Stupid and Contagious (17 page)

I bring the fish back on the newly decorated plate, and before I can put it down, she tries to take the fish off the plate and put it on the bread plate she used for her spring rol .

“If you just hand me that plate,” I say, “I’l put this one down. There’s more room on it.”

“No,” she says. “If you can manage to simply hold that plate for a minute, I’l just take the fish.”

So I stand like a good monkey and hold her plate.

Once her fish is safely transferred, I take the new plate back to the kitchen and move on to another table.

But I feel the back of my head burning, and I turn around to see the fish woman glaring at me. I walk over and smile.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I say with as much cheer as I can.

“Um . . . yeah! A new
knife
?”

And in her hand she is holding the steak knife. The one that I had temporarily borrowed to stab the renegade fish and put it back on the plate.

She can’t possibly use a knife that I touched—one that has already pierced the flesh of her fish.

“Of course,” I say. And I take the knife from her and return with a new one, held in a white cloth napkin to preserve its current pristine status. I walk away laughing to myself . . . if she only knew the reality of our dishwashers.

For the rest of the night I go out of my way to be kind. I bring them more drinks. And at the end of their dinner I even gather up al the other waiters and bussers and we al sing “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl.

birthday girl.

They tip me just under 5 percent. American dol ars.

But the kicker is, they don’t even have the decency to duck out quickly after doing so. They are not ashamed at al . They walk over to the now-empty bar and stand there having after-dinner drinks, which by the way are on Doug the bartender, because he’s so desperate for a date at this point he’l buy anyone a drink.

So these hags stand there drinking their free drinks. And stay for another half hour. I write on a piece of paper and hold it up so Doug can see: They only tipped me 5%.

Cunts.

At that minute—in the mirror behind the bar—I catch the reflection of one of the women. She is reading what I’ve written.

“ She is the only evidence of God I have seen, with the exception of the mysterious force that removes one sock from the dryer every time I do my laundry.”

—
Kirby,
St. Elmo’s Fire

“ Did you know your foot’s as big as your arm, from your elbow to your wrist?”

—
Vivian,
Pretty Woman

Brady

I’m standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment when a car ful of pretty girls slows down and they do a double take. I look behind me to see if they’re looking at someone else. Nope. Nobody else there. They start to back up. I try to fix my hair without them noticing.

Then one of them rol s down her window and smiles.

“Is that your car?” she asks.

“No, I don’t have a car,” I say. “No” would have sufficed. She doesn’t need to know I don’t have a car.

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “We were hoping we could take your parking spot.” Ouch. Boy, do I feel like an idiot. But they drive off so quickly I don’t have time to think about it much.

I decided to have a poker game at my place tonight. I need a win. I haven’t won a hand of poker in two months, and it’s not because I don’t know how to play.

It’s the deck, I’m sure of it.

Anyway, Phil and Zach are coming over, and Jonas, too. He has new artwork to show me. I’m psyched. I even bought some of those mini-pizzas to commemorate the occasion. The oven is already preheating when there’s a knock at my door.

“
Entrez-vous,
” I say in my best French.

“
Mange a bitte,
” a female voice says back. The unmistakable female voice of—you guessed it . . .

Heaven.

“Huh?” I ask.

“Whatcha doin’?” she says as she strides in, surveying the place.

“Getting ready for some friends to come over.”

“Cool,” she says, sensing a slumber party in the making. “What are you guys gonna do?”

“Play poker.”

“Play poker.”

“Fun.” And now I can see in her eyes . . . the slumber party is
on.
“Can I play?”

“No.”

“Why not? I know how.”

“It’s guys’ night,” I tel her. “Just like you like to stay in on Sundays and watch
Sex and the City
with your friends, we like to drink beer, play poker, and fart.”

“First of al ,
Sex and the City
has been over for a long time, and second of al . . . you’re gross.”

“Good, then you won’t have a problem making yourself scarce.” I put the little pizzas in the oven.

“Why can’t a girl be there?” she says. Why is it that every girl who ever hears about a poker game tries to invite herself? “I’m sure I’d have plenty to talk about with your friends,” she adds.

“See, that’s the thing. We just want to play poker.

We don’t want to talk.”

“How do you know? You speak for them?”

“Trust me on this one. It’s a fact.”

“Real y, now?” she says with this face that is just begging for trouble.

“Yes,” I say. “Fact.”

“Documented somewhere?”

“Actual y, yes.
Men’s Health
magazine says that men speak thirteen thousand words a day. Women, however, speak twenty-five thousand words a day.

But here’s the kicker.” And I frame the revelation with my hands. “Men speak twelve of those thirteen thousand during business, leaving one thousand for the rest of their talking. But the women speak ten thousand during business, leaving fifteen thousand miserable words for the rest of the time. Fifteen thousand variations of ‘Do I look fat in these jeans?’ I tel ya, God plays a strange game.”

“Whatever,” she says.

“What? Don’t give me ‘whatever.’ I just gave you documented fact proving my point.”

“No,” she says. “You summarized what you read in a sad men’s magazine.”

“I didn’t need a magazine to tel me what I already know. I know the fundamental differences between men and women.”

She puts her hand on her hip. Why do girls always do that? As though a hand on a hip constitutes a valid argument? “And you get this from how much we want to talk?” she asks.

“It’s not just how much. It’s also
content,
” I reply. And for some reason, as though I’m about to count the ways, I start enumerating on my right hand. “Talking about feelings? We don’t want to talk about feelings.

We don’t even want to talk. We only have a thousand words. So we choose them wisely.” Now I look at my hand and it occurs to me that I’ve only counted one.

“Ha. And what else do you know?”

“You real y want to know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t,” she says.

