Stupid and Contagious (13 page)

Now, I know this is truly disgusting. It is. But knowing what I know, waiting tables and dealing with asshole customers, I find this story gives me pause. I have to wonder what the woman
really
did to her waiter. How badly did she treat him? And it also begs the question, “Was this waiter actual y practicing safe soup sex?” Perhaps the waiter thought he was doing a service by wearing a condom when he stuck his dick in her soup. How many times does a dick end up in a bowl of clam chowder without a condom?

Personal y, if anyone is fucking my soup, I’d prefer they do wear a condom, but that’s just me. And I don’t like clam chowder anyway.

Classic crisis-management opportunity in
my
mind.

There’s got to be a way to turn that bad PR into something good. Wel . . . it’s actual y a bit of a chal enge . . . their
sticky
situation. They could always see the humor in it and make fun of themselves. They could put right on the menu, “Our chowder is condom free.” Or do a month-long Seamen Celebration: free clam chowder with any entrée. But I’l tel you this—if they were paying me, I’d have chowder sales back up and rock solid in no time.

I cal Sydney and tel her to come over. I tel her I have someone here that she needs to meet. She whines that it’s too cold, but she comes anyway.

It takes her an hour to get here, even though she lives only three blocks away. She got al dol ed up thinking it was a guy that I wanted to introduce her to.

And it is. But this particular little guy has four legs.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“He was homeless. Some idiot just left him tied to a pole.”

“Oh, Heaven.”

“I know. But I couldn’t leave him there. Anyway, he’s here now and he’s mine. And you’re an aunt. So say hel o to Strummer.”

hel o to Strummer.”

“Strummer?” she says, not getting it.

“Strummer.”

“Like strumming a guitar?”

“Yes, but it’s actual y after Joe Strummer.”

“I don’t know who that is,” she says.

“Blaspheme!”

“Is this one of your hip musical references?”

“Hardly. But it’s okay. Anyone who enjoys the
Blue
Crush
soundtrack as much as you is exempt from knowing who Joe Strummer was.”

“Whatever,” she says. “It’s a real y good soundtrack.”

“I know you think so, sweetie.”

“You have a dog.”

“This is my point.”

“Wel , I don’t know what to say.” She squinches up her face. “Congratulations?”

“Thank you.” Strummer walks over to me and rests his head on my knee. It’s quite possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. It is in this instant that not only is my taking him home validated, but I decide that I love him.

Love is pretty much a decision anyway. Just like happiness. You can decide to either love someone or not, be happy or not. The rest is just commitment to the idea. I am now committed to this dog.

“I think I’m pregnant,” Sydney says.

“You’re not.”

“I’m late.”

“You’re late every month,” I say. And it’s actual y not true that she’s late every month. Just that she says it.

“Wel , I don’t have unprotected sex five times in one night every month.”

“With a stranger, you forgot to mention.”

“I knew him,” she says defensively. “I met him once.

A year ago. But thanks for making me feel better.”

“Sorry, but you stil should have used a condom.”

“We meant to.”

“Wel , you’re not pregnant,” I say. “I know because you’ve been in a very bad mood al week, which means you’re clearly PMS-ing.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “What’s going on with
you
? You haven’t had sex in a while.”

“I haven’t had a
date
in a while. No dates equals no sex.”

“Not true,” she says.

“For me, it’s true.” Sometimes I wish I could be the kind of person who has one-night stands, and instead of feeling guilty about it feels empowered by it. But I’m not. That’s Sydney’s role. I just can’t do it.

There’s a knock at my door. Sydney looks at me funny.

“You expecting someone?” she says.

“No, but it’s probably Brady.”

“Who’s Brady?”

“My neighbor.” I open the door, and it is indeed Brady.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say back. Strummer runs to the door, and Brady starts to pet him.

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I didn’t. Just got him.”

“What’s his name?” Brady says.

“Strummer.”

“Cool. After Joe?”

“You got it.”

“Wow.” He smiles. “Good name.”

“Ahem,” Sydney says.

