Stupid and Contagious (14 page)

“Maybe you
do
have a fever,” he says and reaches out for my forehead.

“No, man. Maybe I’ve just final y hit on the path to my destiny.” I play with the skul ring I’m wearing, my homage to Keith Richards. Zach looks long and hard homage to Keith Richards. Zach looks long and hard at me.

“Dude, I hate to say it, but you are one bad career move away from working at the Guitar Center.”

“Fuck you,” I say and cringe inside because he’s total y fucking spot on.

“I’ve gotta get up there,” he says. “If I don’t go wrangle some more people, the Jersey boys wil take over and it’l be a medley of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’

‘American Pie,’ and ‘Margaritavil e.’”

“We can’t have that.”

“No, we certainly can’t.” He gets up and takes over the mic. I stick around for a few more songs, then walk home.

The next night I’m passing by Heaven’s door, and I almost knock. But I don’t. I decide to go back to my door. Fuck it. Who needs the hassle? Then I go back to her door. I stand there for a moment and then laugh to myself. Because I’m
knock knock knockin’ on
Heaven’s door.
I pul my shirt over my face so I won’t breathe her germs. She answers in a mask. A green facial mask. No shame whatsoever.

“Hi,” I say.

“What are you doing? Why are you burying your face?”

“I just had to make sure. You were kidding about the mono thing, right?”

“No,” she says with the best poker face I’ve ever seen. Then adds, “Of course I was kidding, you doughnut.”

I expose my face. “I knew that. I just had to make sure. And what’s with this retarded thing? Why did you and everyone you know think I’m retarded?”

“Whether you are or not is stil debatable.”

“Seriously, what’s the deal?”

“It’s a long story,” she says. “And it’s time for me to remove my mask. I have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“It’s a good look, by the way.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good night, Brady.”

“Good night, Heaven.” Where is she going?

Heaven

Why is he stil standing there?

Brady

“Where are you going?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.

“I’m going out with my vet.”

“You have a vet?”

“Yes,” she says.

“You just got a dog. Like yesterday.”

“And I got a vet. Like today.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I needed to get Strummer checked out, so I took him to a vet.”

“And now you’re going on a date . . . with your vet?”

“It’s not a date,” she says as though she believes her own bul shit.

“It is
so
a date.”

“It’s a platonic date. He’s new in town. Just started his practice. He needs friends.”

“Right.” You’ve gotta hand it to the guy. Playing the

“new in town” card. I’ve done it myself, but coupled with the great humanitarian angle of a veterinary career . . . that’s a tour de force. “So this is going to be your boyfriend? A vet.”

“He’s not going to be my boyfriend.”

“Wel , at least you’l have al your shots,” I say, feeling pretty good about the line.

“Cute.” See?

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. We’re meeting downstairs.”

“This is such a date. I’l bet he’s getting groomed right now.”

“Funny,” she says. “I’l give you a dol ar if you stop saying it’s a date. It’s annoying.”

“You can keep your dol ar.”

“Good, because I’m short on cash.”

“That’s okay. Vets make good money.”

“They do?” she innocently asks.

“Think about how much you paid. Unless he didn’t charge you.”

“If he doesn’t charge every hot girl that walks in there, he’s not going to make a very good living.”

“I’m glad you realize you’re hot.”

“Hey—I got charged,” she says defensively.

“Now
that’s
funny.”

“Can I go now?” she says, making a little fist and digging it into her thigh.

“Who’s stopping you?”

“Good night, Brady. Again.”

“Good night, Heaven. Again.”

Heaven

I go downstairs and wait for Chris, my vet. I guess Brady was sort of right about it being a date. But I wasn’t real y looking at it that way. He
is
kind of cute and I
d o
admire what he does for a living, but I genuinely just want to show him around. It’s hard to move to a new city and try to start a life and make friends.

