Stupid and Contagious (21 page)

“And did I tel you I got shat on? By a pigeon?”

“Several times,” she says. “And I told
you
that it is supposedly good luck.”

“Then let them shit on
you.
That kind of good luck, I don’t need.”

What I
do
need is some fresh air. I finish my drink and walk outside. We walk up Park Avenue and cut over to Third. I spot the Rodeo Bar a couple blocks up and insist we go in. Sydney hates country music of any kind. She doesn’t get alt country or rockabil y or psychobil y. She’s not in touch with her inner redneck.

I drag her in anyway.

There’s

a

band

onstage.

A

three-piece

country/rockabil y band and Sydney can’t stand it.

She immediately chimes in, “I just don’t get this music. It’s twangy and whiny—”

“I love twangy. Twang is good,” I say.

“Twang is not good. And what are they singing about? Every song is like, ‘My girlfriend’s cousin raped the cat.’”

“Somehow, I missed that lyric.”

“It’s just the whole mentality. I hate it,” she says as she downs her drink. She’s switched from margaritas to tequila shots. Patrón Silver. No lime, no salt, because only wusses do that. “And why is he al tattooed? The tattoos don’t go with the plaid shirt. It’s dissonant. He’s either the tattoo guy who is wearing the plaid shirt because he’s trying to pretend he likes country because that’s the only kind of music that he’s good at . . . or he’s the country guy who came to New York and felt like he had to fit in, so he got al the tattoos. Either way, they don’t work.”

“No, it
does
work,” I explain. “That’s a look. He’s rockabil y.”

“He’s what?”

“Rockabil y.”

“What is that? Like Hil bil y Rockstar?” she asks. I crack up.

“It’s a music style. And a lifestyle. The tattoos and pompadours . . . hot-rod cars . . . hol ow-body guitars .

. . pin-up girls. And the girls al want to be Bettie Page. Wel , Bettie Page with tattoos.”

“But why mix country with the fifties?”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t get it.”

“Oh . . . in that case,” I say.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just not a little bit country. I’m al rock ’n’ rol . And speaking of—this sucks!

‘BROWN-EYED GIRL’!” she yel s out. I can’t believe it.

I know it just happened, but I stil can’t believe it.

The band looks out at us and I sink into the floor.

“No, don’t do that,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not taking requests,” I say.

“How do
you
know?” she says. The band suddenly starts walking off the stage. I think it’s because of her yel ing, but it’s actual y because they’ve finished their set. And at this very moment, a cowboy takes his cue.

One of the band members took the “Brown-Eyed Girl” shout-out as a mating cal , and saunters over to Sydney and me. He’s not
totally
inked, but the tats peeking out from his cuffed plaid shirt promise more to be discovered. Looks like he’s ripped under that shirt as wel .

“‘Brown-Eyed Girl,’ huh?” he says. “Haven’t heard that one in a long time. At least a couple of minutes.” I get it
immediately,
but Sydney seems to be listening more with her eyes, so she doesn’t make out what he’s saying.

“You guys sounded real y . . . real y good,” Sydney gushes. “What was that last song?” Oh God.

“It’s an original of mine,” he says, smooth as a Jack Daniel’s milk shake.

“Who wrote it?” Sydney replies. Al I can do is smile at him as if to say “she tries.” But he’s way ahead of me.

“What about
you
?” he says to me. “Did
you
like our set?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You guys are real y good.” I sip my Seven & Seven and sort of look away. Sydney’s eyes widen a little bit as if she’s sensing I’m not into him, and she doesn’t want to let this one flop off the hook.

“Yeah, she liked it a lot. She loves
rock-a-hillbilly.

We both do. The whole thing . . . the lifestyle,” she says. In that moment he looks at her outfit and I’m thinking, Yeah, you’re in head-to-toe Prada. You’re a regular cowgirl.

Picking up on her eagerness, he not-so-subtly drops, “I’ve got a ’56 Chevy Stepside parked right out front. Wanna check it out?”

