10 Things To Do Before I Die Part 5

"Why? You're drunk."

For a terrible second I almost make a stupid Wisecrack. I almost say, "Okay, so maybe you should get drunk, too." But I don't.

Unfortunately, I do start thinking ...

What Would happen if We actually did get drunk?

I could break into my parents' liquor cabinet, per Mark's suggestion. I could pour us some Wine. I could dim the lights. I could put on Mom and Dad's Feel the Love, 1975! compilation CD. (The liner notes: Not Sold in Any Store! All Hits by the Original Recording Artists!) The music is soft and funky-and just cheesy enough to be romantic. The CD cover is brilliant, too: a fuzzy ski-lodge-style photo of a seventies couple by a fire-place on a bearskin rug, gazing into each other's eyes and drinking from crystal goblets. The man is tanned and swarthy, like a pirate. Thick hair blankets his open-s.h.i.+rted chest. The Woman is skinny, blond, and bug-eyed. She's Wearing an oversized lime green turtleneck. The fat collar hangs down over her puny bust like a s.e.xy polyester necklace. I could suggest to Rachel that We dress up exactly like the couple in the photo, and drink Wine, and pretend that We're feeling the love, circa 1975- "Ted?" Rachel says.

"Huh?"

"Is this funny to you?"

"Is What funny?"

"You're smiling. Have you heard a Word I've said?"

"Yes!" I lie, too emphatically. "Of course I have. It's just ... I Want to lie down."

She sighs. "You know, Ted, you've got problems."

"I agree."

"It's this avoidance thing," she says. "It really b.u.ms me out. Whenever you don't Want to deal With something, you just run away."

I'm not sure how to respond. She has a point.

"You didn't Want to deal With the Amnesty retreat application, right?" she asks. "So you blew it off to hang out With your friends and get drunk. Which is fine. I mean, it's the first day of spring break. But that's not the sad part. The sad part is that you thought you could fool me. The sad part is that you a.s.sumed I'd be up at the garden until six. You a.s.sumed you had time to come back here and clean yourself up. But you Want to know something, Ted?" Her voice catches; she sounds as if she's about to cry. "You Want to know Why I'm not up there? I canceled today to surprise you. Those people up there Were counting on me to help them, and I canceled because I knew this application Was a ch.o.r.e for you, and so I ... oh, forget it."

"Rachel, no, Wait. What?"

She heads off toward the subway entrance on the corner. "Nothing," she mutters. She doesn't turn around. "But you don't have to make up some BS excuse about getting held up by a fry cook With a Water gun."

"It's true!" I call after her.

Now I feel bad. I feel Worse than bad. I Was Wrong; I didn't Want to get into a fight. I hate fighting. Besides, Who Would Want to fight With Rachel? She's too nice! And it's completely my fault: I baited her into an argument When I should have been grateful for her showing up here to surprise me. I should have taken time to explain the truth instead of s.p.a.cing out With a vision of drunkenly reenacting Feel the Love, 1975!

For a second I Wonder if I should chase after her. Probably not a Wise move. The dizziness has kicked in again. The sideWalk appears to be tilting for some reason.

"Rachel, I'm sorry-"

She hurries down the subway steps.

Good grief. Now I know I should chase after her. I know this With every fiber of my guilty soul. I should be honest. I should explain What happened: that I just lost myself for a second in one of those Wild daydreams I always have Whenever I Want to be somewhere else-the daydreams that Won't come true but that still give me the little pick-me-ups I need to get through the unpleasant moments in life... .

But I don't.

I never do What I should.

The Most Billboards per Square Mile of Any Town in the World.

I can't dwell on Rachel, I tell myself. No. Right now I have to figure out Why I feel so sick. Then I can lie down. And after that, I can call her and apologize. Rachel and I both need a chance to cool off, anyway. So as soon as I finish all the tasks that require my immediate attention-changing the T-s.h.i.+rt, Was.h.i.+ng the face, brus.h.i.+ng the teeth-I'm ready to get started.

Except ...

I find myself standing in my darkened bedroom, staring at my phone.

Which is When I think: I don't really Want to know What's Wrong With me. Of course I don't. It'll freak me out too much.

It's a little past 6 p.m.

I have one new message. The numeral 1 blinks in red on the digital panel, over and over again.

In addition to taking me to the Hong Phat Noodle House on my sixteenth birthday, my parents also gave me a private phone line. Plus a celly, a TV, a cable modem, and a credit card. "Tools for adulthood!" they said. It Was generous loot, to be sure, but it Was sort of overwhelming. I didn't really need those tools for adulthood. I Was happy using theirs. But now the issue never even comes up. Now, on those rare occasions When they're actually home, there's no reason to bug them about getting off the phone or the Net or Watching What I Want to Watch on TV. Likewise, they don't have to bug me. They can tune in to the Home Shopping Network to their hearts' content. In fact, We barely have to communicate at all. Which is ... good?

Blink blink blink ...

Maybe it's Rachel. Maybe she beat me to an apology. That Would certainly be in keeping With her character: to take the blame for something that isn't her fault at all just to avoid conflict. So I hope it isn't Rachel. Be strong! I urge her, attempting to communicate telepathically via my vertiginous brain. You should be mad at me!