I mean . . .
should
I consider this a date? The first time I met Chris, the majority of our conversation involved ringworm. We determined Strummer’s probable age and his likely place of birth, and we clearly established that he’d never been to Asia and therefore had a zero percent chance of having contracted a Malaysian bird flu. And
then
he chased me out onto the sidewalk to make sure I’d taken my complimentary pen. And
then
. . . he asked me if I

“know of a good place to eat, in your neighborhood, that you wouldn’t mind eating at, possibly with me.”

I’ve never understood why guys have to wait until the elevator doors are almost closed before blurting out some awkwardly phrased solicitation for your company. Go ahead and ask! I’l probably say no . . .

but at least we won’t have wasted the time. Dating is like pushing your tray along in a cafeteria. Nothing looks good, but you know you have to pick something by the time you reach the cashier.

Chris shows up in khakis and a sweater, and in that instant it becomes no longer a date. I’m sorry. Cal it what you wil , but I hate khakis. It’s the weekend uniform of the uninitiated. I don’t like to stereotype people, I real y don’t. But I’m just not interested in the khaki armada. I don’t worship Dave Matthews, and I never play Hacky Sack or Rol erblade. This is not my husband.

I take Chris downtown, and we hit this tiny sushi restaurant that hasn’t yet been discovered by the masses. The women that work in this place al wear these geisha getups. They look so uncomfortable that it’s almost uncomfortable to watch them. And they have these weird-looking packs strapped to their backs, and I have no idea what they’re for. If it’s for fashion . . . somebody needs to clue them in.

Chris is sweet and genuine. He tel s me about the time when he was eleven and a half years old and his doctor asked him if he was sexual y active. He said yes because he wanted to look cool, and then had to sit through an embarrassing forty-five-minute lecture on safe sex and how to properly use condoms.

After dinner we walk around the Lower East Side, and I show him some of the
cool
places to go and some places he’d be wise to avoid—like the Third Street block governed by the Hel s Angels. Then I take him to this cozy little tea shop that I love, and we sit and drink chocolate mint tea.

I begin to wonder if Chris thinks this is a date. The clues: The pointless chair reposition, so now he’s a little closer but no longer facing me. The arm touch—

I’ve counted two, and I swear if I say anything else even mildly funny, he’l use the opportunity to make it three. I begin to feel nervous. Not real y nervous, but guilty. I hate that awkward thing when one person doesn’t feel the same way about the other. I know what I’l do . . . I’l fix him up with Sydney.

And just then, my suspicion is rewarded. He leans in, his face centimeters from mine, and tries to kiss me. I pul back and put my hands up like one of the Supremes. Stop, in the name of . . . whatever this is.

“Whoa.”

“Not okay?” he asks, face stil directly in my face.

It’s now not centimeters away, but stil inches from mine, and
way
too close.

“Wel . . . I just thought—I don’t know. I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Friends kiss,” he says.

“They do.” Like hel o and good-bye! “But I real y need a good vet.” And you’re wearing khakis.

“And you’ve
got
a good vet.”

“But if this doesn’t work out, then I’l be out a vet.

And a good vet is hard to find. You come highly recommended.” And you’re wearing khakis.

“I think the phrase is, a good
man
is hard to find.

Probably harder to find than a good vet. And if it’l help, I can get recommendations from some of my exes.”

“I’m sure they’d be thril ed to do that.”

“I real y like you,” he says. “I mean, I don’t
know
you.

But I thought we clicked today.”

“I like you too.” God, I hate this.

“Not gonna happen, huh?”

“Sorry . . .” I say.

And now comes the awkward silence. I hate this part, too. And while we’re sitting there in awkward silence, I start to think about Brady. God knows why, but I do. I think Brady was jealous about my going out with Chris. At the time I thought he was just being his usual annoying self, but now that I think about it, he was definitely jealous.

When I get home, Brady’s Pottery Barn catalog is under my door. The one I generously let him keep in exchange for keeping his Victoria’s Secret catalog.

