Stupid and Contagious (30 page)

—but no dice.

Heaven is stil asleep and I don’t want to wake her, so I tiptoe around the room and get dressed. I watch her sleep for a minute, and I’m struck by how beautiful she
really
is. It’s not even a matter of opinion. She’s lovely. She stirs in her sleep and stretches. She opens her eyes, yawns with her delicate hand covering her mouth, and then rubs her chin for a minute.

“Morning,” I say.

“I think there’s a hair growing out of my chin,” she says.

Heaven

Waking up in hotel rooms is always awkward. For starters, sometimes you don’t know where the hel you are. And even once it kicks in, there’s stil no real comfort in that . . . no familiarity. That said, I love hotels. I love them. I don’t love that the bottom sheet is never fitted, or that they tightly wrap that filthy blanket in between the sheets instead of washing it, but I
do
love that they make no apologies for it. Some people get pissed that there’s a price tag on everything from the minibar to a tol -free number . . . but you have to—

at least—respect the earnestness and lack of pretense that comes when everything within view is striving to hoover out your wal et.

I wake up in our room at the Ramada, and Brady’s at the little desk, presiding over a bowl with a spoon—

like a wizard—waving around his magic wand. He’s got quite a little mess going. I walk over and peer over his shoulder. At the bottom of the bowl is a shal ow puddle of milky liquid in an uncertain color.

“You’re up already?” I say.

“I’m not just up. I’ve been to the store, bought the necessary ingredients, whipped up a batch of Cinnamilk, packaged it—”

I look across the desk. “In baby bottles?”

“It’s al I could find with a seal,” he says.

“And who doesn’t love babies?”

“Here,” he says, offering me the bowl. “Taste it.”

I accept. And feeling a little like I’m seven years old again having just finished a
ginormous
bowl of Lucky Charms, I tilt the bowl toward my face and drink the leftover milk. Brady’s watching me with expectant eyes, and when I emerge from the bowl with Cinnamilk on both of my cheeks, I don’t say a thing.

It’s mean, I know, but I just want to watch him squirm—

plus, it’s good practice for when he’s in the room with Schultz.

“
Well?
” he screams. “C’mon . . . what do you think?”

I can’t hold it any longer. I break out into an embarrassingly huge smile and tel him, “It’s awesome. Seriously. I can’t believe it’s not already shoulder to shoulder with the two-percent and one-percent and no-percent milks of this world. Anyone who could market this would be a fool not to hand you a check right now.”

“Real y?” he says, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re not just trying to make me feel good? Not that you’d ever do that
intentionally.
”

“Nope. Total y legit. It’s a hit,” I say, and Brady instantly picks me up into a giant bear hug. I squeeze back, and then he quickly sets me down, stepping back awkwardly.

“Anyway, it’s game day,” he says. “This is why we’re here.”

“So . . . what’s the plan?”

“Finding Howard Schultz . . . making him see the beauty of Cinnamilk.”

“Right,” I say. “But how are we going to find him?”

“We?”

“Yes, we. I’m gonna help.”

“I don’t know . . .” he says.

“Wel , I
do.
I’m coming,” I say as I walk into the bathroom. “Why don’t you take Strummer out for a walk while I shower? By the time you get back, I’l be ready to rumble.”

I turn the water on and quickly get in so he doesn’t have time to argue.

The first Starbucks we hit is on Fifth Avenue. Brady orders a latte while I case the joint. I see an unsuspecting barista refil ing the milk containers, so I sidle up to him and turn on the charm.

“Hi,” I say with this wide smile that’s usual y reserved for traffic cops.

“Good morning,” he says.

“How many times a day do you have to refil these things?”

“Oh . . . you know. As many times as they get empty.”

“Huh,” I say. And I think about what to say next because I hadn’t exactly planned this out. “So, isn’t the corporate office right around here?”

“Um . . . yeah. Sort of,” he says. And leaves it at that.

“Yeah, I thought so. What is it, five blocks from here?”

“No. It’s . . . wel , yeah, there’s a few blocks, but it’s only one avenue over.”

