Stupid and Contagious (36 page)

“See this thing?” I say to Heaven.

“Yeah?”

“I invented it,” I tel her.

“You don’t say.”

“Wel , not this, but my own variation of it. Move over here,” I say because I don’t want anyone to hear me.

“It’s cal ed the Catch-It Cone.”

“Okay?”

“When I invented it they didn’t even have these plastic thingies. But mine is the whole cone!”

“I don’t fol ow . . .” she says.

“Okay, my cone, the Catch-It Cone, has
this
plastic rim thing
built into the cone.
And not plastic. In cone .

. . wafer . . . whatever the hel they make it out of. So, yes, it does the same job as this thing . . . but mine is edible! More cone. More sugary goodness. No ice cream drips on your brand-new summer tank top. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” she asks.

“I have no idea. Or maybe I have
every
idea . . . I don’t know. But then again, none of them ever seem to go anywhere—”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

“No, I was focusing on Cinnamilk. And we saw how wel
that
worked out for me.”

“Hey,” she says. “Don’t be negative. You don’t know what wil come of it.”

“I think I do. A whole lotta nothing.”

“Wel , there are other investors,” she says. “Plus, there’s your MP3 Flush, and this cone thing. One of them is bound to hit.”

“Speaking of hits . . . did they have the folders?”

“Yeah, right here.” She holds up the Staples bag and looks down at her arm. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” she says, pointing to something on her arm that I don’t see.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“That red spot!” she says with alarm.

“That’s a freckle!”

“It wasn’t there
before
. . .” she says as she inspects her entire arm.

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not cute.”

“Then it’s mine,” I say. “If you don’t like it, it’s mine.

I’l cal it Brady.”

“My freckle?”

“Yes.”

“You’re naming my freckle after yourself?” she says.

“And you think
I
have issues?”

“It’s like a star. People buy stars in the constel ation and name them after people al the time. As gifts.”

“So then are you
buying
my freckle? Because I don’t know if you can afford my freckle. My freckles don’t come cheap, you know.”

“I’ve already claimed it,” I declare. “It’s not up for discussion anymore. Just eat your ice cream. And don’t spil any on Brady.”

“Wel , I
could
guarantee that I wouldn’t if I had a Catch-It Cone . . . but some lazy slob is too busy putzing around to bother
inventing
it.”

I’m taking my trash out at 7:29 when I see
Darren
Fucking Rosenthal
walking around our hal way looking at the different apartment doors like a simian.

At first I’m thinking he’s come to congratulate me on beating him out for the band, but the door he stops at .

. . is Heaven’s.

“Darren?” I say as I push my ice cream back down my throat.
This
is who she had plans with?

“Hey, man!” he says. Man? I’m not his man—or his boy or his bro.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Coming to fetch my girl,” he says. My head is instantly on fire, and I want to knock his teeth out.

Don’t say “my girl.” She is not
your
girl. She is not your anything. She may have
once
been your girl. But your anything. She may have
once
been your girl. But that time has come and gone.

“Your girl?” I say, stil playing stupid.

“What are
you
doing here?” he asks, ignoring me.

“Oh, right . . . you’re neighbors.” And suddenly I’m reduced to a neighbor. We are
more
than neighbors.

Way more. Aren’t we?

“Yeah, we’re neighbors,” I say. “Seriously . . .
why
are you here
?”

“I just told you. I’m taking Heaven out.”

“Why?” I say, suddenly sounding like a bitchy teenage girl whose parents have just told her that she can’t spend the night at Becky’s.

“Because I want to,” he says. “Because she used to be my girlfriend. And who knows . . . she might be again—”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I mean, there must have been a reason you guys broke up, right?

Why move backwards in life? Never move backwards. You gotta move forward.”

“I miss her,” he says.

Fucker. “Wel , you didn’t miss her for the past few years. You were
fine
until you saw her in L.A.”

“Okay . . . I see what’s up. I get it.”

“You do?” I say.

“Yeah, man, it’s cool,” he says. “I mean . . . she’s awesome. How can you
n o t
dig her?” And for a minute I start to feel better. Until he says, “But seriously, dude . . . you didn’t think you’d get the girl either, did you?”

Huh?

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea . . . you and her,” I say.

“Wel , I
do.
”

“Give me
one
good reason.”

“Fine,” he says. And he thinks to himself and smiles. “Okay . . . here’s one. Heaven and I used to practical y live together. I mean . . . we were together al the time. And I went home for Christmas vacation, you know—to see the folks.”

“Isn’t Rosenthal
Jewish
?”

“Yeah,” he says. “So? Whatever, winter break—”

“Fine. Go on.”

“So I’m gone for like two weeks . . . and the day I get back, I leave the airport and head straight to Heaven’s place—where she’s waiting for me.”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“So I ring her bel . . .” he says, raising his hands in front of him like he’s ringing her bel , “and she answers the door, naked. Completely butt naked . . .

but with one red rose stuck in between her ass cheeks. I mean . . . how do you
not
love a girl who does that?”

And just then Heaven opens her door, looking
of
course
like a twelve on a scale of one to ten.

“I thought I heard voices,” she says. “Hey,” she says to Darren. “You two know each other, right?”

I walk back into my apartment, and the blinking light on my answering machine is taunting me, giving me its little red evil eye. I resign myself to hearing another humiliating Sarah screed.

I press the Play button.

“Hi, this is Brady Gilbert. I missed your cal , but
you
missed a scintil ating moment with me. If you’d like to try to recapture that moment . . . leave a message, and I’l cal you back.” Beep.

“Brady . . . this is Sam . . . from Superhero. Sam.

Hey . . . we wanted to let you know that we’re real y sorry and everything, but we’re going to go with Darren Rosenthal. It’s not anything with you guys or the contracts, but Darren’s thing is just probably better for us now. At this point. And . . . so, anyway . . . sorry.