“Okay . . . sushi. We don’t like it. We know
you
do.

Oh, you girls
love
sushi. Where do you want to go for dinner? Sushi! Nine times out of ten you want sushi.

And it’s expensive. They’re not even cooking your food, and it’s the most expensive meal you can get.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “What else?”

“Wine. We don’t like wine. We like beer. Clothing?

Do you think we real y care? We don’t. Shoes?

Forget it!”

“Some men do care about clothes and shoes. Men with taste.”

“
Gay
men. And what about
bathrooms
? Your bathrooms are a mess. Here’s what we have in our bathrooms: a toothbrush, a razor, and a towel.”

“True,” she says. “Who needs toothpaste, soap, or deodorant when you’re gonna be alone al your life?”

“You ladies, you have about three hundred products, two hundred and ninety-four of which—we have no idea what they are.”

“You don’t wear makeup,” she defends.

“There’s a lot more than makeup going on in there.

It’s a war zone.”

“I’ve heard enough,” she says, contemplating her fingernails again. “You can have your little
man party.
”

“Oh, thanks for your permission.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you come here for something?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Almost forgot, I got your mail.”

“And? What are the lowlights?”

“How should I know? I didn’t read it.”

“Real y?” I say in shock.

“No, I read it. You got some CDs. They’re not very good.”

“You listened to them?”

“Yeah,” she says, “and they suck.”

“They’re probably demos. So yeah, they probably
do
suck.” I’m beyond getting mad at this point. I just assume that she’s going to read my mail. She’s Heaven. It’s what she does.

“Are you in the music business?”

“Yeah, I own a label.”

“Real y? That’s cool,” she says, kind of lighting up.

“Do you put anything out that I’d know?”

“Doubt it. Our most popular release was a compilation we put together of cover songs. It’s the
only
thing generating any income, and I think that stream may be drying up soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I just read on this Web discussion board where someone wrote, ‘Right, asshole, do that and I’l pay you back with a Christmas present of that played-out compilation disc from Shitstack Records.’”

“Shitstack?
That’s
a memorable name,” she says.

“It’s Sleestak, actual y.”

“What’s the name of the compilation?”

“Looks Like We Re-Made It.”

“Manilow?
Hilarious.
What are they covering?

Songs to retch by?”

“No, cool seventies songs that the kids today don’t know but would love if they were done by bands they
like.
‘Baker Street’ . . . ‘Seasons in the Sun’ . . . ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’—”

“I
love
that song,” she says, and she gives me this obnoxious slap on the arm that actual y hurts, but I don’t show it. “Al of those songs. What else?”

“‘Crosstown Traffic’—”

“Hendrix?”

“Of course.”

“He died at twenty-seven, you know,” she says. I’m surprised that she knows that.

“Yes, I know.”

“So did Kurt Cobain.”

“I know.”

“And Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin.” She seems to know her dead players.

“Do you know the ages of al dead musicians or just the ones who died at twenty-seven?”

“Just those,” she says. And then she adds in an almost embarrassed mumble, “It’s sort of a thing I have.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Just a thing,” she says, looking distractedly across the room. “Nothing you need to know.”

“You seem to need to know everything about
me
. .

.”

“You’l think it’s crazy.”

“I already
know
you’re crazy,” I retort, and she makes one of her faces at me. Then she sort of squints her eyes at me. Like she’s deciding if I deserve to know.

“I’ve always thought that I was going to die at twenty-seven—” she final y blurts.

“God, that’s real y morbid. Why?”

“Wel , you didn’t let me finish. Not conserving your thousand words,” she says with a smile.

“Finish,” I say.

“I’ve always thought that unless I do
something
before I’m twenty-seven that I’m going to die. But if I do
something,
then I won’t.”

“Like make a mark in the world? I hate to say it, but al of those people made pretty big marks, and they stil died.”

“No. Not like that.”

“Then what?”

She opens her mouth wide and rol s her eyes way up in their sockets. I’ve seen this before. It’s what people do at altitude to make their ears pop. But we’re only on the fourth floor. Then she comes back down to earth. “Get married,” she says—like, no big deal.

“If you get married you won’t die?”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. In fact, she says it with such conviction I believe her. At least I believe she believes it.

“Huh,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

Kurt was married, but I don’t want to bring that up. I don’t think it’s about whether or not they were al married. I think it’s just something she believes, and I’m not going to argue with her about it. For the first time I don’t want to argue with her. It feels kinda weird.

She reminds me a little of the dog she just rescued.

Helpless, but happy. Not hopeless. And I almost want to take care of her. Almost.

Just then Zach shows up, and Phil marches in right behind him. I think Phil has always looked up to Zach

—or at least wished he and I had the friendship that Zach and I have. But Phil also realizes that he’s the Joey to our col ective Chandler.

“Do I smel mini-pizzas?” Zach asks.

“The nose knows,” I say.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” Zach says.

“How can you smel the difference between mini-pizza and regular pizza?” Phil asks. Nobody responds for a minute, then we al start laughing. Al of us, that is, but Phil.

Heaven looks at me. “I think I get it now,” she says and starts for the door. “I’l catch you later.”

“Sure you don’t want to stay?” Zach asks.

“No, thanks. I have plans,” Heaven says.

“No you don’t, loser,” I say.

“Yes, I do,” she insists. “I have plans with Sydney.”

“That’s why you were just begging me to let you play poker with us,” I say.

“I wouldn’t say I was
begging,
” she replies. “And I was only asking you to see what your response would be.”

“Right.”

“You’re so funny when you think you’re right. It’s kind of sad, actual y. Love to chat, but Sydney is probably waiting in the hal right now wondering where I am. By the way, Hi . . . and bye,” she says to Zach and Phil.