Stupid and Contagious (26 page)

“Now you do,” I say, immediately starting to move my thumb around to loosen it up for the impending match.

My cel phone rings when we get outside, and it’s Phil.

“Hey, buddy,” he says.

“Hi, Phil,” I say, not sure exactly how I want to deal with the Sarah situation.

“How’s L.A.?” he asks.

“Great,” I say. I rol my eyes at Heaven, who looks confused because she doesn’t know why I’m rol ing my eyes.

“So, um . . .” he stammers. “What’s up with the band?”

“The offer’s on the table. Actual y, there are two offers on the table.”

“Two?”

“Yeah. Darren Rosenthal made them an offer.”

“Fuck,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “So now it’s just a bit of wait and see.”

“Fuck,” he says again.

“Yeah,” I say. And we go quiet for a minute. There’s a giant pink elephant balancing on a bal , singing show tunes, but neither of us is mentioning it. And I’m not going to be the one to say anything.

“Al right then, bro. Cal me when you hear anything,”

he says.

“That’s it? You’re not even going to address the fact that you’re fucking Sarah?” So much for me not saying anything.

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a long pause.

“What?” Heaven yel s. “He fucked Sarah? Your Sarah? Psycho Sarah?”

“Shhh,” I say to Heaven, waving her away.

“Dude, what can I say?” Phil says. “It happened.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Oh my God!” Heaven says. I shoot her a look to shut up, and she just covers her mouth with both hands and looks shocked.

“Look, it just sorta
happened,
” he says. “I don’t blame you for being pissed. But remember in col ege when I was al about Marnie Wil iams, and you wound up dating her? Or . . . or . . . what about that time that we both saw that blonde at the Vil age Idiot? The one who took her bra off and left it on the bar?”

“Which you stuffed in your pocket when she went to the bathroom? Yes, I remember.”

“Wel , exactly,” he says. “I got the bra, and
you
wound up taking her home.”

“Phil, this al has nothing to do with anything. Let’s not kid ourselves. Al these things you’re mentioning are serving no other purpose than to not so thinly veil your shitty judgment and blatant disregard for our friendship. It’s like a guy going to the grocery store and buying twenty dol ars worth of groceries he doesn’t need, to cover up the fact that he’s there to buy tampons for his lady. Be a man. Walk up to the cashier with nothing but a giant box of Tampax, and I’l at least have
some
respect for you.”

“Sarah needs Tampax? That’s weird because—”

“Oh, man,” I say. Analogies are always lost on Phil. I don’t know why I bothered.

“Are you pissed?” he asks.

I think about it for a minute. And the truth is, I’m real y not. Sarah was a nightmare, and to be rid of her is actual y a relief. She was great at first, like most girls are, but her oasis of greatness was quickly revealed as a mirage. And I spent the next couple of years parched—wandering in the desert of bitter, occasional y racing like a madman after the ghost of some happy moment with her, but reaching out to find handfuls of sand. Now? After being with Phil, I know she wouldn’t have the nerve ever to try to come back.

And that in and of itself is a new lease on life.

“No, I’m not. I’m real y not. If she makes you happy, then I’m happy for both of you.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. That’s why the Tampax thing was so weird because if she needed them, then we’d be in a whole other scenario.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sarah’s pregnant,” Phil says, and immediately my heart starts racing. I think back to the time she and I had that accidental—real y bad judgment on my part

—stupid, stupid, stupid sex, and rack my brain to think about whether or not I used a condom.

“How pregnant?” I ask.

“Come on, man. You know how that goes.

“Come on, man. You know how that goes.

Nobody’s ever a little bit pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”

“I meant, how many days . . . weeks . . . please God, not months?”

“Good question,” Phil says. I feel dizzy.

“I gotta go, Phil.”

“Okay. But are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you,” I say. I hang up the phone and think I’m going to throw up.

Heaven

Brady is green. And I don’t mean green in the
young
o r
inexperienced
context. I mean, Brady is green.

Like the color. And he looks like he’s gonna throw up.

