Stupid and Contagious (38 page)

“What happened? What changed your mind?”

There’s another pause. “A couple things,” Sam says. “Number one, you. Some things you said about the shitty ride and having someone with silk . . . I don’t remember exactly, but we al decided we want to go with someone real.”

“What was the second thing?”

“The Stones,” Sam says.
Huh?

“The Stones?”

“Darren cal ed us last night and promised to ‘make us the next Stones.’”

Then it comes back to me.
Crooked.
Big-company bul shit. My story about how the label once promised me that we’dbe the next Stones.

“We won’t make you the next Stones,” I tel him.

“There’s already a Stones. But there’s never been a Superhero.”

“Yeah, okay, I gotta go,” he says distractedly.

“We’re rehearsing.”

“Al right. I’l look for those contracts. Take it easy, man,” I say. So much for my poetic moment.
But we
got the band back.

I stay at Zach’s for the rest of the week. I go commando for the first two days, but I break down when my socks reek so bad that they almost smel like food. (Obviously not a food anyone would want to eat, but not your run-of-the-mil foot stench either. It’s kind of an accomplishment, I gotta say.) So when I go and buy my three-pack of socks, I pick up some boxer shorts as wel .

I pass a woman pushing a strol er as I walk out of the store, and I get a shooting pain in my left eye.

Sarah. The pregnancy. Is it mine? Is it human?

I head over to her place and fol ow an old woman into the building. When I get to my old front door I’m bitter al over again about losing my rent control, but there are bigger issues at hand. I knock and hold my breath. Sarah opens the door with a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Hi, asshole,” she says.

“Nice to see you, too.”

“Who said it was nice to see you?” she says.

“Look, something’s real y been bothering me.”

“Wondering if I’m stil into you?” she says.

“No. Wondering if my baby is into you. Sarah, I know we had some hard times, but you know I’d always . . . do the right thing . . . whatever it is.”

“How about grovel? Would you grovel?”

“If it provided a healthy environment for the child, sure I’d grovel. But . . . is there a child? And if so . . .”

There’s no easy way to ask this of the last person on earth you’d want to be carrying your baby. “Is it mine?”

Sarah doesn’t answer at first. She just looks at me with a smile that holds no maternal bliss and brims instead with eternal hel fire. “First of al , let me say that you are the last person on earth whose baby I’d want to carry.” At least we’re in agreement. “Second of al , I’m not sure what groveling would do for the kid, but it would do
me
a world of good. And third of al . . . no.

I’m not pregnant. I missed a period, but I think it was just my new pil .”

And then I say a prayer for Phil and any other man who should stagger into Sarah’s life. Please, God . . .

don’t ever let her forget to take that pil .

I can tel Zach is sick of babysitting me, so I spend my last night in New York with Jonas and his girlfriend.

This turns out to be a very bad idea because I’m faced with a happy couple and I keep thinking about Heaven and Darren. And that fucking rose. The only thing that sustains me is the pending trip to L.A.

where we wil be cutting soon-to-be-overplayed singles for Superhero (formerly a property of Rosenthal and Company).

Phil and I get to JFK. Neither of us is checking bags. I actual y recognize the airport staff since I was just here, but they don’t seem to remember me.

When we get on the plane Phil apologizes for sitting in the window seat.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says. “It just happened that way when they got booked.” I guess a lot of people real y like to look out the window. I’m just not one of them. I prefer freedom. But that doesn’t stop me from guilting Phil for at least ten minutes and working it to my advantage in the form of his bag of peanuts.

The flight is pretty uneventful, but when I’m waiting for the lavatory (why they can’t just cal it a bathroom, I don’t know) I bump into that fucking guy I sat next to last year on my way back from South by Southwest.

Old pancake-hands, who wouldn’t shut up for the whole trip. He walks out of the bathroom and lights up when he sees me.

“Hey, bro!” he says. “Marc! Remember me? We’re like flight buddies or something,” he says as he puts his hand out to shake. I can’t help but wonder if he washed his hands, and I’m reluctant to shake. But I figure I’m going in next, so I’l just wash my hands real y good, before and after.

