"Burger!"

At first I think I'm imagining it. The monitors are deafening. I can hear every drum fill in my teeth and rib cage-but no, that's definitely him. I squint out into the ma.s.s of Writhing bodies. My eyes still haven't quite adjusted to the glare.

"Burger, your fly's unzipped!"

There. He's mashed up against the edge of the stage, directly opposite Wes-one hand cupped around his face, the other slamming down in time to the music, blissful. He isn't cringing this time. He's smiling. "Made you look!" he mouths. I shake my head and smirk back dizzily. Until I spotted him, I hadn't realized how high the stage Was. Wes could kick Mark if he stepped out past his microphone stand. (Come to think of it, Wes Would kick Mark.) And-Jesus, there's Nikki! Right next to him! Rachel is there, too, next to her, looking not so blissful ... and so are Lou and Frankie-My G.o.d, they're all in a row ... all right up front ... packed tightly... . I hope none of them get hurt... .

I stop smiling.

Suddenly the adrenaline rush fades. Suddenly the vortex starts to swirl again.

I don't get it. I mean, from an objective point of view, everything is perfect. Everything. For Christ's sake: I'm living out an impossible fantasy I've had more times than I'll ever admit! How many people get to do that? n.o.body! I'm the luckiest guy in the World! AND my girlfriend and best friend are front and center! This isn't just a fantasy come true; this is a Hallmark moment.

But I can't enjoy it. Because it's bogus. It's all a lie.

First off: When I discovered Shakes the Clown, I felt as if I Were delving into a tiny, special, secret society. But now there are no secrets. Now I know these guys. They Won't sell out (even though they should); they don't suck live (not With a second guitarist, anyway); they are depraved. Or are they? Or is their depravity just a little forced? They aren't particularly funny-at least, not in the smart-stupid Way I imagined them to be. There's no grand scheme, no ironic unifying philosophy behind their dumb jokes. Even though they've technically met every single one of my obsessed-fan/music-geek requirements, they've Failed me. Failed, With a capital F. They don't embody Purity. They embody nothing. They aren't my heroes.

Second: The only reason I'm even up here With them is because I didn't have the guts to be honest With Rachel. I ran away from her in the most cowardly Way possible. And then as luck Would have it, I b.u.mped into Mark, and then I b.u.mped into Nikki, and yada, yada, yada. It Was a random series of pie-in-the-face events that saved me. That's all. I had nothing to do With it. No, if I'd had the courage to do What needed to be done, I Would still be outside talking to Rachel. But instead I'm onstage in a clown nose- Oh, c.r.a.p.

Twig. He's right behind Nikki. He's ...

Is he fondling her?

He's got his hands on her hips.

She tries to swat them away. He Won't let her. This is bad. Very bad. Why did she ever flirt With him at all? Oh, yeah, right: for ME-so she could introduce me to my "heroes" because I Would never be motivated enough to meet them on my own.

I scowl at Mark. He grins back at me, giving me a thumbs-up. No, no, no-I'm not scowling at you because I'm pretending to be tough and mean, like a rock star! Don't look at me! Look at your girlfriend! ... But thank G.o.d, the others start to notice that there's something Wrong. First Rachel. Then Lou and Frankie. They twist toward Nikki, Watching uncomfortably. They can't do much about it; it's too crowded... . Nikki attempts to squirm free again. Nope. Twig Won't let go.

Well. I think I've seen just about enough. I think I'm done blowing stuff off, too. I think I'm ready to take a cue from What Mark did to Leo.

Yes. It's time to start living. It's time to move out of the realm of "should." It's time to act on my anger.

So I unplug the guitar, I march to the edge of the stage, and I kick Twig in the face-as hard as I possibly can.

Now Get on Your Knees, Bend Over, and Thank Me.

Five details surrounding the kick: When I unplug Wes's guitar, the speakers emit an excruciating shriek: EEEEEEEEEE!!! This retriggers the tinnitus.

When my right foot makes contact With Twig's face (or his chins, really; he has several of them), my left foot slides out from under me. I fall hard on my b.u.t.t in cla.s.sic, third-rate, Borscht Belt clown style.

Since the attack Was unexpected, however-since I had the element of surprise on my side and Was a regular Angel of Kicking in the Face-I achieve the desired goal. Twig topples away from Nikki With a grunt, "Oof!"

Unfortunately, this sets off a chain reaction/domino effect of people falling backward over each other throughout the club.

Shakes the Clown continues to play the chorus of "Kosher Firth Day." Its lyrics go: You can't teach me to drive, so don't bother Or I'll put on some stale old slacks like your father, Which means it's time for a spanking, Now get on your knees, bend over, and thank me.

Belly Flop.

I try to ignore the havoc I've Wrought. In the midst of it all I try to ignore the music, the angry yelps from the audience, the shocked expressions of Rachel, Mark, and Nikki (Whose face I just barely missed With my toe) ... and Wes, too, Who is in a strategic position to smash his guitar over me or Worse. I doubt he'll try anything, though. I have a shield. His prized custom purple banjo-shaped guitar is still strapped around my shoulders. He Wouldn't hurt that. Although he did toss a practice amplifier into a bucket of beer ...

I scramble to my feet. "Nikki, come on!"

She gapes at me. "What?"

"Come on! Up here!" I seize her Wrists and tug her up onstage. Oops. Bad idea. She's heavier than she looks. I Wince. My arms burn. Finally she belly flops at my feet. Success! I hear Wes chuckling ominously into the microphone: "Mu-hu-ha-ha!" He stops playing, but Glenda and Herbert still doggedly plug along. The noise reverberates through the club, a crazed goulash of ba.s.s and drums. I Whirl in place, untangling myself from the strap, shoving the guitar at Wes, hauling Nikki up beside me- "Ted Burger, you're a true clown," Wes remarks.

