Stupid and Contagious (28 page)

So they get the freakin’ bus. And then they bitch about the
hotel room . . .

Now enter alcoholism and drug addiction . . .

And how the fuck am I going to come up with ten thousand dol ars?

Heaven

I read somewhere, maybe in that DSM-I I-R, that an average person is someone who is ordinary and represents most people. Meaning that if an average person eats two chocolate bars a week, then some people wil eat more, and some wil eat less—but most wil eat about two bars a week.

I real y don’t eat chocolate bars at al . So by this reasoning, I am not normal. Or not average, at least.

And as
American Beauty
taught us, there is nothing worse than being average. Wel , they said there was nothing

worse

than

being
ordinary,
which is

essential y the same thing.

Now, celebrating is something average people do when they’ve accomplished something. The average person wil cook a nice dinner or take someone
out
for a nice dinner. That would be expected. Typical. I—

b e i ng
not
average—decide that I want to do something different to celebrate Brady getting the band, because I know in my heart of hearts that he wil return with good news.

But we’re leaving in the morning, and we don’t have much time. My first thought is to take Brady’s favorite things and make him a cake. But I don’t have an oven.

So I think . . . maybe a drink. Maybe I’l take some Munchos and Funyons and mash them into a glass of Jolt and make this his celebratory beverage. I could cal it Munyon Cola. Munyon. It’s even fun to say. See?

I’l bet the average person wouldn’t have the inspiration to concoct this delicacy. I’l bet the average person wouldn’t want to
drink
it either. I’m going to include Brady and me in that one too, as it may be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever thought of. So on second thought, I’m
not
going to make it. Munyon Cola wil never be, and I’l just leave the drink inventions to Brady.

But I want to do
something
to celebrate. Brady’s been so stressed out, and we need to do something fun. Not just because he’s stressed out, but because, let’s face it . . . I’m on a vacation from life right now.

When I get back, I have no job, no way of making rent without dipping into the rainy-day fund, no man, and no obvious means of securing any of the above.

When it comes to worrying, usual y I don’t have my priorities straight. Maybe this is what worrying
should
feel like. Normal y, I’d just worry about the fact that my hairdresser is going on maternity leave this week, so God only knows how long it’l be before I get a decent haircut—which is true.

We need to have a party. Too bad we don’t know anyone in L.A. You know what? A party is a party.

Most of the time you don’t know people at a party, anyway. That’s what parties are
for
—mingling.

Making new friends. This is an excel ent idea. I’m going to invite al the cool people at this hotel to our room. To celebrate.

Brady walks in and our room is wal -to-wal people.

He actual y walks out and checks the door to make sure it’s the right room. And when he walks back in he spots me in the corner. The music is blaring, and everyone is drinking and having a good time. I wave Brady over, and he squeezes through the crowd to get to me.

“What is going
on
?” he asks.

“Surprise!” I scream. And I blow the party blower thing that the people in Room 801 were kind enough to bring.

“What is this?”

“It’s your party! This is Brady,” I say to everyone in the general vicinity. Everybody raises their beer bottles.

“Congratulations, man!” one guy says, putting up his hand to high-five Brady.

“Who
are
these people?” Brady asks me.

“Don’t leave him
hanging
!” I say to Brady, who looks at the guy stil standing there with his hand up waiting for him to respond. Brady final y high-fives him, and the guy turns back to whatever he was doing.

“Are you ready to have an
Effen
good time?” I ask Brady.

“Heaven!” Brady says. “What
is
this?”

“It’s your party,” I say. “We couldn’t stay in a hotel dubbed the ‘Riot House’ and not oblige. Plus . . .

we’re celebrating!”

“Celebrating what?”

“Superhero! Them going with you.”

“How did you know?”

“I knew. I had faith,” I say. “I was right,
wasn’t
I?”

“Yeah, you were,” he says as a big grin spreads across his face. I jump up and hug him.

“But what if they
hadn’t
?” he asks.