“Do you know what ‘vagina dentata’ is?” I ask him to distract him from whatever it is that’s bothering him.

“Huh?” he says in a complete fog.

“Vagina dentata,” I say again.

“Um . . . wasn’t that a Police album?” he says, stil able to crack wise under duress.

“No, that was
Zenyatta Mondatta,
” I say.

“Then no. I do not know what ‘vagina whatever’ is.”

“Dentata. It’s a fear that men have. Where they think that vaginas have al of these sharp teeth in them. So they’re scared to put a penis inside one because they think it wil bite it off.”

“That’s delightful.”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“What about it?” he asks.

“Just wondering if you’ve ever heard of it.”

“Because . . . why?”

“I don’t know. Seemed like you needed a distraction,” I say as I read the ingredients on a Jolt can.

“So you tel me about vaginas with teeth?”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“You know what? That kind of distraction—I don’t need.”

“Fine. Sorry. Jeez,” I say. “Wanna thumb-wrestle
now
?” I ask.

“No.” He opens the trunk and starts loading up the Jolt. So I help.

“I have thirty teeth,” I say as I lift another six-pack of Jolt into the trunk. “Not in my vagina, obviously—in my mouth.” Brady doesn’t say anything. “Most mouths have twenty-eight teeth. But an untouched mouth has thirty-two teeth. And four are removed when the wisdom teeth come out.”

“Yeah?” Brady says, feigning interest.

“I used to have thirty-two teeth. And then I had one wisdom tooth removed, so I had thirty-one. And I hated it. It was uneven. I just felt off-kilter for that whole year. I think that was 1998. But then in 1999 I got the other side done, and everything was better.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Like feng shui of the mouth.”

“Right.”

“But I never got the other two taken out to make me have the average mouth of twenty-eight teeth. Which is okay. I’m happy with thirty.” Brady stil doesn’t say anything. “Sharks have multiple rows of teeth—”

“You’ve gotta stop,” Brady suddenly says. “I can’t hear any more about teeth. I don’t want to hear about teeth in your mouth . . . teeth in your vagina . . . shark teeth . . . no more discussion of teeth.”

“I don’t
have
teeth in my vagina,” I say, rol ing my eyes at him. “Did you know that I was born at 5:21

p.m.?”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask back.

“You keep talking about ridiculous things. Why?”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“Wel , don’t,” Brady says. And we finish loading up the last of the Jolt and get into the car.

There’s a dog beach out here, and it’s something I think Strummer needs to experience. For starters, he’s only been to dog
parks
before, never dog
beaches.
But I also don’t know if he’s ever even seen a beach.

Brady and I start heading west, and when we final y get to the beach it’s like nothing any of us have seen before. Dogs upon dogs. More dogs than I’ve ever seen in one place. And Strummer is having a blast.

“That little man is in doggie heaven,” I say to Brady, who is watching Strummer and smiling.

“So this guy walks into a vet with his dog and places him on the examining table,” Brady says. “The doctor looks at the dog and says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but your dog is dead.’”

I look around immediately to see if there are any dogs within earshot, and indeed there is a border col ie about three feet away.

“Shush!” I say to Brady. “Don’t talk about dead dogs here. You’re going to upset the poor pups.”

“It’s a joke.”

“Dead dogs aren’t funny.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Does the dog come back to life?” I ask.

“Can I finish?”

“Fine,” I say.

“So the vet says, ‘I’m sorry, but your dog is—’” and Brady whispers, “‘—dead.’ And the guy says, ‘I want a second opinion.’ So the vet opens up a cage and lets out a Labrador. The Lab sniffs the dog, paws him a little bit, and concurs that indeed the dog is dead. So the guy says, ‘I demand a third opinion.’ So the vet opens up another cage and lets out a cat. The cat walks around the dog and looks him over. When he’s finished, he also agrees that the dog is dead. ‘Fine,’

the man says. ‘So what do I owe you?’ ‘Fifteen hundred,’ the vet says. ‘What? You’re going to charge me fifteen hundred just to tel me that my dog is dead?’ ‘Hey,’ the vet says, ‘you’re the one who ordered the Lab report and the cat scan.’”