“Stepside?” Sydney echoes uncertainly, not knowing what the hel he’s talking about. He takes this as girlish awe and leads the way. Sydney fol ows him outside to his truck, and I trail behind.

“Wow . . .” she says. “That’s so cool!” Sydney coos.

And I have to admit, chromed out with cherry-red metal ic paint, which shines like lip gloss, bumper to bumper . . . it is decidedly cool—calculated cool—one bad-ass motherfucker.

“Wanna take her for a spin around the block?” he offers. I know Sydney doesn’t know how to drive a stick, and Sydney sure as shit knows she doesn’t know how to drive a stick.

“Sure,” she says. As I watch her take the keys to his classic car, it’s as though it’s al happening in slow motion.

“Sydney . . .” I say with al the reproach I can stuff into my voice.

“
What?
” she says, almost angrily.

“Use your blinkers.” I smile.

Sydney jumps in on the driver’s side, and he slides in on the passenger’s side. I slide in next to him. The responsible thing at this moment would be for me to explain to this innocent country boy (probably Brooklyn born and bred) that he’s risking his pride and joy on someone who’s already wel past tipsy—

and can barely ride a bike on a good day. But I’ve got three drinks in me, I’m preoccupied with my own bad day, and those fuzzy dice he has hanging from the rearview mirror are making me feel lucky. Besides, I’m in that weird place that alcohol takes a person to, where ideas like a late-night bacon and broccoli sandwich start to sound bril iant.

Sure enough, Sydney’s first act in her inaugural run with a manual transmission is to grind the gears raucously—

SGRRRRAAAAAKKKKK. For a split second he looks alarmed, but then he’s like, “Hey . . . happens to everyone,” and he relaxes again into a studied slouch.

“Ready?” Sydney says with a nervous smile, and I detect a warning. Then—bang! Al hel ’s afire, the pickup lurches forward on a sharp angle into a raging stream of Third Avenue traffic. Taxicabs are swerving left and right, horns blare at us from every direction, and I can actual y read the “What the fuck . . .” on the lips of the driver to my immediate right. Abruptly Sydney makes her correction, wheeling to the right at just as sharp an angle. And I am sure I wil not make it to twenty-seven . . . or marriage . . . or tomorrow—

because barreling toward us is a gigantic garbage truck, resembling a charging prehistoric rhino. Its ful -

throated foghorn is trying to blast us out of the way.

I hear a high-pitched scream, and I think at first it may be
me,
but then I realize it’s the manly cowboy to my left who has just turned instantaneously into a bug-eyed, dashboard-grasping Don Knotts. Now we’re stopped dead in the middle of Third Avnue.

“Where

to
now
?” Sydney asks, delightful y unabashed by the predicament and the chorus of car horns urging us to a decision.

“Out!” he yel s. “Get out!”

I survey the situation, and honestly, jumping out of the pickup into moving traffic on Third Avenue seems safer than continuing on Sydney’s road trip. I grab her hand at the front of the car, and we Frogger our way to the sidewalk.

“Wait!” Sydney screams. And I’m thinking some irate driver has decided to run us down. “I didn’t give him my phone number!” she says.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’l never forget you.”

I check my mailbox when I get home, and I find my mold test results. And something from American Airlines for Brady. Where is
he
going? I tear open my letter from Mr. Mold, and it says my test was inconclusive. In-con-fucking-
clusive
? What the hel is
that
?

So I may or may not have the black mold. Al of a sudden I’ve got a headache. It’s probably the mold!

I go upstairs, and once I’m inside my apartment I open Brady’s mail. It’s a plane ticket to California.

What’s in California?

I can’t think about this right now. I’m drunk, I have a headache, my apartment is infested with poisonous mold, and my dog is missing. Where is Strummer?

“Strummer!” I cal out. Nothing. “Struuummmmer . .

.” In the middle of the second syl able I remember he’s next door at Brady’s.

I walk out and bang on Brady’s door. He comes to the door in 3-D glasses.

“Can I help you, madam?”

“I’ve come for my dog,” I say.

He sniffs the air around me. “Has someone been drinking on the job?”

