Stupid and Contagious (34 page)

“They’re special. They’re meant to be savored, one chip at a time. The ultra-thin texture . . . the crunch.

And then the melt-in-your-mouth sensation . . . not too greasy . . . not too salty . . .” Final y I’ve worked myself up into such a Pringles frenzy that I can’t take it anymore. “Give me that,” I say as I grab a tube, pop the top, and dig in. Fuck it. “I’m done playing nice with you,” I say, mouth ful of chips. “I just suffered in
jail
because of you. I think I deserve a chip.”

“Hey, you had your own woes in there, mister.”

“Did I?”

“Does trespassing and stalking ring a bel ?” she says.

“But they wouldn’t have sent the entire Seattle police force looking for me. I got dragged into
your
mess.”

“Potato . . . po-tah-to,” she says. “And by the way, you should
thank
me. At least now, because of me, Schultz wil know who you
are.
” And she reaches into the tube, takes about seventeen Pringles, and shoves them al into her mouth.

“I’l bet you’re gonna be awful y thirsty in about thirty seconds.”

“And?” she says, mouth ful of chips.

“And . . . you shouldn’t speak with your mouth ful .”

Which, natural y, makes her open wide to show me her chewed-up chips. When did I become her
brother
?
“
And . . . before you started acting like a bratty eight-year-old, I was going to offer you a beverage.”

“I real y am thirsty,” she says.

“Wel , it just so happens that I have a certain cola you might enjoy.” I pul out the Tab that I’ve had in my bag since we were in L.A. and hand it to her.

“Oh my God! Where’d you
get
this?” she squeals.

“I traded my cel mate for it. I’l have you know, that cost me three packs of smokes and a hand job.”

“Shut up, where’d you get it?”

“I got it in L.A.—I meant to give it to you before, but it just kept slipping my mind. Between Schultz’s security throwing me out and doing hard time—”

“Thank you,” she says and yanks the pul tab off the soda can. She takes a big sip and
aaah
s. Then she takes the pul tab and puts it on her ring finger like a wedding band. She holds her hand out and looks at it.

“Someday,” she says wistful y.

“Wow, a soda pop pul -tab ring. You’re easy. Most girls want their ring from Tiffany’s.”

“Wel , I’m not most girls.” She’s tel ing
me
?

Our flight home is at seven tonight, and at this point I’ve done al I can do for Cinnamilk, so we have one last day to enjoy al that is Seattle. If we actual y make it out of here in one piece, I’l be amazed.

We take a disco nap so we’re not total y useless, and then Heaven wants to go to the Experience Music Project, which is Seattle’s newest tourist attraction.

It’s a participatory museum of music, designed by Frank Gehry. I actual y wanted to check it out, too, so we head over there. And I’m kind of amazed. Frank Gehry is someone that I real y admire. Usual y his architecture is so unique and fluid and graceful, but this thing is a fucking
eyesore.
It looks like he just threw up a bunch of steel and sheet metal.

We go inside and check out these electronic kiosks that are basical y VH1’s
Behind the Music,
minus the commercials.

Jimi Hendrix col ectibles were sort of the beginning of this place. Supposedly it started with the guitar Hendrix played at Woodstock and his famous black-felt bolero hat. Now they have guitars belonging to Bo Diddley, Bob Dylan, and of course Nirvana.

They have technology that lets people who have no idea how to play music suddenly jam with their heroes. Heaven rushes off to the Onstage space, a light- and smoke-fil ed room, which al ows people to experience what it’s like to play live before an audience of thousands of screaming fans.

She sings an over-the-top rendition of “Wild Thing”

to the simulated crowd—apparently fans from a Yes concert in Los Angeles back in the day—and when she finishes, she stands there bowing repeatedly.

Just when I think she’s done, she takes another bow. I have to physical y remove her from the stage.

“Do you mind?” she says.

“Do
you
?” I say back.