As I gaze at the red flash, I'm conscious of two things. The first is that according to Mark and Nikki, I'm supposed to have s.e.x With Rachel tonight. Approximate odds of that happening: four zillion to one. The second is that the phone has begun to tilt to the left. So has the messy desk on Which it sits. And the messy floor on Which the desk sits. Everything is tilting. Just like the sidewalk outside. Also, I haven't turned on the lights yet. The entire tilting room is cloaked in eerie bluish shadows. I'm about to lose my balance.

I stumble into the desk chair and jab a finger at the answering machine b.u.t.ton.

"You have one new message," the automated female voice pleasantly announces. "Message one received today, 4:12 p.m."

Beep!

"Hi, Ted!"

It's Dad. His voice blasts from the speaker, full of tinny enthusiasm: "How's it going? How's that application coming along? Remember our agreement. You finish it ay-sap, all right? Then you can have some fun. How's the Weather there? The Weather here in Denver is just fantastic!"

"Well, I don't know how the Weather is," Mom cuts in. For once she doesn't include an exclamation point. She sounds grumpy. "I Was stuck inside the Hyatt all day. I Will say that the convention floor does have great air-conditioning. Your father and I did the B-to-B ads for the Wholesaler."

Dad laughs. "Yes, your mother had to Work the convention floor, but I got the day off. You'll never guess Where I Went! There's a small town in Colorado that has the most billboards per square mile of any-"

"Not the most billboards," Mom interrupts.

"Yes, the most per square mile. Of any town in the Whole World."

"It has a lot, dear. But not the most."

"It Was in The Guinness Book," Dad tells her brusquely.

Mom sniffs. "You're just making this up."

"I'm not! You Weren't there! I saw a billboard for it! It Was-"

I slam my hand down on the machine.

"Your message has been erased," the automated voice concludes, as pleasantly as ever. "End of messages."

Two out of Four Ain't Bad.

So, everybody of importance in my life has been accounted for. My parents have touched base to update me about their exciting business trip. My blameless girlfriend has stormed off in a huff. Mark and Nikki are most likely still at the diner, celebrating Mark's triumphant heroism. All of Which means I have some much-needed time to myself. Now I can figure out What's Wrong With me.

I bury my cowardice and turn on the computer.

The screen spins in circles, like vinyl on a turntable.

I don't get it. I know it isn't spinning. So Why does it look that Way? I grit my teeth, fighting to ignore the hallucination as I punch the Words dizziness nausea ringing in the ears abdomen pain into a "Feeling Lucky?" search engine. Several sites appear. All of them revolve (literally) around something called Meniere's disease.

I click on the first one.

DO YOU HAVE MeNIeRE'S DISEASE?

IF YOU SUFFER FROM SOME OR ALL.

OF THE FOLLOWING SYMPTOMS,.

THE ANSWER COULD BE YES:.

Frequent episodes of severe rotary vertigo or dizziness Progressive low-frequency hearing loss Tinnitus Pressure in the ears Number one, check.

Number two, not so much. I hear fine. Except I hear ringing, too.

Number three ... What the-?

I grab a dictionary. My breath quickens. Words like this make me nervous, even more nervous than Words like examination procedure. I riffle through the pages, frantic. At least I know What those Words mean. But I have no idea about- tin-ni-tus n. med. Ringing in the ears.

Oh.

I toss the dictionary on the floor.

Number three, check.

Number four ... I don't think so. Nope. No pressure.

That leaves me With two out of four of the symptoms. Fifty percent. I sense I've failed some sort of test. Still, two out of four ain't bad. "Some or all," right? I skim through the rest of the medical literature on the site, searching for any indication that Meniere's disease is fatal. There is none. I do learn, however, that it leaves its victims incapacitated for hours on end With nightmarish head spins and vomiting. The gist seems to be that Meniere's doesn't kill you but that death might be preferable once you get it. And there's something else: it almost never strikes anybody under the age of thirty.

I lean back in the chair. Hmmm.

Once again, the trusty Internet has raised a lot more questions than it has answered.

Do I have this awful disease? Could I be one of those one-in-a-million victims in the under-thirty crowd? Or maybe even the first? Is it one of the "things" that the intern Wanted to "rule out"? Is that Why she needed parental consent for a ... Whatever?

Actually, I know Who can solve all these riddles. He's the reason I Went to St. Vincent's in the first place. I glance at my Watch. It's already six-fifteen. He's definitely home by now. He never gets home past six. He likes to have a beer and Watch the news. (He might not Want to admit it, but that is his "thing.") Mark even joins him sometimes. He's just a phone call away.

I dial the number faster than I've ever dialed it before.

A Very Grim Confluence of Conversations.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hey, Mr. Singer. It's-"

"Burger! How are you?"

"Well, actually ..."

"Your buddy Mark isn't home right now. He's out With Nikki."

"Yeah, I know. I Wanted to talk to you."

"Me?" Mr. Singer laughs. "Why? What did Mark do this time? Try to buy me a dog?"

"No, um ... I have a medical question."

He sighs. I can hear the TV in the background. I probably should have Waited until the news Was over. Oh, Well. It's too late now. Besides, I'm desperate.

"I'm not a doctor, Burger, remember?" Mr. Singer tells me. He's told me this many times before, and We both know it. "I'm a hospital administrator."

"But you've given me good advice in the past," I point out. (It's true. When I Was twelve, he correctly diagnosed me With a stomach virus that my parents believed Was appendicitis.) "I Was just Wondering: Is it possible that I have Meniere's disease?"