“Yeah, man. I remember. How are ya?”

“Real y good,” he says. “I took a job at Virgin. Just moving the last of my stuff out to Lost Angeles. You?” I don’t want to get into it. I don’t want to tel him anything. I just want to take a piss.

“No news here.”

“I saw Sean Combs’s Broadway opening last night.

A Raisin in the Sun.
Powerful stuff, man. Real y powerful.”

“So he’s Sean Combs now? Not Puffy or P.

Diddy?” I don’t even know why I’m continuing this dialogue, so I put the kibosh on it. “Anyway, good seeing you,” I say, and I walk into the bathroom, slide the knob to OCCUPIED, and wash my hands twice before I even unzip my pants.

Phil and I check back into the Riot House, and it feels total y wrong. I’m on a different floor at least, but everywhere I turn, I have flashbacks of Heaven.

Luckily, I’l be spending most of my time in the studio.

I’ve deleted al of Heaven’s messages. I just can’t stand to hear her voice. It makes me lose my focus and think of her and Darren.

I’m in the recording studio in Burbank. Things are real y jammin’ when they tel me I have an urgent phone cal . Without thinking, I pick it up.

“Hi, remember me?” Heaven says, sounding pretty upset. Urgent? I should have figured.

“The voice sounds vaguely familiar,” I say, teasing her, trying to keep it light.

“Where have you been?”

“Where do you
think
? I’m with the band. We’re recording.”

“I know you’re there
now,”
she says. “But what about the two weeks before now? I didn’t know if something happened to you. I mean, you just
disappeared.
You didn’t even say good-bye.”

“I didn’t know I had to check in with you.”

“I don’t know . . . I would have thought maybe you would have wanted me to come with you.”

“I’ve got it under control . . . I don’t need you here.”

“Okay,” she says. “I just thought . . . I thought you’d maybe at least tel me you were leaving.”

“I didn’t tel you last time either,” I say in a monotone. “You just happened to find out because you opened my mail. By the way, have I missed anything good this week?”

“I’m serious, Brady,” she says. “I was worried!”

“Wel , don’t. I’m not yours to worry about. And you’re not mine.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“It means you do whatever you want, and you don’t bother explaining to anyone. So don’t expect it to be any different for me. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need to get your permission to leave town.”

“Fine,” she says in the smal est voice I’ve ever heard. She sounds so hurt, and it breaks my heart.

“Good,” I say back, because I can’t fal under her spel right now. I need to stay focused.

“Wel . . . how’s the band?”

“Great. Almost done.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” she says.

“Yeah. Anyway, I gotta get going.”

“Don’t you want to hear what
I’ve
been doing?”

“Sure.” I exhale.

“I got the LLC set up, and Dead at 27 is official y in business.”

“That’s great, Heaven. I’m happy for you.”

“Wel , since Zach told me you were back on, al I’ve been doing is Superhero stuff,” she says. “And I already have a lot of things in the works. You’re gonna love it. I can’t wait for you to see it, in fact—”

“Brady, listen to this playback,” the sound engineer says.

“I gotta run,” I say to Heaven, and I hang up the phone. I didn’t even want to give her the chance to ask when we’d speak next because I just can’t deal. I know I did the right thing . . . for me. She’s hung up on her ex, or back together with him for al I know. I
definitely
did the right thing. So why do I feel so awful?

When the engineer plays back the last mix, I’m When the engineer plays back the last mix, I’m blown away. Everyone, including the band, thinks it sounds better than expected. Phil and I hug each other, then hug the band, and it’s a fucking lovefest.

We do everything short of holding hands and breaking into “Kumbaya.”

A couple days later I’m driving with Phil down Sunset, and I see al of these posters plastered on buildings, lampposts, boarded-up windows along the way. They look like tricked-up old-time comic book pop art, and each one says only one thing, like SPLAT! or KAPOW! or BAM! I take it as a sign. Those are the kinds of things that you’d find in Superhero comic books. I point them out to Phil, and he smiles.

