Stupid and Contagious (24 page)

“That sucks,” Sam says.

“Yeah, it does, but that’s what happens at the majors. One in a hundred bands make it. Labels just snatch everybody up because they don’t want to miss out, but they don’t take the time to nurture a band and real y help make them successful. And if you don’t produce in, say, six months or a year—and real y, how can you—you get dropped. Not only do you lose your deal . . . you lose your best songs.”

“Jesus,” he says.

“Yeah, and by the way . . . those advances you get?

They’re recoupable. Which means that if you don’t make back the money they spent on you—you’l end up owing them al kinds of money that you don’t even have.” Okay, maybe I’m laying it on a little thick here.

“Fuck,” Sam says.

“I know. It sucks. That’s why I switched to the other side of the business,” I say. I start to sense something I don’t believe I’ve even seen before. Not hero worship, but maybe an unwitting or unconscious respect for someone who’s
been there.
Even the drummer looks up for the first time. I have al of their innocent faces looking up at me. They look so young that for a split second I don’t know if I want to coax them into a contract or offer them chocolate milk. I stand up, and they’re transfixed. At this moment, someone needs to start humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“To actual y help other bands, I do what I was once promised back in the day: nurture them and help them grow. Help build fan bases and set them up for a long career, not just a three-month shot and then
fuck you.

Overnight success is rare. Sometimes it takes a couple records to truly figure out exactly what you’re about. My thing is . . . I give bands that time. I’m not in the immediate results business. I’m in the business of putting out music that I love. Music that I believe in and I think other people should hear.” Al of the guys are looking at each other and nodding.

“Total y,” Sam agrees.

“I like to think so. So I can’t offer you the slick contract at the giant corporation. But I can offer you loyalty. And if you sign with Sleestak, you’re making a home for yourself for as long as you want. And we wil continue to put your records out for as long as you want us to. We’l give you 200 percent of our attention and do everything in our power to make you rich and famous.”

I leave the restaurant feeling better than I did when I first sat down, but there’s stil this nagging feeling that Darren can woo them with money I just don’t have. I hope what I said to them sinks in. Hope is real y al I have right now. That, and, as I mentioned earlier, my talent for lying when I have to. The truth is, I exaggerated my whole band scenario. And

“Crooked”? Wel , I guess that was an homage to Phil’s fucked-up dick. Don’t get me wrong—I was in a band, and I did get screwed by a label. But not to the extent that I described, and it certainly wasn’t Warner that had signed me. Anyway, everything I told them happens every single day in the music business, so even if it didn’t happen exactly that way to me . . . it real y could happen to them.

When I get back to the Hyatt, which is where Heaven and I are staying, Heaven is nowhere to be found. For the first time it occurs to me—wow, we’re sharing a room. But at the same time the voice also says—wow, at these rates it’s amazing we’re not sleeping in the park, sharing a bench with a crack addict.

So I wait.

Three hours later she is stil not back. Her cel phone is going straight to voice mail, and I’m starting to get worried. The girl is a menace. God only knows what kind of trouble she’s gotten into, and we are in a strange city.

Five hours later she comes tiptoeing back into the room to find the lights on and me with a scowl on my face.

“You’re up?” she says.

“No, I’m sleeping,” I answer. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you’d be busy with the band.”

“Didn’t I say I’d meet you back here in a few hours?”

“I guess.”

“Right. Wel , what that meant was that I would meet you back here in a few hours. Which in layman’s terms equals one hundred eighty minutes.”

“Gotcha,” she says.

“Right,” I say. And then I just sort of look at her while I wait for her to tel me where she was. But she gets up, walks into the bathroom, and starts washing her face.

I walk in after her. She comes up from the sink al wet-faced, and I hand her a towel.

“Thank you,” she says and takes it.

“So where were you?” I ask.

“With Darren,” she says, and I snatch the towel back. I don’t know why, but I do.

“Can I have the towel, please?” she says, almost laughing. I fail to see what is so funny.

“You were with Darren?”

“Yes.”

“Rosenthal?” I ask, knowing ful wel it’s Rosenthal.

“Yes.”

“
Why?
”

“He cal ed me,” she says, stretching and unstretching her hair scrunchie but refusing to meet my gaze. “Wanted to hang out. Catch up.”

“I’l bet he did.”

“Yeah,” she says. “He did.”

“Yeah. I’l bet,” I say again because I don’t know what to say right now. I mean, it’s real y no big deal, so I don’t know why I’m even freaking out. They dated a long time ago. She wouldn’t actual y
do
anything with him. Not a chance. I’m certain of it.

“Would catching up involve nudity?”

She chucks the scrunchie back into her makeup bag. “
God,
Brady.”

“Would it?” I pursue.

“Wel , I can tel you this,” she says, spinning to face me. “Either I forgot what it was like with him, or he’s picked up some new moves in the past few years.”

“No, you
di dn’t
just say that,” I say, suddenly channeling a trailer-park baby momma on the
Jerry
Springer
show.

“Yes, I did,” she says, rubbing moisturizer into her face a little too aggressively. I half expect to hear her say, “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” If I wasn’t absolutely certain to the contrary, I could
almost
swear that with this motion she wipes away a single tear. “I’m so glad I came out here with you. I am
really
enjoying this trip.” And with that she walks out of the bathroom and plops herself down onto her bed.

“Wel , I am real y not enjoying
you
right now,” I say and stomp out after her.

“What’s your deal?” She’s playing it tough, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice.

“My deal?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I’l tel you what my deal is.”

“Please do.”

“God! I can’t
believe
you!” I say. It occurs to me, in al the emotions she’s ever inspired in me, the anger or mock anger I felt was never real y rooted in actual feelings. Until now.