“Sorry,” I say. “This is Brady. My neighbor.”

“The retarded one?” Sydney asks before I can stuff a pair of thick woolen socks in her pie-hole.

“What is it with this
retarded
thing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “So, what’s up?”

“I just wanted to say thanks. You know. For what you did. With Sarah. It was real y cool.” After a moment he walks to the elevator and presses the cal button.

“You’re welcome. She’s a real peach, that one.”

The elevator comes and he gets in.

“Yeah. No kidding. Anyway, I’m on my way out. I just had to tel you that what you did . . . was perfect. And that kiss. Nice touch,” he says as the elevator doors start to close.

“No problem,” I say. And just as the doors shut I add, “By the way, I have mono.”

“It’s real y human of you to listen to al my bul shit.”

—
Samantha Baker,
Sixteen Candles

“ You aren’t dying, you just can’t think of anything better to do.”

—
Ferris Buel er,
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
Brady

I know she’s kidding. She better be kidding. She
is
kidding. I know it.

I feel a tickle in my throat. I swear to God, I do. I hate her.

I’ve cal ed just about every dairy company and none of them want to hear my idea. This morning I cal ed Knudsen. Who transferred me to Santee Dairy. I told them I needed to speak to someone about a new product idea. They said the person I need to get in touch with is a Lydia somebody. So I cal ed this Lydia.

She directed me to their Web site, and suggested that I click on the link to their customer comments section and leave my comment there.

I don’t have a fucking
comment.
I have a mil ion-dol ar idea. Don’t they get this? I explain to Lydia I don’t want to just submit my idea at random. What I am offering is a business proposition, and I’d want to be involved. She stutters a bit and puts me on hold.

When she comes back she informs me that she doesn’t think she can accommodate me with what I am looking for.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because we don’t do partnerships,” she answers.

“This is a real y good idea, Lydia,” I say, thinking that using her name wil somehow help matters. I think I can feel her caving a little bit. But not enough.

“I’m sorry. I real y don’t think I can help you.”

“Fine,” I say. I’m tempted to add, “But don’t come crying to me when this thing goes double-platinum.”

But I don’t.

I need a cup of coffee. Lucky for me there’s a Starbucks on my corner. In fact, there’s a Starbucks on just about every corner in Manhattan. I know what on just about every corner in Manhattan. I know what you’re thinking, but I like my coffee to be consistent, and Starbucks is nothing if not consistent. Plus, they filter their water. I won’t make coffee from my tap at home. I know they say New York water is the best water, but who
really
knows? Maybe the water is clean, but the pipes are nasty. There are al kinds of good minerals, bad minerals, too many minerals, chemicals

in

some

cases,

contaminants,

carcinogens, and wel . . . cancer-flavored coffee tends to taste bad.

And this just in . . . it was recently on the news that Orthodox Jews can’t drink water from the tap because there are shel fish in the water, which makes it not
kosher.
For those who don’t know, kosher is only kosher because it passes a rigorous inspection test.

Since my body is made up of like 80 percent water, I’m gonna make sure it’s the purest form of water known to mankind. If that means kosher water fits the bil . . . that’s what I’m going for. And I’m not even
Jewish.
But if something that goes into my body as frequently as water does can’t even pass a
kosher
test . . . I ain’t drinkin’ it.

So I’m standing in line deciding. That seems to be a big part of the experience. Decisions: Cappuccino or Frappuccino? Tal or Grande? Or Venti? And then there’s the fixins: Whole milk or skim? Chocolate or vanil a? Nutmeg or
cinnamon
? Then it hits me.
This
place is the answer.
I need to get in touch with Starbucks. This would be a great market for Cinnamilk. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I even read the book
Pour Your Heart into It: How
Starbucks Built a Company One Cup at a Time
by Howard Schultz. He’s the guy who founded Starbucks.

He needs to hear from me. And he wil . I’m cal ing him as soon as I get home.