I don't answer. I grab Nikki's hand and run. I'm afraid of What else I might do if I stick around any longer.

Not a Jovial, Retirement-Age Italian or Israeli Guy.

"Whoa, Wait, Ted! Where are We going?"

"Out," I say. My voice sounds strangely nasal. Then I remember: I'm Wearing a clown nose. I plunge back down the staircase into the dark maze of corridors, tugging her along behind me as best I can.

She Wrenches free of my grip. "Out Where?"

"Outside. Away. Far." I skid to a halt in a long, familiar-looking hall. My sneakers screech on the concrete. My head jerks right-yes! There's the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. Which means the exit is to the left ... that big door shrouded in darkness at the opposite end... . I bolt for it. "Come on."

"Ted, Wait-"

"Now, Nikki!" I run, grimacing over my shoulder. "We can talk later, okay? But right now a very large bouncer has got it in for me. Understand?"

"I ..." She shakes her head but follows.

I tear off the clown nose as I burst through the door. The awful streetlamp bears down on me. c.r.a.p. I freeze. I'm back in the yard again-the huge, maximum-security prison yard that is the Bronx.

Nikki shuts the door behind us.

A stroke of temporary luck: the sidewalk is deserted. n.o.body has managed to chase us. Not yet. It might have been Wise to come up With a plan before I kicked a four-ton bouncer in the face. Oh, Well. We can hide in a bodega or- Wait a second.

There's a big black Lincoln Town Car idling across the street. A cardboard sign is propped up in the driver's side window: TRIBECA LIMO 410.

"Rachel, I love you," I Whisper out loud.

Nikki stares at me. "What did you just say?"

"I'll explain later." I grab her hand again and dash to the car-throwing the back door open and tossing her inside as if she Were a piece of luggage-then tumble in after her. The seats are plush and velvety. The air is cool and quiet. Safety, I think. "Uh, hi," I mutter at the driver as I fumble With the door lock.

"Are you Burger?"

The voice is female, heavily accented ... almost musical. Caribbean, maybe? I squint up at the front seat. The driver is a slender, attractive black Woman. She looks to be in her midthirties. I'm surprised. Every single time I've taken Tribeca Limos in the past, the driver has been a jovial, retirement-age Italian or Israeli guy.

"Yes," I say.

"Barrow Street?" she asks, pulling away from the curb.

I glance out the Window. Twig and several murderous-looking hoodlums have emerged from the front door.

"Ted?" Nikki prompts nervously. "Barrow Street?"

"No. We're going to JFK."

Appetizer.

Only after the Town Car has safely zipped onto the Cross Bronx Expressway-far from the intersection of Brooks Avenue and 151st Street-does Nikki finally clear her throat and speak up.

"Ted? I know you said We had to go outside and away and far, but don't you think the airport is pushing it?"

"Give me the list," I say.

She lifts an eyebrow. "What?"

"The list. You know, the list."

"You mean the napkin?"

"Yes." I nod. I don't trust myself to talk much beyond that. Because I'm barely able to contain myself. I might start breaking into the funky chicken. Ever since We sped away from the Onyx, I've been overcome With a giddy euphoria. It ripples through my body in Wave after Wave. I forget the poison. I forget being mean to Rachel. And I thought that playing onstage With Shakes the Clown Was a rush? Or that anger alone could quash tinnitus and nausea? Ha! The real rush, the real salve comes When you finally prove- "Ted, What happened back there?"

"Huh?"

"What the h.e.l.l Were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed, you know that?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I know. I just-I saw that Twig Was putting his hands all over you, and ... I don't know." I shift in the seat, too twitchy to keep still. "Now can you hand over the list?"

She looks at me the Way a psychiatrist Would look at a long-term patient Who can't make progress. I'm sorry; the therapy has failed. You require inst.i.tutionalization.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing, Ted. Nothing. But this conversation isn't over."

"I never said it Was."

With a sigh she pulls the napkin from her pocket. It's so Wet and crumpled that it's close to disintegrating.

I catch a Whiff of Budweiser as I unfold it. To me, it smells like triumph. I take a moment to breathe evenly, to calm down a little.

BURGER'S SPRING BREAK Lose virginity.

Jam With Shakes the Clown.

PARTY With Shakes the Clown.

Get back at Billy Rifkin.

Do something truly heroic. Like rescue a baby from a burning building.

Along these lines, actually GO to one of those third World countries Rachel is always talking about and do something positive THERE. (Like Nigeria or Wherever. But fast.) Rob a bank.

Pull a crazy stunt, like bungee jump off the GW Bridge.

Start your own religion.

Get something named after you (like a park or a fountain).

The Words have been blurred With brown liquid and hours of abuse, but they're still legible. I smile to myself as I reexamine the ten tasks. My mission is just getting started. Amen! With that single kick, I've tasted life. I've had an appetizer. Now it's time for the main course. And I've got the next eighteen hours to gorge myself on it.

Another Big, Huge Favor.

"So, Ted?" Nikki says.

"Yeah?" I say, my eyes roving over the list.

"Can you please tell me Why you kicked that guy in the face and Why We ran away from everyone? Not that I mind. I'm just curious. That's all."

Ran away?

I blink and look up. I guess I did run away. But that part of my life is over. Without a doubt.