Stupid and Contagious (9 page)

“He’s not dying. He’s just got a fractured hip.”

“We’re al dying, dude. And he’s in Florida. He’s halfway there.” This is true. I’ve always cal ed Florida

“God’s Waiting Room,” but what he’s saying is just plain wrong. I wouldn’t go visit my grandfather just to angle for his wil . Plus, he died three years ago.

“How was your date last night?” I ask him.

“I think I blew it.”

“Why?”

“When the bil came, I didn’t have enough money,”

he says.

“What about a credit card? Don’t you have a credit card?”

“Maxed out. Shit, I maxed that puppy out the first month I got it.”

“So what did you do?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then he tries to throw a bal ed-up piece of paper at the wastebasket, arcing it high, like he’s LeBron, and missing
badly.
“I had to ask her for money.”

But this miss is so far off the mark. The clock has run out. The game is over. There wil be no postseason for this relationship. “Oh, Phil.”

“Did I blow it?”

“I don’t know the girl.”

“She was pretty pissed,” he offers.

“Then yes.”

“I knew it,” he says, pressing his palms to his forehead like it’s just hit him. “Fuck. But she had no right ordering the duck anyway. It was like forty dol ars. That’s just mean!” he adds, like a wounded child.

“I don’t think she meant it as a personal affront.”

“I think I love her.”

“It was a first date.”

“And?”

“Never mind,” I say. I can’t be bothered to get into it with him. There are days I can, and days I can’t. This is one I can’t. I can’t because today I’m troubled.

I’m troubled because I had a dream about John Ritter again last night, which involved the entire cast of
Three’s Company,
including both landlords. I wasn’t going to mention this. The only other person who knows about it is Zach—and he’s sworn to secrecy.

What started out as a funny anecdote to tel your friends at cocktail parties has turned into a guilt weighing so heavy on me that I almost feel like I need to apologize to his family. But I guess this is confusing you, so I’l just go ahead and explain.

A few months ago, while having drinks at Temple, this new hip restaurant that Zach insisted we check out, I playful y tossed an olive from my martini glass at Zach. But he ducked and it missed him and hit John Ritter instead. Three days later John Ritter died.

Of course, maybe I had nothing to do with it—and God, I hope I didn’t. But I keep having this recurring nightmare where Mr. Furley blames me, Mr. Roper blames me, and Chrissy and al her replacements start circling me, as in
Lord of the Flies.
Then there’s Janet and Larry. They’re al pointing at me and tel ing me I kil ed him. They al start throwing olives at me, and it hurts! It feels like they’re olive bul ets being shot out of an AK-47, and it fucking hurts. So I’m al crouched down trying to block them, and then I wake up with my heart racing, and wel . . . this was one of those mornings.

So I think I’l start my week off this very second. I grab my shit and leave.

“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.

When I get home there are seven messages on my answering machine from Sarah. Five hang-ups and two actual messages. Cal me an analog geek, but like one of those people who swears on his life that he can hear the subtle nuances of music better on vinyl than on CD, I prefer the warmth and hissing and popping of this old cassette recorder to a digital machine. Plus, I’ve been able to assemble a truly uproarious
Sarah’s Greatest Hits
tape to play at poker games and parties.

But now that red blinking eye has become my tormentor, bringing il tidings into my home on a daily basis. It’s bad enough that I have to listen to that detestable outgoing message of
mine
every time—

now I have her clogging up the airwaves. In one message she reminds me of the time—and it was a brief time, I’l have you know—when I was having some “troubles” in the sex department. Fact: Every guy at one time or another has a problem. I am no exception.

It started when we were first dating. I think it was partly because I was so nervous about performing that I just couldn’t get it up at al . Plus, she insisted we get AIDS tests first. So it was like a month before we even had sex. It created such a buildup that by the time we were al checked out and ready to go, I couldn’t do it.

Then the next time I was so freaked out about the first time that again I couldn’t do it. She told me to relax. But then she suggests fucking Viagra, which only made matters worse. I mean, I did
not
need Viagra. I was suffering from nerves. Normal first-time jitters. I do not have a
problem.

So I took the Viagra. And it worked. If by
working
you mean I got cold sweats, hot flashes, and felt like I was going to have a heart attack. But yes, I was also able to have sex. To some extent it was a relief—yes, the little bastard stil worked—but it was also terrifying, because what if that was the only way I’d ever be able to have sex?

As it turned out, I didn’t need the little blue pil after al . I
was
able to “perform” on my own. And I real y don’t like to brag, but for the better part of the last two years I made her scream so loud that my next-door neighbor used to actual y give me the thumbs-up every time I’d see him in the elevator.

Sarah’s message was as fol ows:

“Hi, asshole. Remember when you couldn’t get it up? And I stuck by you, you pathetic piece of shit!

How many girls do you think would have coddled you and nurtured you through that? None. But I did. And this is how you repay me? I don’t know why you think you’re better than me or that you can possibly do better than me, because you can’t. And your little penis problem? It wil come back. And if you think I didn’t know you were taking that yohimbe every day, you’re sadly mistaken.” Beep.

Thankful y, my machine cut her off. But then there’s part two. There’s always a part two.

“Your stupid machine hung up on me,” she continues. “Anyway, yohimbe is herbal Viagra. Not a vitamin supplement like you said. You are a sad, pathetic loser who can’t get it up without popping pil s.

Cal me.” Beep.

This message, in and of itself, is not exactly what I’d cal a feel-good message. But worse, that dumb neighbor from next door has pushed her way into my apartment and caught the last bit of the message.

Now, every day is humbling in its own special way.

