Stupid and Contagious (15 page)

I smile. “It’s not just how many plates I can carry. It’s a mentality thing,” I say, not sure if I’m talking above his level of understanding.

“I know this, too. I understand you, Heaven. Better than you think,” he says. I adore him. Not in a want-to-throw-him-up-against-the-refrigerator-and-have-crazy-sex-with-him way . . . but in a sweet way. He’s one of the good ones. I know he can tel what I’m thinking because he says, “Who is your favorite Albanian?”

“You are,” I say, and I give him a squeeze.

“Yes,” he says. “But unfortunately I don’t have any competition.”

“Marco, if everyone who worked in this place was Albanian, I promise you—you’d stil be my favorite.”

He smiles, which shows off his missing tooth. It’s not right in the front, but on the side. He’s quite a vision with the eye patch and the missing tooth, but it just makes him that much more lovable.

“Albania . . . it sucks. We have nothing,” he says.

“Even Bulgaria won an Olympic medal, but it was stupid.”

“Why was it stupid?”

“Because it was for weight lifting. And then they got kicked out for drugs. I don’t understand this weight lifting. It is stupid sport. Why do people watch this? To see one man pick up a piece of metal? This is not very interesting to me.”

“You have a point there, Marco.” I laugh.

There’s an older man sitting by himself, eating Canh Chua soup, and he clears his throat. He does it again.

And then once again, with more effort.

The next thing I know, Marco lifts the man out of his seat and starts to shake him. He gets behind him and starts to do the Heimlich maneuver. I’m stunned, as is everyone else. No one is as stunned as the poor man, though.

Marco’s now standing behind him, his hands together in a fist, which he is hurling into the man’s stomach. He’s literal y lifting him off the ground with each hurl. Tossing the man around like a rag dol . The man is actual y trying to speak, in between each punch to his gut.

“What . . . [punch] are . . . [punch] you . . . [punch]

doing? [punch]”

“I am saving your life,” Marco says. “I have had extensive training in Albania for just this thing!” he announces, heaving his doubled fist once again into the man.

“I . . . [punch] don’t . . . [punch] need . . . [punch] the Heimlich!” the man says.

“Marco!” I say. “The man can speak! If he can actual y say
Heimlich,
he doesn’t need it!”

Marco puts the man down and looks at him. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“No!” says the man. “I was just clearing my throat and you beat the living crap out of me!” Marco looks like he’s going to cry.

“We are incredibly sorry, sir,” Bruce says. “Our busboy is new to the country. He’s very stupid and very sorry.”

“Yes,” Marco says. “I am terribly sorry. I thought perhaps you had one shrimp from the soup there inside of your throat.”

The man throws his napkin onto the table.

“Your lunch is on us,” Bruce offers meekly as the man storms out. Bruce then whirls on Marco. “Don’t
ever
do that again.”

“And if he
was
choking?” Marco asks.

“Let him die!” Bruce yel s and storms out after the old man to do damage control.

I get home and Brady’s blasting music so loud I can hear it while I’m stil in the elevator. I get out and go straight to his door. He’s listening to Massive Attack. I bang on his door. No answer. I bang again. Nothing. I should know by the choice of music that maybe I shouldn’t just barge in, but the door is slightly open.

So, I think,
Fuck it.
I go in.

A nd
fuck it
is exactly what I walk in on. Brady is fucking
it
—that monster of an ex-girlfriend of his.

She’s on top, riding him like a cowgirl. In the middle of his living room. On the floor. I should, of course, turn and leave immediately, but I’m so shocked that I actual y stay and watch for a second. Literal y a second. Which is al it takes before Psycho-girl sees me, and the next thing I know Brady is howling in pain and I am out the door.

Brady

Sarah shows up at my apartment in those wrap-around-the-ankle, al -the-way-up-to-the-knee, fuck-me heels and . . . what do you want me to say? You’ve seen those shoes.

