Stupid and Contagious (29 page)

And I’m real y wishing Heaven and I didn’t change our seating arrangements.

“They make these seats so smal !” the woman exclaims, and I bite my tongue. “I hate flying,” she adds.

“I do too,” I say, and I pul out my iPod.

“God, this is a tight squeeze,” she continues. Does she real y need to keep bringing this up? The
Suez
Canal
would be a tight squeeze for you, lady! “Did you know that Southwest Airlines actual y makes heavier people buy two seats?
Two
seats?” she scoffs. And I’m thinking, two . . . maybe
three.
Then again, it’s not such a bad idea. She is clearly in my personal space. “Do you think that’s fair?”

How am I supposed to handle this one? I feel Heaven’s eyes on me, and indeed they are. She is peering through the seats in front of me with this shit-eating grin, just waiting for my response.

“Um . . .” I say, “no, I guess it’s not fair.” And I should have stopped it there, but of course I’m a little miffed, so I keep going. “If it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, so if I’m what society cal s
fat,
and it’s because my thyroid doesn’t work properly, then I
shouldn’t
have to pay for two seats . . . but if I’m fat because I just can’t stop stuffing my face then I
deserve
to pay double? Is that what you’re saying?” I look at Heaven, who is nodding her head
yes.
She’s egging me on, but she doesn’t have to sit next to this woman.

“Sort of?” I say, and I almost wince like she’s going to hit me or something. I regret it as soon as I say it. In fact, I even tried to stop, but it just came out. I think Heaven may be rubbing off on me. This is not a good thing.

“Wel , that is a violation of my rights as a human being,” she says. “Do they make people with body odor pay for two seats because the person sitting next to them is uncomfortable having to smel their stink?” Sounds good to me.

“I don’t know. Until now, I didn’t even know they made . . .
larger
people pay for two seats.”

“Wel , they don’t. There is no
smelly
penalty. I mean, I’d rather sit next to a fat person than someone who hasn’t bathed since the Reagan administration.”

“I’m with you there,” I say. But you
are
obese. So why would you mind sitting next to someone who is obese, is what I’m thinking.

“You’re with me there, but you stil think I should have bought two seats,” she says with some attitude.

“No, no, not you,” I say. “I wouldn’t put
you
into that category.” Here I go, trying to worm my way out of this one. “You shouldn’t have to pay extra.”

“Oh?” she says.

“No!” I say in a way that total y dismisses the sil y possibility that she could be overweight. She puffs up a little like a happy bird. Heaven is mouthing something, and I’m trying to make it out. I can’t. So she turns to the annoying plane-crash guy sitting next to her.

“I wonder if they’l have
chicken
on this flight,”

Heaven says, bulging her eyes out at me. So that’s it.

She’s cal ing me chicken. Fine, I can live with that. I’d rather be chicken than have this woman hate me for the next two hours and thirty-seven minutes. Thank God this isn’t a cross-country flight. How much can go wrong in two hours?

“Wel , thank you,” the fattest woman alive says. “I do struggle a bit with my weight, but I’ve lost some weight recently. Maybe it shows.” Damn right it shows. But if you pul ed your pants up a little, it might
not
so much.

And she lost weight? You mean to tel me she was fatter?

“Wel , I didn’t know you before, but you look great,” I say, and Heaven actual y laughs. I kick her seat in front of me.

“This is Henry,” she says as she smiles at the baby boy. “I think I just put on some baby-weight.” So when are you due, I wonder. And how many are you having?

“He’s just two months old,” she says proudly.

“He’s real y cute,” I say. And I browse through the artists on my iPod, close my eyes, and start listening to Bright Eyes.

Within fifteen minutes I feel something on my arm.

It’s warm and fleshy, and I think it’s got to be one of her folds of fat—but she was wearing long sleeves. I can’t imagine what it is. I open one eye and immediately shut it. I squeeze it so tight that I also inadvertently start holding my breath because I’m in something of a state of shock.