“I was having a moment,” she says.

“Indeed you were. But then again, when aren’t you?”

She makes a face at me, and we walk through the rest of the museum. They have a coffee shop in there cal ed The Turntable, and there’s a gift shop where they sel CDs and other music-related items. They have what they’ve deemed the one hundred most essential CDs in rock and rol , and there’s some stuff in there that I didn’t even know they
had
on CD. This is actual y my favorite part of the whole museum.

We leave the joint feeling satisfied that we—at least

— d i d
something
you’re supposed to do when in Seattle. And Heaven wants me to see Pike’s Market, which she saw a bit of yesterday.

We head over there and find a bar cal ed Powel ’s upstairs at the market. It’s this awesome, smoky, old-man bar with an amazing view. The type of place where people drink in the daytime and everyone’s on a first-name basis.

a first-name basis.

Heaven and I decide to get smashed before our flight home, but no matter how drunk I get, I wil not forget that we made a pact when we landed here. She is taking the window seat on the way back.

“What are you going to do when we get back?” I ask her. And it makes me ask myself the same question. What the hel am I going to do about the ten grand I promised the band? I felt bad enough about lying to them about it . . . but now I feel even worse because when I get back . . . I’ve actual y got to come up with the money.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Wel . . . not to bring up a sore subject, but you kinda lost your job recently.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, obviously overjoyed that I’ve reminded her. “I can tel you what I’m
not
going to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Get another job waiting tables.”

“Good. You shouldn’t,” I say. “
Somebody’s
gotta need a great PR mind.”

She looks at me, and it becomes a stare. I’m tempted to shake it off, to ask whether I have something on my face.

“Yeah . . . I know a certain band that’s going to need a big push in a couple months,” she says. “And they’l need a boutique firm, not one of those ones with the same old tricks. Somebody who thinks outside the box. Somebody who’s newer. Gonna work harder.”

“Hmm . . .” I say as I think about this. For maybe the first time in as long as I’ve known her, I see Heaven without irony. Straight up.

“I’m serious,” she says. “What have you got to lose?”

“You definitely have a big
mouth.
”

“If I did Superhero’s PR, then you’d be working with me. Could you deal with me on a regular basis?”

“Like you’re
going
anywhere?” I say with a smile. “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice in the matter. I may as wel put you to good use at least.”

“What would I cal my firm?”

“Good question,” I say, pondering.

“Dead at 27 PR?”

“Not the most uplifting . . .”

“Cool firms have cool names . . .” she says. “Nasty Little Man . . . Girly Action . . . Big Hassle . . .”

“Okay . . . it can be a working title.”

“I
like
it,” she says confidently.

“Fine,” I say, knowing ful wel that this wil be the name of her company. And I raise my glass. “To you, and Dead at 27 . . . may you have more success than you ever dreamed of . . . and may you make Superhero famous as fuck and make both of us very, very rich!”

“Hear! Hear!” she says, and we clink.

We get to the airport and check Strummer in. It’s always hard to say good-bye to that little dude, but I know we’l see him on the other end of the flight.

Heaven

When we land back in New York, reality quickly sets in. The good thing is, the weather is nice, but I don’t want to go back to my apartment. What with the mold and everything. I’d forgotten about the mold. Brady and I retrieve Strummer, and Brady takes off with him for a run around the airport. Two little boys, wreaking havoc in JFK. I find them, both panting, at the baggage claim. My bag comes out first, and Brady’s takes six weeks. When we final y get it al together, we grab a taxi and head back to our humble abode.

Our apartment building is the same as when we left it, only our relationship isn’t. I mean, nothing happened, but it’s been five nights sleeping in the same room with Brady, so it’s gonna be weird to split up. When we get upstairs we each walk to our separate doors and look at each other. I know he’s thinking the same thing.