Honestly, I wasn’t even going to go there, but she had this take-charge thing going on and just pushed me down onto the floor and began having her way with me. Believe me, she’d have preferred a bed with 800-thread-count sheets, but we were on the floor because I stil have no furniture.

Sarah was never al that adventurous in the bedroom and rarely spent time on top. This time was definitely an adventure. I think, partly because she’s trying to win me back, and partly because, as I said, we were on the floor—and she’d be damned if she’d be on the bottom.

So there she is, putting on quite a performance.

Touching herself to try and get me hotter as she rides me into my hardwood floors. I should real y get an area rug. Anyway, she starts real y getting into it.

She’s thrusting up and down, up and down, harder and harder. You know how it is when girls real y start going at it. That kind of raw, animalistic, your-cock-means-more-to-me-than-chocolate-or-even-diamonds-right-now kind of way. First off, forget about the twinges of pain in places I don’t need to have pain, but there’s always that chance she goes up too high—and it pops out. And then she comes crashing down on you. Down comes a hundred-and-twenty-pound bag of flour onto your cock. It’s like running into a wal at top speed with a hard-on. It fucking kil s.

People don’t talk about it, but I think most guys are terrified of this happening.

But she’s off . . . going higher and higher. Al I can think is: Please don’t go up and down so hard, please don’t go so high, please for the love of God be careful. Shit, I wonder if it can break. I mean, I know there are no bones in a boner . . . but as hard as it is, maybe it can snap. And man, would that hurt.

And just as I’m picturing my dick snapping in two, Heaven comes prancing into my fucking apartment, and every single one of my fears are realized. Sarah sees her, which throws her off her game. I pop out, she comes crashing down, and bones or no bones . .

. I think she broke my dick.

Sarah is gone, I am sitting on the floor with a bag of frozen peas on my dick, and I want to cry. Then
she
knocks on my door.

“Go away!” I yel .

“Can I come in?” Heaven asks.

“No,” I yel again. And then it gets quiet. I think for once she’s listened to me. Maybe she’s gone back into her lair.

“Captain Kangaroo died,” she yel s through the door.

“I never liked him anyway,” I yel back. “Him and his freak-of-nature walrus mustache.”

“That’s not very nice,” she says.

“I’m not a nice person,” I say. “Look, can you come back another time? What you did—you have no idea what you did,” I say. I look at the quickly thawing bag of peas and wonder if I should actual y see a doctor.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

And then she’s quiet again. Peace. I start to draw a glass of milk. I’m going to make a presentation to show Schultz when I get there, and I think a mock-up is a good idea.

“Did you know that the host of
Romper Room
got mugged last week?” she now yel s. “She did. And they stole her mirror. The one she’d look in and say who she saw. She never saw me. I used to wait for her to say my name. She never did. I used to cry when it ended because she’d never see me. ‘I see Tommy and Mary . . . and Lucy . . . and Kevin . . .’”

I can’t take it any longer. She’s not going to fucking shut up.

“‘And Karen . . . and Lisa . . .’”

So I get up and open the door.

“What do you want?”

“They stole her
mirror
!” she says. “The muggers.”

“Okay. They mugged the
Romper Room
lady and Captain Kangaroo is dead. I hear you. I understand.

Bad week for kids’ TV. Too bad Mr. Rogers died last year. Could have had a hat trick. Does this conclude your morbid update of children’s TV hosts of yesteryear?”

She looks at the bag of peas in my hand.

“Cooking?”

“No.”

“Look—I’m sorry about before. Your door was open.”

“That doesn’t mean
come in,
” I say. “It means I—or someone else—didn’t close it properly.”

“Someone else like Sarah? That
was
Sarah your crazy ex, right?”

“Yes, it was Sarah.”

“Guess you two are on better terms today,” she says.

“What do you
want
? What did you want when you came barging into my fucking apartment?” I say, waving my arm for effect. And then,
smack,
I end up hitting myself in the crotch with the bag of peas.

“Fuck!” I yel .

