Stupid and Contagious (23 page)

And they are. They’re real y good. And I can tel that Brady likes them because I’ve noticed that when Brady likes them because I’ve noticed that when Brady’s excited, he gets this glassy, happy twinkle in his eyes. He smiles, and he’s got that twinkle. He looks over at me, and I nod at him. The nod is like an entire conversation. I know he’s just decided that this band is his future. He knows that I approve, and I think

—even though he made up his own mind—the fact that I approve means something to him as wel . He smiles at me, and goes back to watching the band.

The room is packed, too. The kids are singing along to their songs, which is always a good sign. I look around—and not only is the place packed . . . it’s not the ordinary semi-bored army of eyes wandering, looking for cute skinny guys or girls with bel y piercings.
Everyone
in the room is locked onto the band. There’s a girl wearing a DIY “Superhero” Tshirt. I walk over to her.

“Hey, cool shirt,” I say to her.

“I made it myself,” she says.

“Cool,” I say back. Then I notice four more girls with four more homemade shirts, and one with “I Heart Superhero” painted on her jeans. It’s a little fol owing.

And something tel s me it’s going to get much bigger, soon—which gives me an idea.

I look around the room and spot a neo-hipster standing in the back in a trucker hat. Trucker hats are the sil y fad made famous by Ashton Kutcher, where by wearing a mesh-back hat you are somehow saying, “I am supercool, I am down with the white trash, look how ironic I am.” Sadly though, just like every other fad, this one has seen its time, and this dolt doesn’t know any better. The rest of the hipsters have moved on to the shrunken old Rol ing Stones Tshirt and blazer. Maybe the memo hasn’t reached L.A. yet. I feel for these people. Having to change your musical tastes and wardrobe and move to a different neighborhood every two years must be exhausting.

Then I get this feeling in my stomach—the same feeling I get when I’m caught in a lie or run into a long-lost ex-boyfriend when I didn’t have time to fix my hair.

Because this is not just any out-of-touch dolt: It’s none other than Darren Rosenthal. Darren was my col ege boyfriend, and every one of my girlfriends wanted him.

Tal , wavy dark brown hair, white teeth, just enough stubble, and a boatload of his parents’ money. He was the coolest guy in our class. He definitely should know better. He should at
least
have the rocker T and blazer in effect. But, despite the hat, he’s looking pretty darn good.

I walk over to him and knock the hat off the back of his head. This would annoy anyone, but especial y someone wearing one of
those
hats, because that type wil not want to be seen with the aftereffects of the trucker hat, which is real y bad hat-head. He whirls around to see who the asshole is that knocked his hat off. And he’s blown away when he sees it’s me.

“Heaven?” he exclaims. “Oh my God, how
are
you?

What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

“I’m here with a friend checking out this band,” I say, instantly aware of how dumb that sounded.

“They’re great, aren’t they? I’ve got a good feeling about them,” he says. “I might sign them.” Uh-oh. I realize that he’s there doing what Brady’s doing, and al of a sudden I get protective.

“I don’t know,” I say. “They’re not doing anything real y
different.
”

“You don’t think?”

“Nah,” I say. “There’s already a dozen bands just like them out there, and three dozen more camp fol owers have been signed, who’l probably be dropped before their records come out,” I say with complete authority, even though it is total bul shit.

“You in the business?”

“Sort of,” I lie.

“Stil a girl of mystery, I see,” he says. I catch Brady’s eye. He waves me over.

“I’l be right back,” I say, walking over to Brady.

“Who are you talking to?” Brady says.

“Darren Rosenthal.”

“Darren—
cokehead, asshole; I never had an
opinion of my own, but I made a fortune off
everybody else’s opinions; look at my fake tan, I’m
such a dick
—Rosenthal?”

“Wel , he never mentioned his middle name.”

“You
know
that guy?” he asks.

“He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope.”

“I’ve lost al respect for you,” he says. “That guy is the biggest scumbag in the business.”

“It was a long time ago,” I say uncomfortably.

“Stil .”