“Right. So it’s on . . . Fourth? No . . . Sixth?”

“No, you were right the first time. It’s on Fourth,” he says and goes back behind the counter. I catch up with Brady, who hands me a latte.

“Thank you.”

“Anything?”

“Yup. It’s on Fourth Avenue. That’s one street over.”

“Nice work.” We clink our paper coffee cups and walk out the door. We drive over to Fourth Avenue, and when we get there we come across
another
Starbucks. Why shouldn’t there be another Starbucks here? If they’re on every other corner in every other city, then I’d imagine the founding city would just be one huge Starbucks. In fact, I’m surprised they didn’t hand us a Frappuccino when we walked off the plane.

Brady walks in, and I fol ow. He orders another latte, and I begin to wonder if he’s going to get a cup of coffee at every Starbucks we hit on the way to finding Mr. Schultz, which would probably not be the best idea.

He talks to the barista at the counter and comes back looking sideways at me.

“What?” I say defensively.

“That guy just told me that the corporate office is on First, not Fourth.”

“Wel , the guy that
I
spoke to seemed like he knew what he was talking about.”

“Apparently not,” Brady says. He walks out, dumping his latte onto the sidewalk.

We drive back from Fourth to First Avenue and turn right.

“Did he tel you a cross street?” I ask.

“Yup . . . Lander.”

“Do we know which way Lander is?”

“This way,” he says. I can tel he’s nervous because he’s being a little short with me, and he’s not usual y like that. I mean, usual y he’s annoyed or flustered or pul ing his hair out. But he’s never real y short for no reason. And I understand. He’s got a big meeting in front of him. That is, if he can even get in to see this man—which is a completely different story. I sit quietly alongside him for the next few blocks because I don’t want to stress him out any more than he already is.

When we get to First and Lander, there real y is no sign of the corporate office. I guess we look lost because a skinny woman with a hair color not found in nature offers her assistance. Brady rol s down the window, and she walks over to us.

“Do you need help?” she says. “Is there an address I can help you find?”

“Yes,” Brady says. “We were told that the corporate offices of Starbucks were here, but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Wel , there’s a Starbucks a few blocks down the way . . .” she says. “But I’m not sure about the corporate headquarters.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway,” Brady says and continues driving in the direction she pointed.

“Are we going to the next Starbucks?” I ask.

“As many as it takes,” he says. And we drive a few blocks until we see another one and pul over.

Brady walks up to the counter and smiles at the girl in the Starbucks cap. “Hi there. I’m supposed to have a meeting at the corporate office, and I seem to be lost. I thought it was on First and Lander . . .”

“No,” she says, “it’s on Fourth and Lander.” As soon as I hear her say Fourth I want to give Brady an
I told
you so,
but I don’t. I refrain. Brady thanks the girl and walks over to me.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“What?”

“You
know
what! You were right. You know you want to gloat.”

“I do not,” I say defensively. “I’m just happy that we know where it is now.”

“Uh-huh . . .” he says in this I-don’t-believe-you sort of way. But I stil keep my trap shut, and we get in the car and drive
back
to Fourth Avenue. Before we get there we pass
another
Starbucks, and there’s an employee standing outside taking a smoking break.

Brady pul s over to him. “Hey,” he says to the guy.

“The corporate office is up this way?”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “It’s on Utah.”

“Utah?” Brady says, a little exasperated.

“Yeah,” he says as he takes a super-long drag off his cigarette, “2401 Utah. It’s in the old Sears building.”

“I thought it was Fourth and Lander,” Brady says, and he gives me an I-knew-you-were-wrong look, even though I kept my mouth shut during the whole First Avenue thing.

“Wel , it
is
Fourth and Lander,” he says, and I give a satisfied look back to Brady. “The cross streets are Fourth and Lander, but it’s actual y
on
Utah. It’s just up that way, 2401. You can’t miss it. It’s a big brick building with the Starbucks logo on top.”

“Thanks, bro,” Brady says, and we drive until we see it: the big brick building with the Starbucks logo as the cherry on top.

We pul up front and both get out of the car.

