Drew Magary - The End Specialist

I wonder if we’ve completely flipped the script on that now. I wonder if the cure represents insurance against religion. Because what if the pope is wrong? If I forgo the cure and end up dying at seventy to please a Lord who turns out not to exist, I’m gonna feel like a real jackass. Isn’t it better to live an extra thousand years or so, just in case?

I guess I’ll find out at some point. Some very, very distant point. Twelve more days till the cure.

Date Modified: 6/8/2019, 7:05PM

“I’m Always Gonna Get

My Period”

Until the other night, I hadn’t told anyone that I’m in the middle of getting the cure. I didn’t tell my dad or my sister or anyone at work—didn’t consult them either. They don’t know I’ve done it, and I sure as hell don’t know if they have. I didn’t even tell the banker friend who gave me the address. For one thing, I haven’t finished the process yet, so I’d feel a bit foolish telling everyone I was about to live forever, only to find out a week from now that my doctor was caught and thrown in Rikers.

But more to the point, I have yet to meet a single person who has publicly admitted it. I think we’ve all collectively adopted the unspoken rule that you don’t mention it out in the open. Like getting a nose job. Every discussion I’ve had about it has been conducted strictly in hypothetical terms. “Would you get it?” “What if it were legal? Would you get it then?” “Would you fly to Brazil and do it? I heard about a bunch of people at work who are taking sudden ‘vacations’ to Rio.” Stuff like that. But no one has ever said to me, “Yes, I got it”—which is just so weird. Clearly, people are going to get it. If a random person like me can go have it done, I have to assume I’m not alone. But I suppose there’s just too much uncertainly right now to go around parading the fact.

Anyway, I was more than happy to keep all this to myself. But Katy got it out of me. She’s an interrogator, my roommate. Aggressively interested in other people. Present her with wine, and she’ll pepper you with questions until you feel as if you’re under a hot lamp. She delights in extracting key information from you and then playing with it—stretching it out and bouncing it against the walls until she grows bored with it.

We were sitting in our apartment, watching the news. They were doing their nightly cure story, and Katy turned to me, clear out of the blue. She was squinting one eye.

“Did you get it?”

“What? No.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “You are the absolute worst liar ever.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You fell dead silent when that report came on just now. Don’t try to hide it. I have excellent cure-dar.”

“Cure-dar?”

“Uh huh. Remember when I said Jesse Padgett had it done? She totally did. You could tell because she’d clam right up whenever the subject came up. Just like you did there. You should look in the mirror. Your face is so red right now. You look like a giant tomato.”

“Aw, Jesus.”

“You did it! You did it! You did it! I can’t believe this. You slippery bastard!”

She got the confession in record time and beamed in delight at the accomplishment. Her eyes bugged and she smiled proudly. She has a snaggletooth and loves to flaunt it as a distinguishing feature.

“Don’t go broadcasting this all over the place, all right?”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “I promise you that. But you’re gonna tell me everything.”

“They haven’t even finished yet.”

“They haven’t finished? What do they do to you? Tell me, tell me, tell me. I heard you get sixty shots, all in the armpit.”

“No. They just took my blood, and then a week from now they give me three shots. That’s it.”

“That’s it? Holy underwear. What did it cost?”

“Seven thousand bucks.”

“Seven grand?”

“Shh!”

“That’s nothing! That’s less than nothing! I once expensed a tab at Lusardi’s that was bigger than that! You have to tell me how to do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“This doctor will only take direct referrals from a small circle of people he knows, and one of them happens to be a friend. No extra degrees of separation beyond that. It’s like a drug dealer, I swear.”

“So just give me your guy’s name and I’ll say I know him.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, please. Who made you guardian of the fountain? What—is this like your little boys’ club? Do you all go get the cure and then take a naked swim together? Is that it?”

“I just don’t want to get anyone in trouble. They asked me not to refer anyone.”

“This is so unfair. Who’s the guy you know? Is it Schilling? I bet it’s Schilling.”

“No…”

Another crooked, triumphant grin.

“It is! This is amazing. I don’t even need a polygraph. All I have to do is ask you a question and wait for your head to blow up.”

“Regardless, you still need the address and phone number from me.”

“Well, why hold it back? Honestly. Give me one good reason, apart from your little pinky swear not to, that I don’t deserve the information and you do. I’ve never known you to be timid about anything. But I ask you about this and you turn into a mute. Come on. Don’t be so annoying. It’s not like people won’t find out at some point that you’re having it done. In fact, judging by how quickly I found out, the whole city should know by morning.”

“Okay. Fine. I will give you all the information. After I’ve gotten the final shots a week from now. And, you have to pay the cable bill for six months.”

“What?”

“Referral fee,” I said. “It’s only fair.”

“You’re such a goddamn lawyer.”

“Those are the terms. We have a deal?”

“We do. I can’t believe you found it. Oh, I love you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Yes! You know I’ve been trying to find a curist for months now? I am so relieved. This is gonna be incredible. Except… You’re sure this guy’s legit, right?”

“Yes.”

“Because you know about all the bogus ones out there, right? How do you know this guy isn’t gonna inject you with Cascade? Remember the lady in Queens who had that done to her last week?”

“I’m certain it won’t be Cascade. For one thing, this doctor has no dishes to wash.”

“Okay, then I’ll wait until you get your shots. And if you don’t drop dead on the spot, I’m definitely calling him. I am so excited! I’m gonna be twenty-seven forever! And I don’t have to go to São Paulo to do it!”

She sprung up and rushed to the kitchen, then froze halfway there.

“Oh, Christ,” she said. “Do you know what I just realized? I’m always gonna get my period. That sucks.”

“Seems like a minor sticking point.”

“We could be roommates forever too. Do you want to sign a hundred-year lease?”

“No.”

“Your loss, because I am gonna party my ass off until the year 5000!”

Then she poured a glass of Shiraz to the brim and danced on the sofa.

Date Modified: 6/13/2019, 10:02AM

“Cake-Batter Mixes Are One Of The Great Food Innovations Of The Past Sixty Years”

That’s the kind of thing you hear when you talk with my dad for any considerable length of time. I don’t want to say he goes off on tangents, because that would suggest he has a main topic from which to deviate. I enjoy his company because he never answers any question with the phrase “I don’t know.” He either knows, or he’ll talk out of his ass until he’s convinced you he knows. It’s a skill I’ve yet to master.

I’m due to get the cure finished off on Monday. I should be all excited at the prospect of beginning the rest of my indefinitely elongated life, but I’ve found myself increasingly impatient as I grow closer. All I’ve done the past few days is calculate population figures and think about death—mine or anyone else’s. I don’t enjoy thinking about death, which is one of the reasons I wanted the cure in the first place. Now, I seem to be obsessing over it. The irony of it all is infuriating.