This woman has whipped out her big fat tit and is breast-feeding! I know, breast-feeding is a beautiful thing, and blah, blah, fucking blah. But her giant tit is resting on my arm, and that is not okay. It’s
wrong.
I’m sorry. It is just . . . plain . . .
wrong.
And I don’t care how hungry little Henry is. Can’t he wait two hours to eat?

No, of course he can’t. What—
wait to eat
? That’s a concept that his mother certainly never seems to have wrapped her head around.
F u c k .
My eyes are squeezed so tight that I’m giving myself a headache.

And it’s not like if I don’t look at it, it’s going to go away. It’s
on
me. Her bare boob is touching me. I feel it. Something must be done. I take off my iPod and look at her, hoping she’l notice that we are in a bit of a
situation
here.

“You like that? You like it?” she is saying to baby Henry, and it’s almost obscene. She’s got nipples the size of kneecaps and she’s cooing and
ooh
ing while Henry is feeding from her massive breast. It’s making my stomach turn.

Forget the fat penalty or the stink penalty . . . there should
definitely
be a penalty for this shit. And she ought to fucking pay
me
!

Brady

By the time we land, I’m so happy to get off the plane that I jump up, grab my bag from the overhead bin, and grab Heaven’s, too—because the faster we’re out of here, the sooner I can put this flight out of my mind forever.

I think I get a hernia lifting Heaven’s bag.

“What the hel ?” I groan. “Why is your bag like eighty times heavier than it was in L.A.?”

“Oh . . . I packed some Jolt—for
you.
”

“Did you pack
all
of it?”

“No, just a few six-packs.”

“Thank you,” I reluctantly say.

“You’re welcome,” she says, completely oblivious to how heavy her bag is. No wonder the flight attendant seemed a little put off helping her get it up there.

Luckily it’s on wheels, so we can get it out of there without too much effort. We get Strummer from the cargo, and I think both Heaven and I envy
whatever
circumstances he flew under. That’s probably a first.

But it couldn’t have been worse than what
we
endured.

When we get outside we make a pact not to switch seats like that ever again. Heaven even offers to take the window seat from Seattle back to New York. As long as I don’t mention plane crashes, natural disasters, or for some reason the words
moist
and
panties.
I ask her why, and she just shudders and says she hates those words. A few seconds later she adds
enthused
to the list.

We get our rental car at the airport, and the first thing I do is transfer the Jolt cans from Heaven’s bag into the trunk of the car so I don’t have to lift that bag ever again. They gave us a white Ford Focus, which is certainly an improvement from the hideous gold one we had in Los Angeles. And what’s with the Ford Focus? It seems to have the market cornered on rental cars for people who can’t afford rental cars.

We’re in Seattle. It’s sixty-two degrees and sunny.

This is not the rainy Seattle that I’ve heard about.

We’re staying at the Ramada Inn downtown. It’s conveniently located seven blocks from the Convention Center, seven blocks from Pike’s Market, and seven blocks from the Space Needle. I’m also fairly certain that it’s near the Starbucks corporate office—which I wil find.

Heaven and I check in, and the clerk at the front desk is abnormal y cheery. I know it’s part of customer service to act friendly, but this woman is borderline psycho. You know those commercials for the antidepressant Zoloft? With the happy little bouncing-bal character? She’s like that bal in human form.

Times a thousand. Her name is Annie, she’s original y from Ohio, and she’l be happy to help us with anything we should need.

“I’l be right here, manning the decks. So if you need something . . . you just pick up that phone, and guess who’s gonna be there to help?” Annie says.

“You are?” I say, playing along.

“
Exactly,
”

she

says

with

this

confusing

conspiratorial nod. Like she’l be there
always
—day or night. I pick up the phone . . . she’s gonna answer.

She doesn’t sleep . . . she doesn’t eat. She’s happy Annie and she’s here to help. She’s starting to real y freak me out, so I tug on Heaven’s sleeve and we go upstairs to check out our room.

