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Show "When I'm ready," I said. "i'm not ready yet." "Where?" he said. "Tell me where you think you'll die." I have given some thought to that lately, but to the young man I simply said, "I will die on my feet." Up and down the beach went the ice cream man, and other men selling peanuts and bagels and soft drinks and kites, men selling pocket knives and marijuana and contraceptives and real estate, it was clear that the young man was not satisifed with my answers, but I was not concerned. I had told my story for myself, not him, and any answers it contained were mine alone. "Then I suppose we have finished," he said sadly. His face was still close to mine, and his breath was oppressive with the smell of rot. I nodded and turned my head from him. "There is one last thing," he said. "I would like you to go through the tape just once, to make sure it's right. Perhaps you should add something. I'll leave you alone to do it." He showed me how to run the machine, then started off toward the beach with his head down. I watched him go, disappear into that dense thicket of muscle-men and naked girls, beer vendors and surfboards, and for the briefest moment I nearly felt sorry for him. His dark interest in death would surely destroy him. I pushed the button that said START. I was born on Ellis Island, I heard myself say, of an Irish |