In fact, I like to think I’m building character. Lots and lots of character. You might even say my cup of character runneth over. But that nuisance of a girl walking in at that exact time . . . it took my humility to a whole new level.

“Hey, lots of guys have, um . . . trouble,” she says.

“I don’t have ‘trouble,’ and what the hel are you doing in my apartment?”

“You left your door open.”

“It wasn’t an open invitation. This isn’t a dorm.”

“Don’t take your sexual malfunctions out on me. I’m just here to deliver your mail.”

“And it better be unopened.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute. She looks around my apartment, focusing on my one blue wal .

“Are you painting your whole apartment that color?”

“No, just that wal . It’s an accent wal .”

“Okay, Martha Stewart,” she says.

“Is my mail unopened?”

“Do you want it or not?” she says. And as she says this, for a moment I almost believe it’s entirely possible that if I don’t behave, I won’t be receiving today’s mail. Then I look at the mail she’s waving before me and see that it is indeed already opened.

“I can’t
believe
you.”

“Look, at least I’m giving it to you.”

“Can you please stop opening my mail?”

“Can you please stop having your mail end up in my mailbox?” she says.

“I’m not having it end up there. It’s a mistake. Which the post office needs to fix.”

“Agreed.” We stand there for a second. She stil hasn’t given me my mail. I hate that she heard that message. I want to say something about it, but I don’t want to even bring it up. Fuck you, Sarah.

“So can I have it?” She final y hands it over.

Opened.

“If you don’t mind my saying,” she says, knowing ful wel that I’l probably mind, “your finance charges are real y high on your credit card. You should cal them and try to get them lowered. I’m only suggesting this because I did it with mine. Those credit card companies total y fuck you if you let them. I mean . . .

provided they’ve taken their yohimbe that day,” she says, completely deadpan.

I want to punch her. “Is that funny?”

“
I
thought so,” she says and laughs. “Lighten up, I was kidding. Was that the toothbrush girl? Sarah?”

“You shouldn’t know her name. You shouldn’t know anything about her.”

“Wel , it would seem that I do. And now I know a little more than I bargained for.”

“You didn’t bargain for anything, and you don’t know anything,” I say. “That woman is insane. You two should meet. You have a lot in common. I’m sure you’d get along famously.”

“Wel then, maybe we
will
meet. Maybe the next time she sends you one of your shoelaces back or something, I’l save her address and write her a note something, I’l save her address and write her a note inviting her over for tea.”

“Perfect.” She’s stil standing there. Does she think I’m going to invite her to sit down? Go away!

“Okay then,” she says. And yet she stil stands there.

“Is there anything
else
?” I ask.

“No, that’s al your mail,” she says, looking past me into my apartment. “Wel , that’s not true,” she adds. “I kept your Victoria’s Secret catalog. They have these real y cute pj’s I want to order. Plus, you don’t need it.”

“You
really
have problems.”

“What? I let you keep the Pottery Barn one. And it looks like you can use it. Ever hear of decorating? I mean, aside from your ‘accent wal ’?”

“I just moved in,” I say. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m leaving,” she says, and I notice she’s picking absentmindedly at her fingernails.

“Pity. I hate to see you go.” I inch the door closed, taking her up on her offer.

“Was that some of that newfangled sarcasm thing I’m hearing so much about?” she says with a crooked smile and enough gal to fil my very empty apartment.

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she sings, flouncing out like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just total y invade my space, overhear my own private nightmare, and steal my fucking Victoria’s Secret catalog.

“ Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast or something?”

—
Heather,
Heathers

“Fuck off,
fur shur
. . . like total y!”

—
Randy,
Valley Girl

Heaven

Some people are so rude! That guy needs to get his head checked. No wonder he’s single.

As I sit and think about what an ass he is, I suddenly remember I stil owe him ten dol ars. He’s kind of in a bad mood today, so I’m not sure if I should go back there now to return it. But I can tel he’s the kind of person who’l hold it over my head if I don’t, so I take a ten out of my wal et and knock on his door.

“Who is it?” he yel s.

“It’s me,” I yel back.

“Why, God? Why?” I can hear him say. And I stand there thinking he is coming to the door, but it doesn’t seem that he is. I press my ear against his door to see if I can hear him moving toward it, and at that exact second he opens it. I fal inside his apartment, taking him down on my way.

Suddenly I’m lying on top of him. It’s odd making physical contact with someone for the first time.

Especial y horizontal y. Even if it’s only for a split second, like this is, you feel every contour—the good ones and the bad ones. You’re exposed to that person in his totality. This is an unexpected contact, however, and although my chin seems to fit perfectly into that crook between his col arbone and neck, I feel panicked because maybe it doesn’t belong there. He smel s like the plastic you tear off a brand-new CD, and I purposely don’t look in his eyes. Then he starts laughing, and my body moves with him for an instant as his stomach tightens. It feels a little like body surfing. Then I wipe out and fal off.

“You’re it, aren’t you?” he says. “You’re my karmic punishment for some bad thing I did.”

I get up and brush myself off, trying my best to pretend I wasn’t just superimposed on him. “I came back to give you the ten dol ars I owe you.”

“That you
stole.
”

“Borrowed.”

“What
ever.
”

“Do you want it or not?” I say.

“Yes, I want it,” he snaps back, snatching it out of my hand. “Does this mean you’l be returning my Victoria’s Secret catalog as wel ?”

“No.”

“I’m not moving,” he says.

“What?”

“If this is some ploy to get me to move out so your best friend can move in next door to you or something, it’s not going to work.”

“Jeez! Talk about paranoid!”

“Wel , what other reason could you possibly have for wreaking havoc on some poor stranger’s life?” he asks. I’m almost insulted, but a little bit proud at the same time.