I laugh a little, even though it was sil y. And then we’re quiet for a while, just watching the dogs play.

Strummer seems to be scared of the water. He runs along the edge, but he recoils every time the wave comes in.

I rol up my jeans and go in a little to show him that it’s okay, but he won’t budge.

Until he sees this bird. Some seagul comes swooping down, and Strummer starts to chase it, chasing it al the way into the ocean. Of course the seagul is flying, so Strummer has no chance of actual y getting near it, but he doesn’t know this. The next thing I know, Strummer is paddling away in the water, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I feel like a proud parent, and I hear Brady hol ering from where we were sitting.

“Whoo-hoo! You go, Strummer! Thatta boy!” he yel s. I turn around to see Brady jumping up and down with a similar sense of pride. I wave him over, and he walks down and joins us in the water.

Now Strummer is having so much fun he doesn’t want to get out. We splash and play for at least another hour, and it’s like we’ve forgotten al of our problems. For this moment it’s just the three of us, playing at the dog beach in sunny California.

And then Brady’s cel phone rings.

“Hel o?” he says. “Hey, Sam! How are ya?” I watch his expression turn from excitement to frustration in about five seconds. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Wow . . . yeah, that must have been real y cool. Yeah, Eddie Vedder .

. . he’s big-time. Then again, al of his recent stuff is crap, but that’s another story . . .” He listens a little more, picks up a rock from the sand and chucks it as hard as he can. “Look, just meet me later today, okay? Don’t sign anything with him. Promise?”

Brady is sweating, and I hate to see him look this stressed out. He hangs up the phone and looks like he’s going to explode.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Your boyfriend took the band out drinking last night with Pearl Jam.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever. Darren Rosenfuck arranged it so they got to hang out with Eddie Vedder al night. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to compete with that?”

“Fuck Pearl Jam,” I say. “Who cares?”

“They did! You should have heard how excited he was.”

“Are they meeting you later?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We gotta head back into Hol yweird.”

“Good. Look, it’s not over til it’s over. I have every faith in the world that you are gonna get this band. I know things.”

“Yeah?” Brady says with about as much belief as a thirty-year-old being told that the Easter Bunny exists.

“I do. I’m clairvoyant. I am. I always have been. And I know that you are going to sign this band. So have a little faith. I promise you.”

“If you say so . . .” he says reluctantly. And we get our things and take off.

On our way back to the hotel we stop at a 7-Eleven because I want a Slurpee, and Brady, al of a sudden, gets on his knees.

“Oh my God!” Brady exclaims. “No freakin’ way!

This is like my birthday and Christmas al rol ed into one!”

“What are you talking about? Get up!” I say and pul Brady up off the floor.

“Look!”

“What am I looking at?”

“Munchos! And Funyons! You can’t get these things anymore.”

“Apparently you can,” I say.

“This is unbelievable,” he says as he starts taking practical y every bag of chips off the rack. “What’s the deal? This is the city of gold! Is Los Angeles like the land of the lost snack foods?”

“Oh, no. Please tel me you aren’t going to buy up al of these too.”

“Damn skippy, I am.”

“Christ,” I say. And then I help him grab the rest of the Funyons and Munchos.

The car is now practical y sagging in the back. We have a four-door rental, but there is no room for any other person or snack food/beverage in this car.

We’re also going to be leaving in the morning for Seattle, so I’m not quite sure what Brady is planning to do with al of this stuff.

My cel phone rings, and it’s Sydney. I haven’t spoken to her since I’ve been out here, and she’s pissed.

“Um . . . hi. Remember me?” she asks.

“Sure do, missy!” I say. “What’s shakin’? Holding down the New York fort?”

“Yeah. You could cal me, you know!”

“I’m sorry. We’ve just been running around nonstop.”

“Guess what I just did?” she asks.

“I can’t imagine.”

“I just set up a PayPal account.”