“This is it,” I say, and I give him a giant bear hug.

“Go kick ass.”

He starts to walk away and then runs back to the car.

“Wait! I can’t do it!” he shouts. I’m genuinely touched by his reluctance, his indecision. His fear of the unknown. He’s come al this way only to be seized by self-doubt.

“Yes you
can
!” I shout. And sensing the need for some encouragement, Strummer leaps up and bumps his head into the closed passenger window.

Brady looks at me oddly, reaching past me into the back of the car. “Not without
this
I can’t,” he says, grabbing the business plan and a Cinnamilk baby bottle.

I get in the driver’s seat, give him a wave of encouragement, and pul away. Strummer hops into the passenger seat and we crank up the radio. I told Brady I’d wait for him to go over to the vigil so we could go together. He said he’d cal me when he was done, but I don’t know how long he’s going to be, so I just drive around checking out the local sights. I pass Pike’s Market, with al of the fish throwers and the fruit stands, and I get out to buy a bag of cherries. I was going for the run-of-the-mil red ones, but the guy at the stand talks me into Rainier cherries, which are white-ish and pretty tasty. Whatever the color, the real fun of eating cherries is spitting the pits out the window. It’s a little-recognized art, and one that I’m a window. It’s a little-recognized art, and one that I’m a master of. I notice that Strummer is eyebal ing me, and I feel bad not being able to share with him—but they have pits, and I don’t want him to swal ow one. I don’t want to be responsible for a cherry tree growing in his stomach.

I spot a convenience store a block away and head over to get Strummer some dog treats.

On my way in, I pass three white kids from the suburbs on a Free Tibet hunger strike. It’s apparently Day 15 of the strike, and they don’t look happy.

They’re camped out on this makeshift bed, and they look tired, weak, and hungry. I’d bet
they’d
like some cherries.

It takes a lot of wil power for me not to try to sneak them some, but I don’t. I’d probably get blamed for al Tibetan suffering, and I get blamed for enough as it is.

I walk into the convenience store and they’ve got Seattle’s classic rock station on with “Fly Like an Eagle” blaring. I wonder what would happen if they banned certain songs or retired them permanently. It seems that classic rock boils down to like five songs on heavy rotation. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,”

Eagles—it’s a tie between “Hotel California” and “Life in the Fast Lane”—Bad Company, “Feel Like Makin’

Love,” Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” and every single Steve Mil er Band song. I reserve the right to lump them al into one song. If a moratorium were suddenly declared on al those songs, it is my assumption that classic rock stations would al go under.

I scan the aisles for dog treats as “Fly Like an Eagle” fades into “The Joker,” and my point is proven.

They have only the shitty kinds of dog treats made of garbage and nasty by-products, and I don’t want Strummer eating that crap, so instead I get him a ham and cheese sandwich. They also have Slurpee machines, only they don’t make
real
Slurpees. The flavors are Cherry and Blue Ice. I mix both. It’s not the worst, but I prefer the Cola flavor.

I also spot the Pringles and realize that I haven’t had Pringles in a very long time, and I’d like some.

When I was younger I remember eating Pringles, and how I’d stack them before I’d eat them, so I’d end up eating four or five at a time. I wonder how many Brady can eat. I hold up a can and start measuring it out in chunks, figuring out how many stacks it would take to kil a can. As I’m counting, I notice a tal good-looking guy in a Cubs cap hovering over by the magazines, watching me. So I try to explain.

“I’m seeing how many handfuls it would take to polish off a can.”

“And what have you come up with?” he says as he looks out the window. He seems a little nervous.

“I’m thinking seven,” I say. “Maybe six.”

“Ambitious,” he says, and then looks out the window again. “Did you know that cat piss glows in the dark?”

“Uh . . . no. I didn’t.”

“Wel , it does,” he says as he puts one magazine down and picks up another. He may want to work on the non sequitur, I’m not sure. Either way, I’m suddenly al the more glad that I have a dog. “I got black lights and replaced the bulbs in every room in my apartment so I could have a look-see, and it’s everywhere!