Stupid and Contagious (39 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I say to him. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Yeah it was,” he says. “Believe me, I’ve done my share of stupid shit. But be careful . . . that’s how I lost her in the first place.”

I remember watching Bruce Springsteen get interviewed on
60 Minutes,
and he said something I’l never forget. He said, “A time comes when you need to stop waiting for the man you want to become and start being the man you want to be.”

Thinking back on it now, this minute, I believe that’s the most profound thing Springsteen has said since:

“We learned more from a three-minute record than we ever learned in school.” (Certainly more profound than: “Just wrap your legs ’round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines.”) And curiously, the two lines come together for me now as I think about two things I haven’t thought quite this much about ever before in my life. Two things I can’t
stop
thinking about. And they’re both Heaven.

Suddenly that statement is the most relevant thing in my life. It’s time for me to step up. It’s not like I ever came out and expressed my feelings to Heaven. I just got pissed off at her when she didn’t read my mind.

Heaven

T h e
New York Post
reported a new study this morning, revealing that “poets die young—younger than novelists, playwrights, and other writers, because they’re often tortured souls prone to self-destruction.”

It says that on average, poets live sixty-two years, playwrights sixty-three, novelists sixty-six, and nonfiction writers sixty-eight years. So says the Learning Research Institute at California State University at San Bernardino, at least. It says nothing about PR writers, so I don’t know where I stand. This bothers me for the better part of the morning. Then I go downstairs to get the mail.

I get a Citibank bil , a Valpak, and a letter for Brady, who stil has yet to change his stupid forwarding address. It’s addressed in a handwriting that I don’t recognize, and there’s no return address.

I stand in my lobby, and for the first time I wrestle with whether or not I should open it. And then I do.

“Dear Heaven,” it says. I look at the envelope again to make sure I’m not going crazy. It’s addressed to Brady. And then I look at who it’s from, and it’s
from
Brady. Pretty clever, Brady.

There’s also a little envelope—like one you’d get from a florist—stapled to the letter, which says: “Open when instructed to do so.” I read the letter: Hi, it’s me. First of al you
really
need to stop opening other people’s mail. I needed to say some things to you, and I thought it best to write them down so I would get it right.

Once you read this, things wil have to change one way or the other, so you might want to pause right about now and take one last look around at what you consider to be our current relationship. It’s good, right?

Maybe even great.

The problem is that I can’t be your friend anymore. You’ve come to mean so much more to me in such a short amount of time. I can’t remember what life was like before you, and I can’t bear to think of what it would be like without you.

It’s not that I can’t be your friend, it’s that I can’t be
just
your friend. I want more. I want it al . I want you. Now and forever, ’til death do us part.

I pray to God that you feel the same way, because if you don’t, the dinner I have planned for us tonight is
really
going to be awkward.
Now
you can open the little envelope.

I open it up and inside is a pul -tab ring from a soda can. I continue to read, but tears have wel ed up in my eyes.

If you feel the same way, please put this on your finger so I’l know. If not . . . make believe you do, and then when I’m not looking, kil me.

Love,

Brady

I’m standing here speechless, just
staring
at the pul tab.

“Are you going to put that on or not?” I hear someone say from behind me, and my heart starts beating a mil ion times a minute. I turn around, and Brady’s standing there, leaning up against the elevator. He walks over to me, takes the pul tab, and puts it on my finger.

“Brady . . .” I say.

“I forgot to do something before I left,” he says.

“What’s that?” I ask, and he grabs my shoulders a nd
kisses
me. He kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. And it’s not necessarily that the kiss is any different than any other kiss. On its own merits, it’s not that remarkable—two pairs of lips slightly parted, easing together, eyes drifting shut. But what makes this kiss the most impossibly, incredibly, stupendously magnificent chocolate-covered sun-ripened heaven-blessed fresh-squeezed brain freeze of a kiss—the second helping of glorious when you thought there was no more glory left undiscovered in the art of the kiss—is simply this: Those lips are Brady’s, and these lips are mine. And now they’re together. Parting only occasional y for meals and conversation and yawning and that stuff.

