The Angriest Man in Brooklyn Page #2

And I'm dead.

The seriousness depends on the size

and location of the aneurysm.

How big is it?

I'm an internist.

It's best if you speak to a specialist.

- You have the scan right there! How big?

- I understand.

- But there's a specialist, a neurologist

at Brooklyn... - You know, right?

Dr. Bernstein. I already called.

I made arrangements...

What are you scared of?

It's not your brain!

Just look at the scan and tell me!

It's big.

And the location?

Please, sir, I think it's best

that we talk to a neurologist.

The location?

By the brain stem.

Untreatable?

It's not for me to say.

You already have.

How long has it been there?

A long time, I'm betting.

Why didn't they find it till now?

Are you incompetent

or you just don't care?

- That's it, you don't care, do you?

- No. No, no, no.

- No what?

- No, I do care!

Bullshit! You're thinking,

how inconvenient, how annoying...

how difficult, how disagreeable.

Poor little princess. Poor, poor you.

Well, excuse me for dying!

Sir, I need you to stay calm.

It's bad for your blood pressure.

- Please sit back down.

- How long do I have?

- I don't know.

- Yeah, you do.

- No, I don't.

- It's all over your face like a pinched lemon!

The Lemon Princess.

You think you can hurt my feelings?

You don't care, remember?

This is just a job! You don't feel this!

Probably takes a diamond commercial

or a sick cat...

to get some feelings out of you!

Oh. Sick cats,

is that what makes you tick?

That's what makes

the Lemon Princess get all wah-wah?

Here I am, your sick and dying pet.

Tell your f***ing pet how long he has!

- I don't know.

- How long?

- I don't know!

- How long?

- Oh. I can't breathe.

- Give me a number.

A number.

Give me a number!

A number, a number, a number, a number.

I'm not leaving here

till I get a goddamn number!

- Ninety!

- Ninety what?

Minutes!

- That's your professional opinion?

- Yeah.

Well, f*** you!

You asked.

Ninety!

Hey, see this watch? See it?

It belonged to my father.

He lived to 90!

Ninety years!

You wanna know what happens

in 90 minutes?

That's 6:
22! 6:22 p.m.

I'm gonna be alive!

I'm gonna be having a beer!

And I'm gonna be smiling!

I'm gonna be smiling

because you will have been fired.

That's right,

I'm calling the C.E.O. Of this HMO...

and getting your potty little ass canned!

Dead prick!

Doctor c*nt!

Oh, f*** me!

Taxi!

Yo, taxi!

Downtown Brooklyn.

Even though Henry

knew 90 minutes was illogical...

the more he thought

about her prognosis, her curse...

the more it took on weight.

What if? What if?

He seemed to remember that

there were four or five stages to death.

What are you doing?

Drive on the sidewalk!

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