“And I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Not for at least two months.”

“Oh, come
on,
” Brady says. And he covers his ears, even though I already said al I had to say. I remove his hands from his ears.

“It was in col ege. Jeez!”

“He’s an
asshole.
”

“So you say.”

“You didn’t tel him we were here for Superhero, did you?” he asks anxiously.

“Yes. I said you wanted to sign them, and you were offering them a deal as soon as they got off the stage tonight.”

“Please tel me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding,” I say.

“Are you tel ing me you’re kidding because I just told you to tel me that you’re kidding, or are you real y kidding?”

“I real y am. I’m not an idiot, you know.” I turn and walk over to the bar to get another Red Bul and catch up with Darren some more.

After the show we hang around and watch the crowd say their hel os to the band. Brady waits until they’ve done al of their schmoozing before he moves in to do his own schmoozing.

By the end of the night the band has a record-deal offer on the table with Sleestak Records, Brady’s label. I real y hope they sign with him.

We go to The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, which is L.A.’s competition for Starbucks. Apparently it’s been around for a long time, and they seem to have a devoted fol owing. Many of them are even directly across the street from Starbucks, and neither seems to suffer for it. I guess you are either a Coffee Bean person or a Starbucks person.

I order a Vanil a Blended, which is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever consumed. As I’m taking my second sip I notice a bottle of water they’re sel ing. At first I think I can’t be seeing right, but when I walk over to the counter I find that my eyes were not deceiving me. They are sel ing bottles of “Fat Free” water. No, real y. This is true. You can go in there and see for yourself. Now, this is not like Vitamin Water, or any of the fruit-flavored waters, some of which have a calorie count and additives that might make you question what you were drinking. This is just plain water—

God’s own water. But here it is bottled and labeled as

“Fat Free.” Unbelievable. And it is at this moment that I truly realize that I am in L.A.

Brady

I leave Heaven at The Coffee Bean, where she’s marveling at the Fat Free Water, and I tel her I’l meet her back at the hotel in a few hours.

I head out to meet the band so we can talk about my offer. I think I’m lost. We’re meeting in Hol ywood at this Mexican restaurant on Sunset Strip cal ed El Compadre, which the band is particularly fond of. I realize I’ve gone a little too far into Hol ywood when I get to the corner of
Crack Whore
and
Gangbanger,
so I make a U-turn and final y spot the place.

As I’m going around the block looking for a place to park I give Phil a quick cal on my cel phone, because I realize that I didn’t check in with him after the show last night.

“Hel o?” a female voice says—a voice that sounds remarkably like Sarah.

“Sorry, I think I have the wrong number,” I say. I hit End as fast as I can because I think I cal ed Sarah by accident. She laughs as I’m hanging up the phone—

probably because she thinks I did it on purpose. I’d cal her back to tel her I didn’t, but it’s not even worth it.

I close the phone and open it once more, just to make sure we’re disconnected. Then I scrol through my phone book and find Phil. I hit Send and watch as it says “Cal ing Phil” and then “Connected to Phil.”

“Hel o?” the female voice says again. I pul the phone away from my ear to look at it and make sure that it indeed stil says “Phil.”

“Sarah?” I ask.

“Yes, Brady?” she says back.

“Sorry, I’m trying to cal Phil.”

“You’ve succeeded.”

Huh?

“You’re with Phil?” I ask, completely confused.

“I am.”

“Okay . . . can I talk to him?”

“He’s in the shower,” she says with this breezy, I-just-fucked-your-oldest-friend tone in her voice.

“I see,” I say. And there’s an uncomfortable silence.

Do I ask her to have him cal me back? Do I react to this extremely fucking strange situation? No. I’m just going to play it cool. It’s none of my business.

“We’re fucking,” she says.

“I thought he was in the shower,” I say.

“He is. I just mean, in general. We’re fucking.”

“It’s none of my business,” I say with a calm, cool tone that even surprises
me
.

“Hmm,” she says. “Did you know that Phil’s dick curls to the right?”