“What?” she says. “Can you please explain what your issue is here?”

“Look, I don’t care what you do or who you have sex with. I don’t. It’s none of my business,” I say for the second time today, when both times I’ve felt that it was
absolutely
my fucking business.

“Good. Because it’s not.”

“Right. See, the thing is . . . the person with whom you have just done things that I don’t care to think about is the same person that offered Superhero a record deal this morning.”

“What?” she says, al surprised.

“Yes, he did,” I say. “So in essence, he’s actual y just fucked both of us. Only I didn’t bend over by choice.”

“ My God . . . I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.”

—
Marla,
Fight Club

“ Try not to suck any dick on the way to the parking lot.”

—
Dante,
Clerks

Heaven

Some people pick the wrong things to say al the time.

I am one of those people. I also happen to pick the wrong men, jobs . . . you name it. I don’t
mean
to do it.

Of course I don’t. But if there was a cartoon bubble over my head at al times, and everyone could read my thoughts, I can safely say that 87 to 90 percent of the time, it would say “Shit!” or maybe “Fucking shit!”

or simply “Oops.” Those seem to be the three major thoughts that arise after I do or say something regrettable—most often a combination of the three. It may start out as an “Oops,” but quickly turns into a

“Shit” or a “Fucking shit” without fail.

It seems that I am Lucy. I don’t know how or when it happened, but I do everything short of crying, “Ricky, why can’t I be in the show?”

Here I thought I was having a perfectly innocent sex-with-an-ex moment, and it turns out I’ve just completely fucked Brady over. But did I know it at the time? No.

And if Darren hadn’t offered the band a deal, Brady probably wouldn’t even give a crap. This was not supposed to make me feel bad. So why do I feel like my new puppy just got hit by a car? Because Darren
did
offer them a deal? Which means I have now lain down with the enemy? Although, truth be told, there was actual y very little lying down involved. Honestly, I kind of thought that I’d swayed Darren the other way when we were watching them play. I had no idea that he offered them a deal. So Darren offered them a deal. That’s life. I stil think Brady wil win them over in the end. But he’s al pissed, and I don’t know what to feel right now. But I’m feeling it.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“Whatever,” Brady says.

“I real y am. I never would have . . . I
wouldn’t
have, if I thought he would in any way mess things up for you.”

“I know,” he says without looking at me.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” he says, and this time he looks right at me. “You may be a bit of a nuisance and a gigantic pain in the ass—”

“No offense taken—”

“—but I know that you wouldn’t wil ingly jeopardize my deal.”

“Wel , I
didn’t
jeopardize your deal.”

“No,” he says, “but you slept with the person who did.” I’ve seen Brady up, and I’ve seen Brady down, but I’ve never seen or heard him be this . . . vacant.

“And we didn’t exactly sleep.”

“Your semantics aren’t helping.” He sighs.

Oops,
says my thought bubble. See?

“Just out of curiosity, what part of your brain thought it was a
good
idea to say that?” he asks.

“Wow,” I say.

“Wow, what?”

“I was just thinking that.”

“You were thinking what?”

“That I seem to have this uncanny knack for saying the wrong thing al the time.”

“And doing,” he adds.

“Yeah, that too,” I say. And start to genuinely feel awful. I mean, I felt bad before, but now I’m starting to think that I may need a muzzle.

I get up and grab my jacket.

“Where are you going?” Brady asks.

“Just for a walk.” I grab Strummer’s leash, and he jumps off the bed, putting his paws up on me to assist the attachment of leash to col ar.

“Why are you making
me
feel guilty?” he asks.

“I’m not. I’m just taking Strummer for a walk.”

“Fine,” he says. “I don’t feel guilty, you know. I’m not going to feel bad because
you
feel bad that you had acrobat sex with Darren Rosenthal.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.
I’m
the one that feels bad about it, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. And Strummer and I head out for a walk down Sunset, and over to the Starbucks where we can sit outside.

It’s 6 a.m. and people are starting their day. I haven’t slept yet, but that’s okay.

A guy walks by and smiles at Strummer. He tel s me how cute he is, and I thank him. As if I had something to do with it. I watch people get their coffee, and there’s an almost physical change that happens when they drink it. If they are uptight or pissed off or just plain tired when they walk in . . . you can see an improvement the minute they are handed their triple shot, no-foam latte—and then when they’re done at the
fixings
bar and actual y take their first sip, it’s like al is suddenly right in the world. Shoulders become un-hunched. People look around and actual y notice that other people are there. It’s a hel uva thing to watch.

Then a guy who looks an awful lot like Ben Stil er walks in. I’m sitting out on the patio, and when he passes, he looks at Strummer and smiles. When he comes back out he walks over and I can see that he is indeed Ben Stil er.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say back, a little in shock that Ben Stil er is talking to me.

“Great dog,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Again, I think about how funny it is that we take credit for compliments to our dogs. But then again, if Strummer had green dreadlocks, and I dressed him in a tutu, it would sort of be my fault—so conversely, the fact that he is a good-looking, non-dreadlocked, undressed dog . . . is to some extent my dreadlocked, undressed dog . . . is to some extent my doing.

“What’s his name?”

“Strummer.”

“Hi, Strummer,” he says. “Is he friendly?”

“Total y,” I say. Ben leans down and starts petting him.

At which point, Strummer lifts his leg and pees on Ben Stil er. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m mortified. Ben jumps back and sort of squeals.

“Whoa, what the fuck?” he says. In his little dance to get out of the way and shake the pee off, he knocks his coffee over.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Jesus!” he yel s. “You could have warned me that your dog pees on people!” He’s pissed off—and now pissed
on—
but it’s not
my
fault. I’ve never seen Strummer do anything like that before. How could I know that Strummer was going to pee on him?