And I kiss him
back.
I kiss him like I want him to be the last person I ever kiss again and the only person I kiss for the rest of my life. And I can feel both of our hearts pounding out of our chests. I pul back from our embrace and look at him.

“And you’d think that would be something you’d
remember
to do,” I say with a smile that could swal ow the whole world.

“I’l never do it again.”

“You
better
do it again,” I whisper.

“I meant the forgetting part . . .” he says, and he plants another one on me. “This part I plan on doing with regularity.”

“So I’m like fiber now?”

“Stop talking,” he says, and he pushes me into the elevator. “And by the way,” he says, squeezing the hand with the pul -tab ring, “just because you’re not

‘most girls’ doesn’t mean you’re not getting a real one.”

Heaven

My name is Heaven Albright. And I’m back in PR. And this time my boss isn’t a complete asshole, just sometimes a pain in the neck. Me. Hyping people I
want
to work with (mostly anyway), and working my tail off.

There’s Superhero—you know about
them.
But not about the three other bands I’m pimping, or about the hip-hop artist whose clothing line just debuted at the most talked-about show at Fashion Week, or about EnerJewce, “The Chosen Juice,” a brand new low-carb, kosher beverage line I just signed on. And you don’t yet know about my own version of Heaven, my assistant Heidi, who shows every sign of turning out
way
better than I did. Or about the happy ending for Marco and Sydney. Let’s not cal it wedded bliss . . .

but we’l cal it the ultimate marriage of convenience: America gained a new citizen, and Sydney gained two cup sizes.

If I sound different—like a chirpy chorus girl with a face-splitting smile—it’s because I am. Maybe it’s because this is my first break in a spastic year. And maybe it’s because I’m sitting on a plane next to my fiancé,

wearing

the

most

gorgeous

Tiffany

engagement ring
ever.
Superhero? They’re on the cover of
Spin
magazine, and Brady and I are on our way to Vegas, where they’l be playing at our wedding. Everything is perfect.

Brady

My name is Brady Gilbert, and I just gave up the aisle seat. Wil ingly.

Brady’s Answering Machine

“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.

“Hel o, Mr. Gilbert, this is Georgette from Howard Schultz’s office. Mr. Schultz would like to speak with you. Please give us a cal back as soon as possible at—”

About the Author

It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.

I bring this up mainly because this is about as late in the day that I can stil safely drink coffee without wrecking my sleep.

People often say that writing is ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration. This is nonsense, of course. It’s pretty much one hundred percent caffeine.

I think the record pretty much speaks for itself. I was born in Hol ywood to talented parents—the beloved TV and film star Tina Louise and talk-show pioneer Les Crane, grew up surrounded by
tons
of creative people, graduated from NYU Film School . . . and yet my professional writing career didn’t real y get moving until I was over
twenty years old,
when I upped my coffee consumption.
That’s
when everything changed.

I got a job writing for MTV. From an early age, I reveled in the raucous and spent a good portion of my youth developing tinnitus at countless rock concerts, so it was a pretty good fit. Emboldened by my success, I ramped up to
espresso
consumption and

—voilà—I started writing for the biggest shows on the network. Cal it coincidence if you want.

I also dabble. I’ve dabbled in things like the music business and jewelry design. If you come over to my apartment (and you’re invited, but please cal ahead) you’l be able to confirm my love of music via the meticulously catalogued three mil ion CDs that I’ve accumulated. If I live to be 140, I MIGHT be able to listen to them al . But don’t get any funny ideas about walking out with one of them because my pad is vigilantly guarded by my two faithful pups. Al eleven pounds of them.

So, that’s where I’m at right now. Dogs, mil ions of CDs, a somewhat slavish devotion to a treadmil , which I swear is plotting against me while I sleep.

And writing. Screenplays. Stories. And the very book you’re holding.

I hope you enjoy it. Have a cup of coffee while you read. After al , it’s always five o’clock somewhere in the world.

Keep in touch at: www.capricecrane.com

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Brady’s Answering Machine

About the Author

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