Free 10 Things to Do Before I Die by Daniel Ehrenhaft Page A

finish this thing. I swear it. Okay?”
    I lift my shoulders, in no position to argue. In spite of the fact that Mark seems to be on the verge of a breakdown, I’m still laughing.

Call Me a Nut
    Call me a nut, but I love the New York City transit system. Most people see it as a hassle. Some people even refuse to take the subway. But they don’t know What they’re missing. A subway car is the prime spot for such excellent pastimes as:
    People Watching
    Bonding With perfect strangers When something goes Wrong. And something always goes Wrong. That’s the beauty of it. You’re sitting next to a grizzled businessman— the kind of guy you have nothing in common With—When the train suddenly breaks down. You and the businessman exchange a smile. You roll your eyes. And just like that, you’re War buddies, comrades in arms, united by the heroic struggle to get from point A to point B.
    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