Thanks so much!”
Finally he picks up the intercom phone.
I congratulate myself. I hate to admit it, but Mom and Dad deserve credit for that smooth performance. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from having parents in the advertising industry, it’s that it’s always better to thank people preemptively if you’re trying to Weasel something out of them. They even have a name for it. They call it the “seal-a-deal” strategy. The theory: thanking people before a deal has been sealed creates the impression that the deal already has been sealed. So then people feel guilty refusing you. They feel obligated to accommodate you. Clever, huh? Yes, every child of advertisers is also part amateur psychologist. It comes With the territory.
“Hello, Mrs. Rifkin? It’s Freddy from the front desk. I have somebody here to see Billy …” He cups his hand over the phone and raises his eyebrows at me.
“Mark Singer,” I Whisper. “From Amnesty International. And PS 109.”
“Mark Singer,” he repeats into the mouthpiece. “From Amnesty International? And PS 109?”
I hold my breath, my smile intact.
“Okay, then, Mrs. Rifkin. I’ll send him right up.” He hangs up the phone and finally cracks a smile. “The elevators are around the corner to the right, Mark.”
Sweet, Sweet, Sweet!
It isn’t until I’m shooting toward the fifteenth floor that I consider What I’m doing. I’m on my Way to see Billy Rifkin, ostensibly to kick his ass. No, not ostensibly—I Will kick his ass. Because as the plush elevator picks up speed and blood drains from my enfeebled brain, I’m overcome With suppressed memories … not just the guitar-strings-in-the-sewer incident, but a host of others: the time Billy hurled a stink bomb into a bathroom stall I Was using, the time he spray painted the Words Super Butt on the principal’s office Wall and somehow managed to implicate me, the time he slapped me on the back of the legs With his skateboard, bruising—
Ding!
The doors slide open.
I step into the carpeted hall.
My heart starts to pound. I take a moment to scope the area for an escape route. I hone in on a lighted exit sign next to apartment 15E: the fire stairs. Perfect. I’ll ring the doorbell. If Billy answers, I’ll punch him in the face—hard—and be on my Way. If his mom answers, I’ll ask to speak to him. Then she’ll summon him to the front door, at Which point I’ll punch him in the face—hard—et cetera.
So What if he’s grown a foot since the sixth grade? I’ve got the element of surprise on my side. Just like Mark did When he attacked Leo.
And after I’ve knocked him cold, I’ll race down the fifteen flights of stairs (not too far), and I’ll sneak out through the back door or parking garage (not a problem), and in less than twenty seconds I’ll be back on the subway, heading home. Ha! They’ll never catch me. It’s not like Sour Santa in the lobby could chase me down. No Way. He’s too fat. I’ll be a Phantom, a regular Angel of Punching in the Face. Oh, man. This is gonna be sweet! Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Good thing I’m still plastered. I take a deep breath and tiptoe to the apartment door. I clench my right hand into a fist. I ring the bell With my left.
The door opens …
And I get exactly What I Wish for.
It’s Billy Rifkin himself. Right in front of me. In the flesh. Five years after his egregious crimes. Only if he’s had a growth spurt, I can’t tell, because he’s sitting in a Wheelchair.
Not to Sound Like Jesus or Anything
“Ted?” he says.
The first thing I notice about him (aside from the obvious) is that he now Wears glasses. Circular, Wire-rimmed, John Lennon–style glasses. Behind them, his green eyes are serene. I don’t remember serenity in his eyes before. I remember hate and cruelty. He’s smiling, too. It’s not the spiteful smile of the little twerp I knew back in grade school, either. No, this smile is Warm and inviting. Aside from that, though, I guess he looks pretty much the same. Small and skinny. Well, except that his hair is shoulder length. He’s also Wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt that features a charcoal portrait of Martin Luther King.
Martin Luther King.
This is not Billy Rifkin. This is a kind, peace-loving hippie. An innocent kid to Whom something terrible has happened. This is the boy I just tried to be on the subway. This is the boy I lamely and miserably failed to be.
Billy laughs. “You are Ted Burger, right? Ted Burger from PS 109?”
“Yeah.” The vertigo, tinnitus, and nausea return full force. I swallow, clutching the door frame to maintain balance.
“Your friend Mark is here, too, right?” He
peers around me into the hall. “The doorman said Mark Singer Was here. I remember you guys Were tight. It’s so cool that you still hang out. And that you Work for Amnesty International, too!”
“Yeah—ah, Well, Mark’s down in the car,” I lie to him. “Mark had to stay With the car. See, We drove, and … you know, it’s so hard to find parking around here—so, um, he’s illegally parked. That’s Where Mark is … in the car. Waiting.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Billy apologizes, as if it’s perfectly natural to have a stammering moron show up out of your past. “Parking around here can be a real drag. Man, I Wish I knew you guys Were coming! I could have reserved a spot for you down in the garage! I mean, I’m sure you don’t have a lot of time to hang out.” He laughs again—that horrible, friendly laugh. My stomach twists in another painful knot. “I know What’s like to canvass. I used to canvass for Greenpeace, out in Jersey. You have to hit as many residences as possible to make your quota. Right?”
I nod, even though I have no clue What he’s talking about. I’m flabbergasted. He’s in a Wheelchair. He’s paralyzed. He’s become a saint.
His brow furrows. “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”
“I … uh … I …”
“AW, don’t sWeat the chair, bro,” Billy says comfortingly.
Now I’m fairly certain I’ll throw up. He’s trying to make this easy on me. He’s trying to make me feel better—about his disability. This can’t be happening. Maybe I’ve already died. Maybe I’m in hell right now, being tortured for a lifetime of Wickedness.
“It Was a skateboard accident a couple of years ago,” he adds With a rueful grin. “Long story. But in a Weird Way, it Was one of the best things that happened to me.” He sighs. His eyes twinkle. “I mean, not totally, of course.”
10 Things to Do Before I Die Page 7
