Stupid and Contagious (12 page)

lunch box and thermos under my sink. I thought you’d want it.”

“I thought I lost that!”

“Oh yeah. No,” she says. “It was never lost. I just didn’t want you starting a col ection of kitschy lunch boxes al over the apartment. You and your stupid eBay habit. So I hid it under the sink where I knew you’d never find it. God forbid you’d actual y hunt down a cleaning product.”

How did I stay with this woman for two years? Wel , in her defense, she turned into megabitch only when I broke things off. Prior to that she was just your garden-variety bitch. Bitchy during PMS, which is part of the rules, I get that. And bitchy every third or fourth day.

“Nice to see you,” I lie. “And thanks for the lunch box back.” Feel free to leave now.

“Nice place.”

“Yeah, I like it.”

She peers around the place. “There’s only one bathroom.”

“I’m only one person.” Unlike you, you multiple-personality psychopath. Nice ass, though.

“Look, Brady. We both know we’re going to get back together. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with this moving-out thing, but enough is enough.”

“Sarah . . . we are not getting back together.”

“You are a loser,” she says matter-of-factly. “And if you think you can do better, you’re sorely mistaken.

And wasting time. And risking me being with someone else when you final y realize this and come crawling back.”

“I’l take my chances.”

“Fuck you, Brady.”

Just then the door is pushed open by Heaven, who sashays in and over to my refrigerator. Both Sarah and I are watching her. I don’t know what the hel she’s doing but she’s doing it, and that’s al that matters.

Heaven takes my orange juice out of the refrigerator, pops the cap, and takes a huge swig directly out of the jug. Then she puts it back, turns around, and smiles this kil er smile that I didn’t even know she owned.

“Hi, I’m Heaven. OJ?” she asks Sarah (who’s about to have a nervous breakdown).

Heaven is my new favorite person.

“Who is this?” Sarah asks me.

“She just told you her name,” I say. “Heaven is my neighbor. Heaven, this is Sarah. An old friend.”

“Friend?” Sarah hisses. “I’m his ex. His very recent ex. And you should know that he has a wee bit of trouble getting it up.”

“Real y?” Heaven says. “I never noticed.”

I think I love Heaven.

Sarah’s head looks like it’s going to explode. I swear to God, she’s beet red. And maybe I’ve just watched too many cartoons in my day, but I think I actual y see steam coming out of her ears.

“Wel , you wasted no time, eh?” Sarah says.

“I gotta go,” Heaven says, planting one on my lips before making her exit. “See ya later. And hey . . .

nice meeting you, Sarah.” And she’s gone.

Sarah’s eyes turn to little slits. “I’m leaving, too.”

“Thanks for the lunch box,” I say cordial y.

“You’re an asshole.”

“So you’ve said.”

And she leaves, too. I go to my refrigerator to pour myself some orange juice, but the carton is empty.

She knew it was empty. She not only put back an empty carton, but she knew ful wel that it was empty when she offered it. She also knew Sarah wouldn’t take it. It was just for effect. I owe her, big.

Heaven

He owes me so big. Like . . . huge.

Brady

Did she just
kiss
me?

Heaven

I hope he doesn’t think that I
like him
like him. Christ, I don’t even
like
him.

I think I’m going to be fired. If not, then I am definitely one table closer to being fired. The tables at Temple are numbered. Table 23 gets the hex today. Doug, our bartender, wishes “ass cancer” on rude customers and customers that show up when we have no more customers and are about to close. Then we have to stay open for—at least—an extra hour plus, just for these jackasses—and they always come. So when I tel Doug about Table 23 he walks over and gives them the “ass cancer hex.” I don’t know what it entails because I’ve never seen him do it. But just knowing that he did makes me feel better already.

These two women had a hard-on for me from the minute they sat down, and they’re making my night a living hel . First they yel at me for how long they’ve been sitting there. They claim they’ve been there for fifteen minutes, which is impossible, but since the customer’s always right I just nod, apologize, and offer to take their order. But they continue to berate me for not coming over sooner. I can’t help zoning out and focusing instead on the smal bumps al over this woman’s face. It’s unbelievable. She is like a giant pale gherkin. Final y I say, “Look, I’m here now. So, would you like to order your dinner because I’d
really
like to take your order.” Fake smile. Fake smile.