“What is
wrong
with you?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, one whole octave higher.

“Seriously, are you okay?”

“I would be if you’d leave me alone.”

She pauses. “I only came back because I heard her leave.”

“And?”

“I was going to give you my opinion on the stuff in the catalog. The Pottery Barn.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“Then why did you shove it under my door?” she says.

“Because . . . God, you are annoying! Can you just leave it alone? I don’t want to talk about the fucking Pottery Barn right now.”

“You’re very hostile,” she observes. “Is this a side effect of that herbal stuff you take when you want to have sex with Sarah? Who you supposedly hate?

Funny way of showing it, by the way.”

“We’re done here,” I say, starting to close the door.

“Fine,” she snaps. I slam the door in her face. Hard.

I’m fuming. I stand there for a minute, then open the door again.

“It’s yohimbe,” I cal out. “I don’t take it regularly. I haven’t taken it in months, in fact. And not that it’s any of your business, but right now I wish I
d i d
have problems getting it up. If I’d been
Mr. Softy
today when you came barging in, I wouldn’t be in the massive pain I’m in right now. But I wasn’t soft. I was hard as steel, baby! And it was al
natural.
” But . . .

she doesn’t respond. I peek my head out, and she’s not there. But our other neighbor is. This fat Polish nanny who watches the kids across the hal . She looks somewhat shocked and not even a little bit amused. She shakes her head in disgust, and I meekly smile at her and then duck back into my apartment. I hate Heaven.

I’m back at the office, and Phil wants to know how Florida was. I feel bad. But not bad enough that I don’t spend the first twenty minutes fil ing him in on the elaborate details of my trip.

The truth is, I don’t feel like I did enough to get the bal rol ing on Cinnamilk, but it’s not easy. My buddy Jonas, who’s a graphic artist, offered to make some sample ads for me so I’m looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. Anything remotely professional looking wil further the cause.

“Get any?” Phil asks. Which reminds me that I did get some, and worse, reminds me of the pain in my crotch. I actual y took Advil this morning before leaving for work. It’s not helping.

“I don’t kiss and tel ,” I say.

“You dirty dog. Tel me everything.”

“Nothing to tel .” Except that my dick is now broken.

What do they do to fix it? What
can
they do? Did I real y break it? Is that possible? What’s the cure?

Surely not a cast. Viagra for a week? Keep it hard and in place? I don’t even want to think about the options.

“Fine,” he relents. “I want you to hear this band. I think I found our new saviors.”

“Who are they?”

“Superhero.”

“No,” I say. Honestly, when he said the name, it didn’t even register, I had my “no” cocked and loaded, and would have fired at whatever he said. Such was my state.

“You know them?”

“We don’t need another band with ‘Super’ in the name.

There’s

Supergrass,

Supersuckers,

Supertramp . . . far too many in the universe already.”

“Aside from the name,” he says.

“Superdrag . . . Superchunk . . . Super Furry Animals—”

“Forget the name!”

“What are they like?” I ask. Because the truth is, we real y do need a good band, or we’re going to have to cal it a day with this record company thing.

“Catchy songs, good harmonies, bluesy rock. Three kids from SoCal. Seventeen, seventeen, and the drummer is fifteen. He’s sick. I swear the kid just shreds.”

“Did you just say ‘SoCal’?” I ask, turning to face him in disbelief.

“That’s what they cal it.” He pops in the demo, and surprisingly they’re
really
fucking good. The first song has a great hook. They’ve got this kind of Wilco-esque wit and depth, MC5-ish unrehearsed energy—

the raw impact of the Replacements, the heart of a young Nick Drake, and the soul of the Cure (without the doom). None of that Screamo bul shit that’s been clogging up the airwaves.

“Where’d they come from?” I ask, surprising myself by saying this aloud when I had been dead set against showing Phil even a drop of interest.

“My cousin goes to school with them. Nobody knows them yet. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Can we get them to change their name?”

“Maybe,” he says. “They’re playing next weekend.”