Stupid and Contagious (22 page)

What
is
my problem, though, is the fact that she’s milking it for al that she can. She’s gotten up and climbed over me about seventy-five times since we boarded. She demanded I give her my Smokehouse Almonds because she thought she was
gypped
in her bag. And she’s listening to the Chinese channel on her headset and trying to repeat what they are saying.

This is even less amusing to the Asian person sitting directly behind us.

I get up and go to the bathroom. As I wash my face, I notice the sign tel ing me to please wipe the washbasin after my use for the next passenger. Which I do, though I’m not sure I real y understand why. Sure, if I was shaving or something—but if al I do is wash my hands or face, I don’t know why the inside of the washbasin has to be wiped dry, just so the next passenger can wet it again. Which gives me a thought: What about a self-drying sink? Maybe it could have holes like Swiss cheese that air could blow through. Even better . . . so much air that if you waved your hands in front of it, they’d get dry . . . which would eliminate the need for those separate air dryers. But then how would the water stay in the sink? Bad idea.

And then the flush—the flush is quite possibly the loudest toilet flush I’ve ever experienced. It gets me thinking about al toilet flushes. They’re real y unpleasant—loud, obnoxious. Unsettling, real y. At that second, it hits me. What if I designed an MP3

player Flush Button. It would play music when you flushed instead of the imposing
whoosh.
It wouldn’t have to play a whole song. That could get annoying—

but maybe the chorus, or a clever line, even. “Water of Love” by Dire Straits, “Big Bal s” by AC/DC, “Smel s Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, “Tush” by ZZ Top . . .

even Sinatra’s “My Way.” I’m sure Old Blue Eyes would be honored. Then again, maybe not. Maybe he’d turn over in his grave, in which case I’d sample the Sid Vicious version. The possibilities are endless.

I am a wealth of inventions. This one could even top Cinnamilk—and the Catch-It Cone. Not just because of its genius, but because it involves my first true passion—music.

I come back to my seat and find Heaven in it.

“What are you al smiley about?” she asks.

“Move it or lose it,” I say.

“Make me,” she says. I lift her up out of my seat and place her in her own, where she sits and pouts but quickly gets over it. “What were you smiling about?

Have a wank in there? You know, you’re not official y a member of the Mile High Club unless there’s another person involved.”

“Hmm,” I say. “So what club is it when there are
two
other people involved and they’re both flight attendants?”

“The Masturbatory Fantasy Club?” she offers.

“Seriously, what happened in the bathroom that was so grin-inducing?”

“I came up with another idea, that’s al .”

“What kind of idea?”

“I can’t tel you.”

“What,” she says. “You think I’m going to steal it?”

“No.”

“Then tel me.”

“I can’t, not here at least. Too many people around.”

“Fine. But I’m going to make you tel me later,” she warns.

“Okay.”

“And I’m not going to forget, either.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“I don’t forget things,” she says.

“Of course you don’t.”

“Especial y things like this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do forget where I put my keys.”

“We al have our faults,” I say.

“I wouldn’t consider that a fault.”

I notice that she’s made a list on the vomit bag in my absence. “What is
that
?” I ask.

“It’s my updated funeral persona non grata list.”

“I see,” I say.

“A plane is dangerous. Might as wel have an updated version with me.”

“So there are
other
versions?” I say, craning my neck in a half-assed attempt to see if my name is on the list.

“Yes.”

“And you want your final version to be on a throw-up bag?”

“It’s as good a place as any,” she says, checking up and down her list.

“And if we have some kind of tragedy on the plane, don’t you think that list wil be destroyed along with the rest of us—and the plane?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps. But you’re thinking some other tragedy that would just take you and leave your list unharmed.”

She thinks for a second. “It’s a precaution,” she says.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Nobody asked you.”

“Fair enough,” I say and open my duty-free shopping catalog to see if anything new has shown up since my last flight.

We arrive at Long Beach Airport. The band’s playing in Costa Mesa, so we flew into Long Beach instead of LAX.

