We keep it moving, stopping like ten seconds later to watch this raffle where a Death-Cast rep is offering free subscriptions. If the line wasn’t so long, I’d hop on too, because their service isn’t cheap. A woman wins a free month, which is worth $275. You can pay as little as $20 for one day or $3,000 for the whole year. My medical bills are wild enough, but my guardians still invested in the annual charge anyway because my heart condition won’t exactly take a day off. It must be nice to not need to drop that much bank and only opt in when you’re planning on doing something super adventurous, like skydiving or rafting. （You’d probably skip jumping out of a plane or traveling down rapid waters if you find out you’re about to die.） Unfortunately, Death-Cast is yet another thing insurance doesn’t cover. Which I guess doesn’t matter if you’ve got thousands on thousands on thousands on thousands in your pocket.
“Did you read that article about people wanting platinum memberships?” I ask Dalma.
“I did not. Do I want to know?”
“More like do you want to punch someone in the face?”
“Never, but hit me with it.”
“Some rich-ass clowns were campaigning for Death-Cast to have a platinum tier where the operators would call them before anyone else dying.”
Dalma stops dead in her tracks. “Rich people are why we can’t have nice things.”
Meanwhile, we’ve got Dayana and Floyd investing fifteen grand of their life savings on annual memberships for everyone in the house, not getting greedy for how fast the Death-Cast warning comes as long as it arrives on time before any of us can die.
I stop watching the raffle after seeing someone disappointed that they’ve received a free subscription for only one day. It seems like they were hoping for more, like maybe they can’t afford one of the bigger fees. There’s a lot in this world that I wish were free, and I’m adding Death-Cast to the list. People’s lives are at stake here.
Dalma and I keep it moving and stop at those newish red glass benches that rise like steps, giving Times Square this urban amphitheater vibe for those who want to chill while the city bustles. There’s a full audience and a woman on a small stage. First I think she’s some Death-Cast rep with the way she’s talking about how she expects this service will change things. I spot an A-frame sign, like the one propped outside the barbershop where I get my shape-ups, but this one isn’t marketed to invite you inside for a haircut that’ll make you feel good about yourself. It reads Tell Your Death-Cast Story. This woman isn’t a rep. She’s talking about why she signed up. As she finishes sharing her experiences with sickle cell disease, an actual Death-Cast rep behind a table picks a name out of a glass bowl and invites a girl named Mercedes up to the stage to tell her story.
For years, I’ve dreamt about what it would be like to do a reading at a bookstore, packed with strangers who want to hear my story. Of course I’d want my friends there too, but they’re practically forced to show up. There’s something magical about my words summoning people to one space. I don’t think I’m going to live long enough to actually publish a book of my own—novel, short stories, the world’s slimmest autobiography. Anything! But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a chance tonight to tell my story to this audience.
I go up to the Death-Cast rep, write my name, and drop it into the glass bowl.
This is one of those firsts that can double as a last.
Valentino
11:09 p.m.
Google Maps pretty much laughed when I asked for the fastest route to Times Square.
New York is known for its convenient transportation, but it’s pure chaos on Death-Cast Eve. Especially in Manhattan. I could’ve taken the 6 and transferred to some shuttle, but that trip was estimating one hour. I couldn’t find any buses going downtown, so I figured my best bet was getting in another taxi. I started walking in the general direction, hailing down cars like I’ve seen so many NYC characters do in movies, but I must’ve been doing it wrong because no one stopped. Then halfway there—much like going up the stairs of my newly realized walk-up—I accepted the only way to my destination was to embrace the journey.