And . . . I guess we’l see you around.”

“ If somebody doesn’t believe in me, I can’t believe in them.”

—
Andie,
Pretty in Pink

“ She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart . . . she gave me a pen.”

—
Lloyd,
Say Anything

Heaven

Darren and I are seated at a table in the back of Aqua Gril . A couple minutes after we’re seated, this big party gets put next to us at the prime table, which was no doubt reserved for them. Sean Puffy Combs, or P.

Diddy, or Ditty—or whatever we’re supposed to cal him this week—is in the group. So is Russel Simmons, who goes by Russel Simmons. I don’t recognize the other people, but they make a hel of a scene when they walk in. Russel gets seated closest to me.

“How’s it goin’?” Russel says to us.

“Good, thanks,” we both say.

“Do you know those guys?” I ask Darren, thinking he might since he’s in the same business.

“No,” he says. “I’ve seen him out at functions, but I don’t real y know him.”

“Guess he’s just real y friendly,” I say.

We order some appetizers from the raw bar, and they bring us the complimentary salmon tartare on those waffle potato chips that I always end up dreaming about after I’ve been here. Yes, they’re
that
good.

“So this lady dies,” Darren says. “And this is a true story—”

“Someone you knew?”

“No,” he says. “A friend of a friend. And her family goes to the funeral home and is making arrangements for the woman. The funeral director is asking questions about her, what kind of casket would she like, what kind of flowers did she like, what kind of music did she like?”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m not sure if I should be eating the tartare or if I’m supposed to hold off because this is a serious story that requires a moratorium on the waffle chips.

“So the daughter picks out a mahogany wood casket, tel s the guy her mother liked white roses, and that she real y liked Elvis. So when they come to the wake a day or so later they find their mother, lying in a casket in a white studded Elvis jumpsuit, with muttonchop sideburns glued onto her face and her rigor mortis lips curled into the trademark Elvis snarl.”

“No! This has to be a joke.”

“No, I’m tel ing you,” he says. “So the daughter pul s a different funeral director aside and asks him where the guy she spoke with is, and wants to know what the hel happened to her mother. The guy she first spoke to isn’t there, so this funeral director takes her to the office, and together they look at the work order and they see that the first guy wrote ‘Like Elvis’ instead of

‘Liked Elvis.’”

“That’s insane,” I laugh.

“It’s supposedly true.”

“Oh my God.”

Darren rips off a piece of bread and dunks it in some olive oil. “So, uh . . . what’s up with you and Brandon?”

“Brady?” I ask, knowing ful wel that Darren probably knows his name, but he’s pul ing that dick move guys do when they’re jealous.

“Yeah, Brady.”

“Nothing’s up,” I say, playing dumb. “Why?”

“You guys more than friends?”

“Nope,” I say.

“You just travel together?”

“Yup.”

“That’s kinda weird, don’t you think?”

“We’re just friends,” I say as a couple of people walk over to the hip-hop table and say hi to Russel .

They sort of seem to reintroduce themselves, and Russel is total y cordial. He nods and says “Good to see you,” and then as soon as they leave the table he says, “Never seen that motherfucker in my life,” and his whole table laughs.

Our appetizers come, and Darren orders a bottle of wine. He knows I get drunk on wine, but I don’t object.

When the waiter comes back to do the wine service I almost cringe. This is the first time this is being done for me since I got fired, and it brings back al kinds of bad memories. I’m overly friendly to the waiter. I’ve always been nice to waiters, but now I feel like I’m in the club, so there’s a different bond.

Darren holds his glass up, so I raise mine as wel .

“To us finding each other again,” he says. I give him a look as I think, Wel , I’ve been right here. We clink our glasses and drink.

“So you didn’t tel me what you’re doing here,” I say.

“I’m here a lot. I’m working out of our New York office. I’m thinking about getting a place here again.”

“Wow,” I say. A
flat
wow.

And then another group of fans, or friends, goes to say hi to the Puffy/Simmons table. This is the third or fourth time people have interrupted them in seven minutes. Must be annoying to be them, I think. But they don’t seem to mind. They’re having a great time.

They’re laughing and tel ing stories, and they’re loud.

They are
really
loud.

“Do you think I’m losing my hair?” Darren asks.

“No!” I say. When Darren and I were together he used Rogaine regularly, and he wasn’t even close to balding. I think he was using it as a preventive thing, but he was always paranoid about his hair, and it looks like he stil is. “You have as much hair as you had the last time I saw you.”

“The last time in L.A.,” he says, “or the last time a few years ago?”

“Both. Relax.” I sip my wine.

“So what did Sydney say when you told her that you were having dinner with me?”

“She said what she always says about you.”

“Which is?” he asks.

“‘He sucks.’”

“Yeah,” he says, chomping on a piece of bread,

“she never liked me. What does she know?”

“She knows how you treated me.”

“I wasn’t
that
bad,” he says. And then he gives me this innocent look and bats his eyelashes.

Right then someone at Russel ’s table points to someone sitting at another table. “See that guy over there?” Russel ’s friend says, and his whole table looks—and so do I. The guy looks like some self-important dude in an Armani suit, which he probably has in every color. He’s got his nose stuck in the air, and you can just tel he’s a jerk. “Back in the eighties,”

the guy goes on, “I was in a club chil in’ one night . . .

and when I went to the bathroom . . . that guy’s girlfriend came in after me. I busted a nut in her mouth

. . . and then she walked out there right after and kissed that nigga on the
lips
!” The whole table erupts with laughter and high fives.

“Plus, I’ve grown up since then,” Darren continues.

“Oh yeah?” I say, trying to keep a straight face—not because of Darren, but because of what I just overheard. Because that was real y fucking funny.