We’re reunited with Strummer, and I swear that dog smiles at us when he spots us. I didn’t ful y understand until this moment—this dog has a soul. And a fantastic smile. He jumps up on Heaven, and she’s giddy with love for this mutt. I pat him on the head and try to play it cool, but I gotta say, I’ve fal en for him, too.

We get in my rental car, and Heaven pul s out a CD

mix she made for the trip. The first song is by Spoon, which just happens to be one of my favorite bands.

The second song is a Wilco song, another near-perfect band. Then she’s got Franz Ferdinand’s

“Come on Home” going straight into “Heart of Glass”

by Blondie, which blows my mind because I thought I was the only one who noticed the similarities between those two songs. I’m afraid that if the rest of this CD is as good as its beginning I’m going to have to ask this girl to marry me. And that is definitely not in the cards.

As soon as I think this, “Little Guitars” by Van Halen comes on. Seriously proposal-worthy, so we’l just keep this between us.

We drive straight to the nearest Fatburger, which is my obvious first stop. Truth be told, I’d prefer an In-NOut Burger—which are the best burgers in the world

—but Fatburger’s closer, and it’s the next best thing.

We’l hit In-N-Out Burger tomorrow. I haven’t been to L.A. in a while, but I used to spend a lot of time here, and I know where the burgers are.

Or at least I used to. Unfortunately, the Fatburger I picked out has been replaced by a strip mal , and the next closest one is a few miles away in Orange. So we drive—or shal I say crawl—in traffic for a half hour.

During which time I marvel, once again, at Heaven’s choice of placing Soul Asylum’s “Somebody to Shove” back to back with Adam Ant’s “Beat My Guest,” a B-side from
Stand and Deliver.
Both songs begin with almost the exact same guitar riff, and this track selection leaves no doubt in my mind that this girl knows her music. Maybe she should be a DJ

instead of a waitress?

We final y get to Fatburger and I order a Double Fatburger, Fat Fries, and a vanil a shake. Fatburger makes the world a better place. I tel Heaven that she has to also order the Double Fatburger, which she does, but she orders the Skinny Fries. Girls.

“Don’t you think they could have come up with a better name for this place?” she asks.

“The name is great,” I say.

“No, it’s not,” she says. “They might as wel cal it

‘Increase Your Ass Burger.’”

“No, see . . . back in 1952, when this place opened,
Fat
meant you had real y made it. ‘Fat City,’ ‘Fat Times,’ ‘Fat Cat . . .’ It was a good thing.”

“Like
phat
with a ‘ph’ now,” she surmises.

“Exactly.”

“So when phat—with a ‘ph’—came out over the last few years, they were total y copying the fifties. It’s total y unoriginal. Someone should cal them on that.”

“You go ahead.”

“I might,” she says.

“I have no doubt about that.”

We get an extra burger for Strummer and sit on the grass at this little park across the street. It’s nice not to be wearing a winter coat. Los Angeles is a real y nice place. If it weren’t for the smog . . . and the earthquakes . . . and the people . . . and the traffic—

Okay, not that nice, but the weather’s good.

“This is a real y good burger,” she says after her first bite, as if she’s surprised.

“As if I’d steer you wrong?”

“Wel . . . you know . . .” She cracks a crooked smile.

smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. And we settle into a comfortable silence as we eat our Fatburgers in sunny California.

Heaven

Today is discreetly-give-everyone-the-finger day.

Some girl on the plane was reading a book cal ed
This Book Will Change Your Life,
and when she got up to use the bathroom, I picked it up. Of course Brady told me to put it back, but I didn’t. I mean, I did in time for her not to notice, but I flipped through it first.

Basical y, it gives you something to do with al three hundred sixty-five days of the year. Talk about having too much free time on your hands.

Anyway, the book had entries like “Do Something Nice for Someone Else Without Them Knowing Day”

or “Compliment Someone Day.” Most of the Days were boring, but I happened to flip to a page that said:

“Discreetly Give Everyone the Finger Day,” and I thought, Now
that
is my kind of day!