“Ever think that God is sending you little messages to let you know you’re on the right track?” I ask.

“Al the time,” Phil says.

We’re sitting in El Compadre, celebrating with the band, when Sam looks up and says one of my least favorite things, “Hey, Darren!” I look up and see that horse-faced motherfucker. I can’t seem to escape him no matter what coast I’m on. He puts out his hand to me.

“Hey, Brady, how’s it goin’?”

I change my mind. He’s not horse-faced. More like a mule. But either way, stil a motherfucker. “Good, man. Just finishing up the record.”

“Can’t wait to hear it,” he says. “You know I’m their biggest fan. Seems you and I have very similar tastes,” he says. It takes every bit of my strength not to crush him. But then . . .
then
. . . this fake-titted blond ditz walks up behind him and puts her arms around his waist.

“We’l float you a copy of the record,” Sam says to Darren.

“Cool,” Darren says.

“Come on, baby, I’m hungry,” the blonde says. “Hi, I’m Charity,” she says. She smiles a perfect, cap-toothed, pearly smile, then flips her hair. If there were a pole in the middle of this restaurant, I promise you she’d be writhing around it.

Suddenly I’m feeling like a father who’s just caught his daughter’s first boyfriend cheating on her.

Now, I am not a man of violence. I’m not. In fact, I’m general y against it and have never been one to start a fight. But when I see Darren with this fucking bimbo, and think that he’s fucking around on Heaven . . .

again
. . . I can’t help myself. Without even thinking, I stand up and punch him in the face. He stumbles backwards, and then blood starts pouring out of the nose on his real y confused face. People gasp, and Charity shrieks. And I thought al she was capable of doing was flipping her hair.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Darren says. Charity reaches into her pocketbook and pul s out one of those mini o.b. tampon things. She rips open the little packet and shoves the thing up into his nose.

“Here, baby,” she says.

“Why’d you fucking hit me?” Darren asks.

“Why do you
think,
dumbass?” I say, shaking like a ride cymbal but stil ful of testosterone. “Because you’re fucking around on Heaven . . . again.”

“What the fuck are you
talking
about?” he says.

“You’re an asshole!” I shout. And I storm out of the restaurant because my hands are getting clammy, and I’m feeling about ten thousand different emotions.

I can’t tel if I want to pass out or do a cartwheel, but in case it’s the former I don’t want to do it in front of the band—and least of al , Darren. If it’s the latter, I’l need the room.

I get outside and just walk. I walk up Sunset and breathe. I breathe and I think. And I shake my hand out a bit because it fucking hurts. I’m a few blocks away when my cel phone rings. It’s Heaven. This time I answer it.

“Hi,” I say.

“You’re an asshole,” she says. “Darren just cal ed me.”

“And
I’m
the asshole? I did it for
you.
That prick is with another girl!”

“Good,” she practical y yel s. “He has every right to b e !
Nothing
happened between me and him that night! You know why? Because of
you
!” She growls,

“God, you’re an idiot.” And then she hangs up on me. I stand there trying to figure out what just happened. I replay the conversation in my head, and even though she just cal ed me an idiot . . . it’s the best thing I’ve heard al week.

I start walking back toward El Compadre, and I come across another one of those expletive flyers.

POW! it says. But as I get closer I see something else it says at the bottom, and I do a double take. It says:

“Superhero . . . they’re about to save music.”

Are you kidding me?
She’s
the mastermind behind this? Al of these posters and flyers are Heaven’s doing. It’s perfect. Almost
all
superheroes have a secret identity. Rather than go with cheesy costumes, she’s using their anonymity as the hook. She’s a genius. And she’s not with Darren. BAM! My heart feels like it’s going to explode.

When I walk back into the restaurant Darren is sitting at the bar with blood on his face. The tampon is stuck up in his nose with the little string dangling from it.