Not as easy as I thought. Al I can get is the customer service line. Can you believe that the phone number is 1-800-23LATTE? How precious. I tel the woman I need the headquarters and she tel s me that I’ve
reached
the headquarters.

“Are you in Seattle?” I ask.

“Yes, I am.”

“Wel , I need to speak to Mr. Schultz.”

“Regarding?”

“Regarding a business idea.”

“Do you have a proposal written up?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“Then I can give you the address that you should mail it to, and someone wil get back to you if they are interested.” This is, basical y, the same as the questions/comments link on a Web site. But I’l get the address at least.

“Fine,” I say. “What’s the address?”

“P.O. Box—”

“Wait—it’s a P.O. box? That’s not an address.

That’s not where Howard Schultz is.”

“That’s where al proposals go,” she says.

“And to whose attention do I put it to?”

“Just to the P.O. box.”

“Perfect,” I say. My sarcasm is lost on her.

“Okay. The address is P.O. Box 3717-L-UE1, Seattle, Washington 98124-3713.”

“Excel ent.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” I say. You haven’t helped me at al . What do you mean anything
else
? Of course I don’t say this
out
loud.
I just hang up.

I walk into the bar. Zach’s on the mic emceeing. The kid real y is smooth. His stage presence is like a get-laid guarantee. It’s the equivalent of a fat bank account or Brad Pitt looks. If he wasn’t my best friend, I’d hate him.

They’re al warmed up, and he turns the mic over to three girls who are doing “Summer Nights” from
Grease.
Not only the most overdone song, but it’s a duet. For a man and a woman. Not three girls. But that’s not my problem.

“Let me ask you something,” Zach says. “Why is it that every time a girl says the phrase ‘I’l try anything once,’ I always think she’s talking about anal?”

“Because you’re a twisted fuck. But I admit, my mind tends to wander there, too. There are actual y
two
things that my mind goes to . . . anal, and having another girl join in. I think they do it on purpose.”

“Shit, yeah.”

Al of a sudden I think about Heaven, and I swear my glands feel swol en. No, I wasn’t thinking about anal sex with her. Although, now that it’s on the table, I guess I am. But not because I
want
to. Because the last person I want to have anal sex with is Heaven. Or any kind of sex. I think I have a fever. She better not fucking have mono.

“Do I have a fever?” I ask Zach.

“No,” he says.

“You didn’t even feel my forehead.” He reluctantly feels my forehead.

“No, you don’t.”

“Phew,” I say. But I’m stil convinced I can feel something coming on. I pound a shot of whiskey, and al of a sudden it hits me. I know what I need to do.

“Do you want to go to Seattle?” I ask Zach.

“I thought you’re supposed to be in Florida.”

“No, I mean for real.”

“Grunge is dead, dude,” he says. “It died with Kurt.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to Seattle. You wanna come? I could use the company.”

“No, I don’t.” He’s serious. And he’s rarely serious.

“What the hel ’s in Seattle?”

“Howard Schultz.”

“Who is?”

“The founder of Starbucks,” I tel him.

“And you want to go see him . . . why?”

“Because sitting on my ass, looking milk companies up online, and then cal ing them and talking to idiot secretaries is getting me nowhere. I need face time.”

“Why him?”

“Why not him?” I ask. “He took fucking coffee and made it an event. The guy, bless his heart, has made it okay to charge five dol ars for a cup of fucking coffee.”

“Mine’s four-sixty,” Zach says.

“People used to go to coffee shops to get a cup of coffee. Not some exotic trendy milkshake. He’s revolutionized a bean—a sil y little bean—and made bil ions. Not to mention the freedom of expression he’s created.”

“Huh?”

“People are sheep. Consumers. They eat and drink what you put in front of them. But this guy Schultz . . .

he’s given them their one shot at individuality. With al the many ways they can order their latte . . . decaf, extra hot, no foam, breve, soy milk . . . he’s provided the people with one way to stand out and define themselves. And I’m here to offer a new choice for their coffee:
Cinnamilk.
I think Howard may be the only person who wil listen to me. But I need to meet with him
. . . in person.
”