So Brady and I are sitting on the grass eating Fatburgers and flipping people off. So far I have flipped off seven people without them knowing, and nine total. Strummer got his own Fatburger and I think he enjoyed it, although he ate it so fast I’m not sure it even happened.

So far Los Angeles is a lot of traffic and fake boobs. Maybe there’s something in the water. I think I’ve seen Paris Hilton about thirty-seven times. Must be the look they’re going for right now. Kind of like in
Fast Times at Ridgemont High,
when Jennifer Jason Leigh points out to Phoebe Cates a girl who looks exactly like Pat Benatar. And Phoebe informs Jennifer that there are
three
of them at Ridgemont.

And there’s a lot of sky. I’m not used to there not being tal buildings everywhere, so the sky just seems to be limitless. But it’s not blue. I guess that’s where the smog comes in. I heard that everyone who lives in Los Angeles has low-grade emphysema, which is pretty scary. So scary that I take a deep breath and hold it.

“What are you doing now?” Brady asks. I’d answer, but I can’t because I’m trying to hold my breath. I point to my cheeks to show there’s a lot of air in there trying to stay put, and clearly I cannot speak. “I see,” he says. “I’l just wait then.”

Final y I exhale. “I was decreasing my chance of catching cancer.”

“You don’t ‘catch’ cancer,” he says with this look that just says,
Duh!

“Wel , technical y, no. You don’t catch it the way you’d catch a cold from someone else’s germs, per se, but . . .”

“This should be interesting . . .”

“The level of smog in Los Angeles is so high—” I start to say, but he interrupts.

“And you think that holding your breath is going to spare your lungs.”

“Absolutely.”

“That one time?”

“Surely not,” I say. I take another deep breath and hold it. Strummer is panting away, so I grab his snout and hold it shut for a moment to spare his lungs, too.

Then I motion for Brady to hold his breath with us.

“No,” he says. I bulge my eyes out at him, insisting that he hold his breath. “Uh-uh,” he says again, shaking his head back and forth at me. I frown. He takes a deep breath and holds it.

We meet the band at their rehearsal studio, which also doubles as Justin’s parents’ garage—though a Saturn and some kind of bulbous SUV thing have been forced out. The guys are al real y excited to have us there—or should I say
kids.
It’s shocking. The dead at twenty-seven thing aside, I don’t think of myself as old . . . I don’t feel old . . . but next to these kids I feel almost like . . . a grown-up. There’s Sam, vocal and lead guitar, who’s got jet-black hair, pale, pale skin, and a safety-pin lip piercing. Perhaps a spare for his diaper. Then there’s Ethan, the bass player, with brown dreadlocks and an Atari T-shirt, and Justin, the drummer, who resembles Tanner from
The Bad News Bears.
His longish dirty-blond hair and cherubic face looks too young even for acne. Al three show the signs of spending
way
too much time together, constantly looking at each other with these sil y inside-joke smiles.

They offer us a Red Bul before we settle in to talk.

People out here are real y big on Red Bul . Brady asks them how long they’ve been playing and tel s them about his label. He’s so passionate when he talks about it that I almost don’t recognize him. He tel s them most labels claim they’re “artist friendly” and then stab their artists in the back. He promises them he is not one of them. That’s not how he operates.

And then laments
that’s
why he has no cash, which may not have been the brightest thing to say in that moment—but there’s an earnestness as wel as a business savvy that he’s got intermingling, and it’s real y something to see. I sit back and let him do his thing, and when al is said and done, he tel s them he’s real y looking forward to seeing what they can do live.

We get to the club about a half hour before they go on, and Brady stakes out his spot. Not right up front, but not al the way in the back with the wannabe hipster, trucker-hat-wearing idiots who are too cool to even nod their heads along with the music.

The band goes on, and I’m nervous. I know this is important to Brady, and I real y want them to be good.