Plastered-on smile.

And it works. They give me their order. One woman orders a chopped salad with no dressing to start, and they wil share one order of lemongrass chicken. I ring in their order and bring the lady’s salad to her.

“I want a side of blue cheese,” the mouthpiece says.

“Al right,” I say. “I’l go get it for you.” I go and get a side of blue cheese dressing and bring it back to her.

But she gets angry. She huffs and rol s her eyes, and has this look on her face like she smel s something real y bad.

“This isn’t what I wanted. I was here before and they brought me dry crumbled blue cheese. I don’t want just plain old blue cheese dressing.” I guess I had my mind-reader turned off. Shame on me.

“Okay then. I’l go get you the dry blue cheese.” I go back to the kitchen, get her a side of dry blue cheese, and bring it to her.

“I need the oil and vinegar that comes on the salad.”

“Okay,” I say, and I go get her a side of our vinaigrette.

I return with the vinaigrette, place it on the table, turn to walk away, and I’m stopped short. This lady has grabbed onto my shirt. “This is not what I asked for!”

she yel s. “I asked for oil and vinegar. I wanted separate containers of oil and vinegar. Not this. This is mixed. I don’t eat oil!”

“So what you wanted was vinegar.”

“Yes.”

“My apologies,” I say with al of the warmth and affection of Joan Crawford. “When you said you wanted the vinaigrette I understood that to mean you wanted the dressing that normal y comes with this salad. Which is what you asked for. Next time you just want vinegar, perhaps you can just ask for vinegar. I’l go get you the vinegar.”

“We also need plates. We’re sharing this salad.

Can’t you
see
that? We need plates to share,” she says as I go right around the corner and grab the vinegar for her. When I hand it to her, she looks like she’s going to explode.

“Where are the plates?” she blasts out like a trumpet.

“Ma’am” (and when I say
Ma’am,
I mean
you stupid
whore
), “the vinegar was closer, and it seemed to be your most immediate concern. I was just going to go and fetch you some plates as soon as you were satisfied with your vinegar.”

“And you didn’t bring us a serving spoon to serve the salad.”

“No, I didn’t. Salads don’t come with serving spoons.”

“Wel ,” she says, “if you were a good waitress you would have brought one.”

“Wel , I’m not. So this is what you got.”

“I’d like to see the manager.” Shit. Saw that coming.

But I can take only so much. I tel Jean Paul that the customer has a complaint. He takes his sweet time going over to their table, which does my heart good.

I hear her complaining about me, spitting nails, and when he obsequiously asks if there’s anything else he can do, she says, “Wel , you can have that girl bring me a cup of decaf.” This is one of the times I’m happy about our Magic Coffee.

We have something I like to cal “Magic Coffee” at our restaurant. Here’s what it is: plain old run-of-the-mil coffee. And it’s not good. Management knows it’s not good, and they like it that way. Why? Because if it
was
good, people would stay and enjoy a second or third cup. Coffee doesn’t cost anything, and they want to turn tables and make money on new customers. So they make sure it’s bad, so people have their one cup and get out.

But the reason it’s cal ed Magic Coffee is because we have no decaf in the restaurant. None. Never have, never wil . If someone wants decaf, we imagine it’s decaf and suddenly, POOF, it’s decaf. At least as far as they are concerned. This is immoral, you might think. And yes, it is. But they don’t care. When I first started working here I was shocked. And concerned. I happen to be one of those people who cannot have regular coffee after a certain hour. It wil keep me up al night. If I were the person being duped into drinking ful y caffeinated coffee, I’d be livid. But worse, what if it’s some old person with a heart condition. I mean, it’s
dangerous.
Yet they don’t care.

Personal y, I don’t serve it. That’s how my conscience deals with it. As a server, I take the food and drink orders and deliver the food and drinks.