There are a few pages earmarked, and when I turn to those pages there are Post-its with question marks on them. I think he’s asking my opinion. Does he have no friends? Are
we
friends now? And no, he cannot get that stupid fake antique phone. I can’t believe he’s even
thinking
about it. I skim through the catalog and look at what else he’s picked out. It’s not the worst stuff, I guess.

I’m tempted to knock on his door and give him my opinion, but I’l wait until tomorrow. Let him sweat it out, not knowing when I came home from my non-date, which he thinks was a date—and which Chris thought was a date, too. Apparently, I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.

The truth is, Chris is a good-looking guy. He’s smart and funny, and a doctor. I’d probably go out with him any day of the week at any other time. But if I’m real y going to be honest, I guess I’m stil hurt. Not hurt, but a little gun-shy. I haven’t had the best luck in love, which we’ve never gotten into and don’t need to. And khakis had nothing to do with it. I think I’m scared.

Which is extremely inconvenient because, as I’ve already told you, I need to be married in . . . wel ,
now
in only fourteen months. Ugh.

When I get to work, I’m informed Bruce and Jean Paul want to meet with me. Just the three of us. Which usual y means bad news. When I find out they want me to come in early tomorrow for this meeting, I’m sure—it’s
definitely
bad news. Okay, fine. But as angry as they are, I’m pissed now, too. That I have to come in an hour early just to get bad news. Fuck that.

It’s
my
spare time. My
free
time. My time away from this
hellhole.
And for added enjoyment, I get to dread this meeting for al of tonight.

I see Marco in the kitchen putting the bread baskets together. I walk over to him and make a face.

“What is this face for?” he asks.

“I think I’m getting fired,” I say.

“I think perhaps, too.”

“Real y?” I say, now completely freaking out. I thought maybe they’d at least give me a
warning
first.

“Why do you think you are getting fired?”

“Because Jean Paul and Bruce want to meet with me. In the morning. Why? What did
you
hear?”

“They don’t tel me anything,” he says. And he squeezes the bread to check it for freshness.

“You must know something. You agreed with me when I said I thought I was getting fired!”

“I know that Bruce has spoken of your many conflicts with the customers. It seems you have had several conflicts, yes? Many scandals?” I guess by conflicts, he means problems. Which is close, I guess.

Maybe that’s even a better way of describing it. I’d just say my customers are assholes who want to feel superior, so they treat me like crap, but yes, I guess I have “conflicts” with them.

“Yeah, I
have
had a few,” I say and sort of laugh.

Then that seems stupid, so I stop.

“Don’t let the customers make you nervous and col apsed,” he says. Marco says “col apsed” instead of “upset.” I’ve tried to teach him, but he hasn’t gotten it yet.

“Upset . . . angry,” I say. “Not col apsed and nervous.”

“Yes. Angry. Mad. Don’t let these customers get you mad.”

“I try.” Then I sigh. “I’m not a waitress, Marco,” I say.

It’s the first time I’ve said this out loud. It freaks me out because, yes, I’m not a waitress—so maybe that makes my behavior okay . . . sort of. But real y because . . . I
am
a waitress. This is what I do. For now I am a fucking waitress. It’s the only thing that’s paying my bil s. Without this, my nest egg would be scrambled in no time. And as much as I don’t want to admit it . . . it’s the cold, hard truth. Maybe I need to shape up and try harder not to fuck up. It’s not a question of skil , real y. It’s basical y an attitude adjustment. Or
maybe
it’s time to quit procrastinating on what I’ve wanted to do since the moment S&M PR

showed me how
not
to run a PR agency—start and run one of my own. That’s the one good thing that came out of that job, I guess. They taught me that I don’t want to work for corporate America anymore.

And I sure as hel don’t want this either.

“I know you are not a waitress,” Marco says. “This is why I like you. I don’t like a woman who can carry more plates than me.”