“What part of ‘it’s none of my business’ did you not understand?” I say, now sounding much less cool.

“I heard you. I just think it’s funny.”

“That you’re fucking my friend, or that his dick curls to the right?”

“Wel , both, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “No, Sarah . . . I did not know that Phil’s dick curls to the right. But could you have him give me a cal when he gets a chance?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Fantastic,” I say. I hang up the phone, turn up the radio, and floor the gas as the Violent Femmes sing about blisters on the sun.

Once I’m parked, I sit in the rental car for a few minutes to process the conversation I just took part in.

Sarah is evil. This we know. Phil is stupid. This we also know. Therefore, both behaviors are to be expected. Okay, not expected—but understandable.

Definitely not expected.

Stil , I gotta say . . . it chafes my ass to even think about it. I don’t give a shit about
her.
I real y don’t.

That said, were I to ever have a weak moment and feel like having sex with her, I can now never do that again. I wil never put my dick where Phil’s crooked fucking dick has been. That is just a fact. So, yes . . . I am disappointed in Phil, as a friend. But worse, I’m pissed off that he has just permanently cock-blocked my guaranteed booty cal . And on top of
that,
now I’l have to think of his bent dick whenever I look at him.

This is precisely why guys
don’t
look at another guy’s junk in the bathroom. You never want to picture a guy’s dick when you’re looking at him. Every which way I turn, this just fucking sucks.

I walk into El Compadre and they’re already drinking margaritas. Though it occurs to me that the drummer is closer to twelve than twenty-one, I keep my trap shut and order one for myself.

Sam is the mouthpiece for the band, and as I take a tortil a chip and pop it into my mouth he casual y says,

“Wanna hear something crazy?”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Looks like we have
two
record deals on the table.

Darren Rosenthal met with us this morning, and he offered us a deal. Our lawyer is looking over both.”

Fuck.

Not only do I choke on my chip, I scratch my throat.

This is turning out to be a real y bad day.

Sam looks at me to gauge my response after he casual y drops the Rosenthal bomb. I play it cucumber style.

“That’s cool,” I say. “Anyone who’s heard you would be a complete moron not to want to sign you.” This answer works twofold. It shows that I am not deterred by Rosenthal’s offer, and it strokes their ego, which every band feeds off of.

“Thanks,” he says, and I know my response was correct. The only problem is, I’m practical y shitting in my pants. Darren
motherfucking
Rosenthal works for a major label. I can’t compete with that. The only thing I can do now is pray to God they don’t fal for his schmooze. Wel , that and tel them some cold, hard facts about the business.

“Here’s the thing,” I say as I sip on my much-needed margarita. “Major labels are sexy. They’re powerful and exciting. You look at some of the bands on their roster and can’t help but be awe-inspired.”

“Total y,” he says.

“And you’d be psyched to be on the same label as them.”

“Absolutely,” Ethan tosses in.

“I know. I was where you are. I used to be in a band.”

“What did you play?” Sam asks.

“Guitar.”

“Right on,” he says. We clink our glasses to our shared talent. “You just got sick of trying to make it?”

“Sort of,” I say, and I take another sip before I go in for the kil . “My band was cal ed Crooked, and we were signed to Warner about six years ago.”

“You were?” he says, total y surprised by this.

“Yeah,” I tel him, setting my glass down as if to suggest I’ve got something incredibly important to reveal at this moment, for his ears only (though I’ve tried it on ten other rising stars like him). “We had a three-record deal and they sold us al this bul shit about us being the next Stones.”

“So what happened?” they al ask.

“What, you never heard of Crooked?”

“No,” they say.

“Exactly. What happened? I’l tel you what happened.” The whole band is now on the edges of their seats. “We signed the deal and went into the studio to cut our album. We recorded al of our best songs and made a kick-ass record. The only problem was they’d signed about seventeen other bands at the same time as us and didn’t want to put a lot of money into promoting us. Any of us, real y. They already had their star bands, and with the rest of us it was pretty much:
Let’s see how many records you can sell with
no help from us.
”