“No,” I say. “Someone got fired, shat on by a pigeon, and embarrassed at a honky-tonk. And went drinking.”

“Come in,” he says. And I do. “You got fired?”

“Yeah,” I say as I slump into his beanbag. Which is new. “When did you get this?” I ask.

“Jonas donated it. Wanna talk about it?”

“No. Lots of people have beanbags.”

“I mean the job,” he says. “Or lack of it?” Strummer comes and sits on top of me.

“What’s in California?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“You got a plane ticket.”

“Oh!” he says. “Should’ve known. A band. I’m going to check out a band we might sign. Then I’m going to Seattle.”

“What’s in Seattle?”

“Howard Schultz.”

“The
Peanuts
guy?”

“No, that’s Charles Schulz,” he says.

“Why do you want to see the
Peanuts
guy?”

“I don’t. And if I did, I’d be shit out of luck because he’s dead.”

I look aside. Had I heard that? I guess so. So many people seem to be dying. I was almost one of them tonight. “Oh. Then why are you going?”

“You
have
been drinking, haven’t you? I’m going to meet Howard Schultz.”

“Who is he?”

“The founder of Starbucks.”

“I love coffee.” I beam.

“Me too,” he says. “And you could definitely use some right now.”

“No, I need sleep. But I can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have the
mold.
”

“The what?” he says.

“The mold,” I say. I fal asleep on the beanbag with Strummer’s head resting on my leg.

Brady

Heaven is asleep in my apartment. She spent the night last night curled up in a bal on my beanbag with Strummer. It’s actual y pretty darned cute.

I’m drinking coffee when Strummer yawns a giant lion yawn and walks over to me.

“Hey, boy,” I say. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Heaven says.

“You’re up?”

“I’m not sure,” she says. She sits up, revealing a crease from the seam of the beanbag etched in the side of her face.

“You had a rough night, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Were you just real y drunk last night, or is there something wrong with your apartment?”

“Oh,” she says as if she’s remembering. “Oh, no. I forgot about that.”

“Yeah, you started talking about the mold last night, and then you just zonked out.”

“Yeah . . . the mold.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I think I have black mold,” she says.

“What is black mold?”

“Toxic mold.”

“What makes you think you have this?”

“The tests came back inconclusive. I don’t wanna stay there.”

“Wel , then you’l have to come to California with me,” I say (of course kidding).

“Okay,” she says.

“Fantastic,” I say, not taking her seriously. I hand her a cup of coffee.

“I’l go pack.”

“Seriously?” I say, now wondering if she’s serious.

“Yeah.

I
seriously
don’t want to stay in
my
apartment. And for al we know, you could have the mold here,
too.
”

Holy shit, she’s serious. “I was kidding. What would you do in California?”

“Whatever
you
do. I don’t have a job anymore. I’m free to go.”

I cannot believe she’s serious. She can’t come with me. I mean, sure she could come to California to check out the band, I guess, but I have important business to deal with—and no way is she coming to Seattle. I can’t have her there messing things up. She does seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, whether she tries to or not. No, absolutely not. She cannot come with me.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say.

“Why not? You could use the company. And Strummer has never seen California.”

Strummer? She can’t be serious this time.

“Strummer definitely can’t come.”

“Why not?”

“This is getting out of hand. We’re not seriously discussing this, are we?”

“Yes, we are. Why can’t Strummer come?”

“Because,” I say. “He can’t.”

“Doggist bigot,” she says.

“You can’t come either.”

“Why not?”

I want to come up with a real y adult-sounding and final answer. “Because I have important business to take care of.”

“I heard that part. What does that have to do with me and Strummer?”

“You just can’t come, okay?”

“Fine,” she says.

“Fine,” I say with finality.

I’m on American Airlines Flight #3 on my way to I’m on American Airlines Flight #3 on my way to California, and Heaven is sitting next to me. Strummer is in a crate under the plane. His ticket cost a hundred bucks. Apparently Heaven likes the aisle seat, too.

But I booked my flight first, and I’m not budging. She could have sat somewhere else. Not my problem.