“Then this would be a
come cheer Brady up
party.”

“And I ask again . . . who
are
these people?”

“Neighbors,” I shout. “People staying in the hotel.

Cool people I saw downstairs going to Chi, which Justin Timberlake owns, by the way. Did you know that? The place right downstairs is his new restaurant bar.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Wel . . . he’s busy. He couldn’t attend.”

“You invited Justin Timberlake?” he says.

“No, he wasn’t there. But Kevin Dil on was.”

“Who’s that?”

“Matt Dil on’s brother. He’s actual y over there,” I say, pointing. “In the red bowling shirt. Next to the girl with the fake boobs. Wait—that’s every girl in this room.” I hand Brady a beer. “Drink up, bud. It’s our last night in L.A., and this party is in honor of
you,
my friend.”

“You did this in a matter of hours—”

“Yup. I pretty much just gave out the room number, and the rest is history.”

“You are a strange and wonderful creature,” Brady says. He takes the beer, and we clink bottles. “I take it this party was B.Y.O.B.?” he asks as he looks around and sees al the alcohol. Then he notices the table ful of Effen Vodka. “And where did
that
come from?”

“Jon,” I reply.

“And Jon would be?”

“Only the coolest guy ever! I was downstairs, and I saw these two guys hanging out by the restaurant, so I invited them. Turns out one of them founded this new vodka cal ed Effen Vodka. Cool name, huh? Anyway, I sat down with them for a half hour and we got to talking about launch strategies—kind of a specialty of mine. I threw out a couple ideas they fel in love with

—”

“Like what?”

“‘Effen Cool’ merchandise and wearables, an Effen-sponsored worldwide poker tournament . . . stuff like that. His guys were doing a little promotion downstairs at Chi that didn’t seem to be generating much heat, so I found them a ready-made, targeted audience of qualified prospects.”

“Meaning?” he says.

“I told him they’d be suckers if they didn’t supply free booze for your party. So . . . we are among the first to try Original and Black Cherry Effen Vodka.”

“Effen unreal,” Brady says. “Only
you
could pul this together and manage to somehow get a liquor company to sponsor it.” He shakes his head in amazement, and we spend the next five hours making new friends and hyping Brady’s new band.

new friends and hyping Brady’s new band.

We both wake up with black cherry hangovers. The phone rings to deliver our wake-up cal , and it’s akin to a megaphone pointing directly in my ear. We went to bed approximately seventy-eight minutes ago.

“Make it
Effen
stop!” I say. Strummer looks at me like I’m talking to him, and he cocks his head to the side. “Not you, boy.”

“Hel o?” Brady moans into the phone. “Thank you,”

he says and hangs up. “Get up. Time to go. We have to be at the airport in an hour.”

“Ugggh,” I groan, dragging myself out of my bed.

I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom, and I walk over to the door and push it open.

“I’m coming in,” I say and head to the sink to wash my face.

“In here? That’s new,” he says.

“No, dumbass. You
must
stil be drunk. I’m just washing my face.”

“Wel , I’m glad that we’re comfortable enough to share a bathroom now,” he says, oozing with sarcasm.

“Not like I can see anything in there. Or
want
to. Do you pee in the shower?”

“No,” he says vehemently.

“Liar,” I say back.

“Whatever,” he says.

“Madonna does,” I say.

“She told you this?”

“No, I think I saw it on Letterman. She told Dave.

Apparently it’s good for you. She said it is.”

“This should be interesting,” Brady says.

“It prevents athlete’s foot.”

“Okay then.”

“So . . . that’s al I’m saying. Were you so inclined to pee in the shower . . . it may be gross, but it could be beneficial.”

“I don’t have athlete’s foot,” he says. “But thank you for the newsflash.”

“No problem,” I say. And then I add, “You’re probably peeing right now. Make sure you aim at your feet.”

“You’re
retarded,
” he says. I leave the bathroom and start to pack my bags. I pack four six-packs of Jolt for Brady at the bottom of my bag. Not that he’l go through al of them in Seattle, but he’l have the option—which is nice.

