XXII

“Margaret!” I said in the thick Irish brogue I revert to in times of distress. “Go fetch Father Pete and tell him MY TIME HAS COME!”

Then I remembered there is no Margaret, and I’ve lost my mind.

“You’ve always been so good to me,” I said to my imaginary boy-friend.

“I’M DYING!” I shouted to the world, and sobbed pitifully.

 

With my last ounce of strength, I crawled to the phone and called Flip.

“Hello?”

“Flip!” I croaked. “Oh! Flip! Help! Please!”

“Billy! What is it? What’s the matter!”

“Just . . . get . . . over here . . . before . . . it’s . . . TOO . . . LATE!”

“OH MY GOD! I’M ON MY WAY! HANG ON!”

 

He arrived in less than twenty minutes. “WHAT IS IT? WHAT’S THE MATTER? DID YOU HURT YOURSELF? SHOULD I CALL THE DOCTOR?”

“This is it, Flip,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m dying. DYING, EGYPT, DYING!” (And no, I’m not babbling. That’s what Cleopatra said as she clutched the asp to her breast.)

Flip sighed and sat down, realizing he’d been duped. “Okay—I’ll play along. What is it this time?” he asked.

“Um . . . I think I’m allergic to myself. Or the universe. Either way, things don’t look good. I’m afraid I’m not long for this mortal coil, old chum. I just couldn’t go without seeing you ONE . . . LAST . . . TIME. . . .”

Then I coughed and whispered, “Good-bye.”

And that’s when I died.

Or tried to, anyway. I thought I did a pretty convincing job. I rolled my eyes back into my head and spit up on myself. I wheezed and gasped and flailed about. My audience, though, remained unconvinced.

“Hey, Drama Boy, get up. Enough dying. I’m not mad at you. And if you wanted to see me, all you had to do was call.”

HUH? I came back from the dead, sat up, and asked: “You mean, we’re still friends?”

“Yes, Billy,” he said, and brushed the hair back from my face. “You are one crazy little homo, you know that?”