Brady

Final y, some peace. It wil be nice to not be responsible for Hurricane Heaven. God, my front door looks good. Brady needs some peace. Brady needs some alone time. Brady knows he needs alone time when he is talking about himself in third person. And I’m not talking hand-lotion-and-a-towel alone time—I just need to decompress. Plus, she stil has that Victoria’s Secret catalog, anyway.

Heaven

I put my key in the lock and turn.

“Wel ,” I say, “guess you’l be glad to have your place to yourself.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Not that you haven’t been good company . . . but it wil be good to have some personal space.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wel . . . good night. See ya around.”

“I’m sure you wil ,” he says. “Good night.” And we both walk into our separate spaces.

I stand in my apartment and look around. Everything looks the same. I walk over to my bed and lie down.

Brady was right. It’s good to have private time . . .

personal space. I take al of my clothes off and run a bath. And as I immerse myself in my tub of banana coconut bubbles, Strummer walks over and rests his chin on the side of the tub. I pat his head and think to myself, This ain’t too bad at al .

Brady

This sucks. How is it
possible
that I final y have Heaven out of my hair, and al I’m doing is wondering what she’s doing? This can’t be normal. I must just be overtired.

I wonder what Strummer is thinking. I’l bet
he
misses me. Crazy mongrel with his love that goes on and on.

I need ten thousand dol ars.

Wait a second.
On and on
. . . like the love that the compilation keeps bringing to Phil and me and Sleestak records. That’s
it.
Or anyway, it’s worth a shot. I’l cal Phil right now, and we’l go al in. We’l stake the revenue stream from the compilation as col ateral for a loan and bet our whole future on an unknown Superhero.

Heaven

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. So much so, that this morning when I get up I decide that I wil eat breakfast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I even make a smal bowl of oatmeal for Strummer because his nose is twitching while I’m eating mine, and I take that to mean he wants some too. Oatmeal and dogs are not a very good fit. His face ends up covered in dried oatmeal. But he’s happy. And isn’t that what it’s al about?

I’m listening to the Superhero demo that Brady gave me, thinking about marketing ideas for them, when my phone rings.

“Hel o?”

“Heaven,” an unmistakable Albanian voice says. “I am on break. I must talk with you. If you have time right now?”

“Marco?”

“Who else do you know who sounds like this?”

Marco says.

“What’s going on, kiddo?”

“Can I speak with you? In person?”

“Sure,” I say, and I agree to meet him at the little park across the street from Temple.

When I get to the park I spot Marco pacing, and I notice that he’s wearing a blazer, which is very uncharacteristic. He looks almost dressed up.

“Hi, sunshine!” I say and give him a big hug. “How’s the restaurant?”

“How do you think? It is awful. Same as always,” he says. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. “I have received bad news.”

“What is it?”

“My visa is expiring in four days.”

“Oh no!” I say, truly alarmed.

“I don’t know why I don’t have received this paper before now. If the idiots think I can resolve this in four days, I don’t know how.”

“Wil you have to go back to Albania?”

“Eventual y, yes,” he says.

“In the next four days?”

“No, of course not in the next four days. I can’t. And Jean Paul made me a fake social security number when I started, and now when I cal ed for my visa they have two social security numbers—and I have no proof of working, and I can’t work in the restaurant without my visa. It is some mess. Why Jean Paul gave me fake social security number I don’t know.”

“Wel , why
would
he?”

Marco sighs. “Because when I was hired I didn’t have one yet, and he just said that he made it up to be finished with paperwork.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

“Yes,” Marco says. He lights another cigarette with the one that he’s just about totaled.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I say. “Is there anything that I can do?” It’s in that second that I real y regret asking, because Marco gets down on both knees. I think he’s about to propose to me, but he
can’t
real y be about to propose to me, can he? He is. This is awful.

“I am not sure of what is to be proper. Am I to be on both knees or one knee?” he says, and I want to cry. I adore this little dude, and I would real y do whatever I could to help him out . . . but there is no
way
I am going to marry him.