When we get to the airport, we have a little time to kil .

So we check in and see if they’l give us a free upgrade. They won’t. And once again, Brady has an aisle seat. He won’t budge, and I don’t want to be stuck in the window again. So I ask if there’s another aisle seat available. Turns out the aisle seat right in front of Brady is open, so I switch my seat.

When we board the plane nobody is sitting next to Brady, and I have some thinnish droopy guy sitting next to me. He’s not overweight, but he looks like at one time he was very overweight. He’s got that Jared-from-the-Subway-campaign thing going. I can almost see him proudly holding up a pair of pants that were ten sizes bigger and then stepping out in his new svelte form. Speaking of which . . . the new Subway ads have Jared with his shirt untucked—possibly hiding something?

“Wel , how’s it going?” he asks. “I’m Evan.” He smel s like chicken noodle soup.

“Fine,” I say. And knowing that my name rhyming with his wil spark al sorts of hilarity in him, and at least thirty more minutes of conversation, I decide not to tel him my name. “I’m Belinda.”

“Wel , that’s an unusual name,” he says. And I immediately wish I’d gone with Jane . . . or Mary . . . or Cathy. Maybe Sue. “You know this is the bulkhead seat, right, Belinda?”

“Yeah,” I say. “More room for us. And by the way, you misheard me. My name is Sue.”

“Wel . . . oh,” he says with an odd look. “But listen . .

. when the stewardess comes by she’s going to ask us if we’re okay with opening the emergency door and helping people exit the plane if there’s a problem.”

And then he leans in. “Just say yes,” he says.

“Okay . . .” I say.

“Wel , a pilot buddy once told me that if we crash . .

. the emergency exit door is useless, anyway. Plus, there are going to be so many cracks in the fuselage that we’d be better off just crawling out through one of the cracks.”

“Um . . . okay,” I say, not exactly sure why he’s discussing this with me moments before we take off.

I’m wondering why everything he says begins with

“wel ,” and starting to get the feeling that al is
not
wel with this man.

“And as far as helping the other passengers . . . I say—” And he doesn’t actual y say anything, but he dismisses al of humanity with a wave of his hand.

What is
wrong
with this man? I can hear Brady snickering behind me too. With his damned empty seat next to him.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say. I open up the in-flight magazine and pretend to read an article about Queen Latifah so he’l stop talking to me about plane crashes. Of course, this doesn’t work.

“Wel , when they go into their little
demonstration
about flotation devices? Just plug your ears and go
la
la la,
because if we torpedo into the ocean . . . wel , your seat cushion is about as useful as—wel , it’s not very useful. If we crash into the water, we’re al dead.

Flight 21 Soup.”

Okay . . . there is a certain way to behave on an airplane. There’s a little thing I like to cal “Jetiquette,”

the rules that govern appropriate behavior whilst flying on an airplane. I don’t know what kind of egg this Evan was hatched from, but apparently good breeding and social graces were not high on his family’s list of priorities. And just as I’m about to get up and reclaim my seat next to Brady, the fattest woman I’ve ever seen comes and sits next to him.

She barely squeezes herself into my would-be seat.

And the cherry on top is . . . she’s got an infant with her. Splendid.

“ I’ve worn dresses with higher IQs, but you think you’re an intel ectual, don’t you, ape?”

—
Wanda,
A Fish Called Wanda

“ No, no, you’ve always had that wrong about me. I real y am this shal ow.”

—
Wil ,
About a Boy

Brady

I’m sitting next to the fattest woman in the world. This is no exaggeration. There are rol s of fat overflowing into my seat, touching my arm, and I think I may very wel get sick. She’s got a baby on her lap, and I genuinely fear for that child. What if she fal s asleep and crushes it? One wrong move and that little tot is a pancake. And then if she gets
hungry
. . . oh, the horror! Al right, that’s just gross. But she’s real y fat.