That’s it. After they’ve eaten dinner, the busboy takes the coffee and dessert order, delivers it, and
lies.

They’l often ask, “Which one is the decaf?” And the busser wil say, “This one,” and go so far as to point one out so they’re reassured. It’s al very sneaky. But I’m not involved in that part. I’m not the one lying. So I deal with it.

Meanwhile, al of this time running back and forth has caused me to ignore a couple at another table.

The two of them also ordered salads with blue cheese dressing. He’s nearly finished, but her plate is barely touched. A ful glob of blue cheese is sitting right on top. I go over.

“I don’t like this dressing,” she says. “I’m done.”

“Al right,” I say. “Let me get that out of your way.” I reach down and pick up her plate, but as soon as I lift it, it slips from my hand, which has oil on it from stupid Table 23. I try to catch it, but my effort only makes matters worse, and I end up essential y hurling the salad right onto her. Al over her blouse. Al over her skirt. A renegade piece of lettuce in her hair. Blue cheese everywhere. What is it with fucking blue cheese?

I’m just as shocked as she is. We’re both stunned and silent for a minute. Then:

“I guess you
really
hate that dressing now, huh?” I say. I mean, what do you fucking say? This is a nightmare. This is seriously a nightmare. I wouldn’t be surprised at al if I woke up right now and cal ed Sydney to tel her about it. But I don’t wake up.

Because I’m awake. And this hel is just another night at my workplace.

Amazingly, I don’t get fired. Not yet, at least. The couple’s meal is comped, and they’l send us the dry-cleaning bil . And that woman . . . probably put the

“ass cancer hex” on
me
!

Back at Table 23, Pickle-face has devoured her

“decaf.” Knowing that she’l be up al night with the jitters because of it, I actual y feel good about our Magic Coffee. So much so, I even personal y deliver a refil after I’ve closed out her check. Yeah, I know it’s wrong. I’l live with it.

On my way home, I’m listening to The Clash on my iPod and I see a dog tied to a street sign. He’s scruffy and adorable, and he looks cold. I need to get home and take a bath, but I don’t want to just leave this mutt tied up there alone. I look at his col ar and there are no ID tags. I can’t have a dog. A dog is a lot of responsibility. I can barely take care of myself. And God help me if I get near any blue cheese dressing. I pet him and start on my way home again.

I don’t even get two blocks away before I turn around and go back to check on him. I just want to make sure he’s okay. Was he even a
he
? I walk into the Ray’s Pizza—one of about a thousand Ray’s Pizzas in New York that claim to be the “Original Ray’s.”

So I ask the guy behind the counter if that dog has been tied up to the pole long.

“Depends,” he says. “Is four hours long?”

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “The poor thing’s got to be freezing.”

“I see it al the time. People don’t want their dog anymore, and they leave it at a dog run or tie it to a pole.”

“People are assholes,” I say. He nods and sort of chuckles.

“Yeah, and they hope a sucker like you wil take pity on the thing and give it a home.”

“Ugh!” I groan and walk outside to check on him.

When I get there he starts wagging his tail like he knows me. You don’t know me, stupid dog! Don’t wag your tail at me. And then he smiles. I swear to God, the fucking dog smiles at me. I wil not take this dog home. I am not going to become a dog owner. There
is
a sucker that wil take pity on this dog, but that sucker is not me. I need a long bath. I need to wash this day off me, and I do not need a dog.

I have a dog in my apartment. He’s clumsy and adorable, and I’m cal ing him Strummer, after the recently departed Joe Strummer. Plus, he seems to like The Clash, too.

I sit at my desk and check my e-mail and my CNN

home page announces that the “Condom in Soup Lawsuit Is Settled.” You better believe I click on
that
link. Turns out this California-based seafood chain, McCormick and Shmick, settled a lawsuit with a woman who found a condom in her clam chowder.

The woman also claimed she was treated rudely by the waiter, whom she’d asked to take her soup back to be reheated. When she began to eat the soup she encountered a chewy, rubbery object, which she first thought was calamari or shrimp. She spat the offending object into her napkin and, lo and behold, discovered it was a rol ed-up condom.