Our room is average. Twin beds, like at the Hyatt, but no restaurant/bar downstairs. Wel , there is one, but it’s not exactly the same as the one under the Riot House. No celebrity sightings here. But that doesn’t matter. Because Howard Schultz is in Seattle. And I am going to become a rich man, very soon.

The phone rings, and Heaven picks it up. It’s Annie.

“Hi, Annie,” she says and gives me a look. “No, so far we’ve found everything okay. Okay . . . thanks a lot.” Heaven hangs up the phone. “That woman sure likes her job.”

Heaven and I are unpacking, and al of a sudden she pul s out a picture of Kurt Cobain and one of those big white candles like you see in church. She props the picture up next to the candle and then lights it. This is new. She didn’t do this in L.A.

“Um . . .” I say. “What do we have here? A little altar?”

“You could say that.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“You don’t know what tomorrow is?” she asks with wide eyes.

“Monday?”

“April 5, 2004.”

“Should this mean something to me?”

“It’s ten years to the day since Kurt Cobain kil ed himself,” she says.

“Wow. I can’t believe it’s actual y been ten years.”

“I know . . .” she says and she looks real y sad.

“Not to be morbid, but weren’t there a few days that went by before he was actual y . . . found?”

“Yes,” she says.

“So is tomorrow—”

“April 5,
tomorrow,
is the day that he kil ed himself.

April 8 is the day that Gary Smith, that
electrician,
found his body.”

“Ah,” I say. I know this is a big deal to her—and frankly, it’s kind of a big deal to me, too. I mean, I’ve never thought I’l end up dead at twenty-seven like she does, but Kurt’s death real y bummed me out. Like Elvis or the Beatles . . . when Nirvana came onto the scene, they pretty much
saved
music. And sadly, I think that for a number of years now everyone’s been waiting for someone else to come along and do it again. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some real y good stuff going on in music lately. In fact, I’m more excited about music
right now
than I have been for years. But stil , Kurt . . . he was something special.

“There’s going to be a vigil to mark the ten-year anniversary of his death.”

“Real y? Did you know this ahead of time?”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

“So were you going to come out to Seattle anyway?”

“No, probably not. I would have had my own little ceremony at home. But it just worked out perfectly.

Plus, maybe Dave Grohl wil be there and propose to me.

“He’s married,” I remind her. “Where is it?”

“The original one was at the Seattle Center, so I’m thinking probably there,” she says with astonishing authority. “But some people wil probably go to the Young Street Bridge, or to the benches at Viretta Park near his house, where some of his ashes are scattered. So sad . . .”

“I know,” I say empathetical y. She gets quiet and looks at her picture of Kurt. Strummer can sense her sadness, so he walks over and rests his head on Heaven’s knee.

Every morning when I wake up I am humbled by the realization that I am not a rock star or an astronaut or a fighter pilot/international spy/gladiator/wealthy jet-setting playboy et cetera. I’m just an average guy who has to get up and drag his ass to work—and is way too dependent on coffee. That said, I
do
understand that my
average
life is stil far less mundane than the suit-and-tie guys that push paper al day long.

But this morning is different. I wake up and practical y jump out of the bed. And as far as my dependence on coffee? Wel , that can only serve me wel today because I don’t care if I have to hit every Starbucks in Seattle to find him . . . Howard Schultz and I are going to have a sit-down.

This sounds il conceived, I know. But it’s real y more a case of wanting the whole experience to happen natural y . . . magical y . . . without too much forethought or calculation. Cinnamilk is a long shot, albeit an inspired one. And my business plan makes a pretty good case for it. But if it’s going to be part of standard fare at Starbucks the world over, I’m gonna need a lot of luck. So my plan al along? Don’t plan too much.

I look in the yel ow pages for the corporate headquarters. But there’s no listing. I try cal ing information again, and I even cal the 1-800 number again and try to trick them into giving me the address