Stupid and Contagious

by Caprice Crane

  “You grab her,” I say.

  “I can’t. I’m a man. I’m a triple black belt. I don’t want to come off as attacking her.”

  “Then let it go.”

  “No,” he blasts. “She stole our toilet paper, and it’s not the first time she’s done it.”

  “Is she a customer?”

  “No! She just walks in and goes straight to the bathroom.”

  “Did somebody clean the bathroom up yet?” I ask, glancing with no small amount of dread in that direction.

  “Will you get moving? She’s getting away!”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Bruce. I’m not going to go and grab that woman.”

  “If you want to keep your job you are,” he says with his chin out and his eyebrows raised. This is total bullshit. I’m supposed to chase some freak of nature down the street? Some freak of nature who has just shit all over our bathroom and stolen the toilet paper? Because Bruce can’t spring for a couple extra rolls?

  So I start after her down the street and catch up to her. Sure as shit (pun intended) she’s got all of our toilet paper in her tote bag.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Piss off,” she says.

  “I don’t want any trouble, ma’am. But my boss would really like his toilet paper back.”

  “I don’t have your fucking toilet paper. Leave me alone or I’m calling the police.”

  “I see the toilet paper in your bag, ma’am.”

  “Aaaaaaaah!” she screams at the top of her lungs, which scares the hell out of me. She also has a few longish hairs growing out of her chin. I look back at Bruce, who gives me the thumbs-up. This woman is insane, and I want to go home. But if I don’t come back to Bruce with some toilet paper I’m going to, once again, be out of a job. This is total bullshit.

  “Look,” I say. “Can you just give me one roll? If I walk back to the restaurant with nothing, I’m going to get in trouble. I’m not even asking you to split it with me. Just one roll is all I ask.” I look at her pleadingly.

  “Eat shit, you little tramp!”

  I take a breath. Inhale . . . exhale.

  “One roll,” I ask again. She starts walking away again. I don’t want to touch her, but I can already hear Bruce yelling at me, “Why didn’t you grab her?” Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know what to do. So I grab the bag, and it becomes a tug-of-war. She screams some more. People are turning, looking to see what the commotion is. Then I see Brady, my neighbor. He too is looking at me—at what apparently looks like me trying to steal this woman’s bag.

  “Help! Police!” she screams. Brady’s watching this with the most confused and horrified look on his face that I’ve ever seen. The kind of look that tells me, if he wasn’t sure before, he’s now 110 percent positive that I’m insane. And why shouldn’t he think that?

  I’ve had it. This woman is making a scene and making me look even worse. Bruce is tapping his foot, which I know means nothing good, so I just decide, fuck it. I’ve already got one hand on the tote. I reach in, grab two rolls of toilet paper, jerk my hand back as she tries to bite me, and storm back to the restaurant. As I’m walking back, I see Brady’s jaw drop. So I do the only thing I can think to do, which is give him the finger, and then I walk back into the restaurant.

  Brady

  Oh my God. There are no words to describe what I just saw. She is totally insane. And a kleptomaniac. And it just so happens that the restaurant my neighbor walks into after stealing toilet paper from an old lady is Temple. The same restaurant where the John Ritter incident took place. That place is nothing but bad news, so if she works there, it’s fitting.

  I sneak over and peer into the window. Lo and behold, there she is taking an order. What was that hideous display I just witnessed? A mini break to mug a bag lady and loot some Cottonelle?

  She spots me and ducks. But a second later I guess she thinks better of it, because she walks straight over to the window and says, “What?” I can’t hear her, but I can read her lips. And even though there’s a glass partition between us, I’m fairly certain her tone wasn’t warm and welcoming. Frankly, I don’t know why she’s giving me an attitude. I didn’t do anything except witness her thievery. Which reminds me, I want to listen to the Thievery Corporation CD when I get home.

  I just walk away. I shake my head and walk away. This girl is a menace. On my way home I walk right past porn legend Ron Jeremy. I tell ya, nobody can wear tube socks like that guy.

  I get home, throw on the Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi CD, brew myself a cup of coffee, and plan my strategy. I’m starting big. Hershey’s makes chocolate milk and they’d be lucky to have my Cinnamilk. I Google Hershey’s and find their Web site. Incidentally, I think it’s fascinating that Google is a verb. Here’s something that didn’t exist a few years ago, and now there it is, noun, verb—and something I, frankly, can’t live without. And if it’s not officially a verb, it is now. You’re welcome.

  I get the phone number off the Web site and place the call. The conversation is as follows:

  “Hershey’s customer satisfaction, this is Darlene, how may I help you?”

  “Hello, Darlene. I’m looking to get in touch with the main headquarters. Do you happen to have a number I can call?”

  “What is this regarding?”

  “It’s regarding a new product idea.”

  “I can forward your comments to the corporate office, and they’ll get in touch with you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say. “But I kind of need to speak to someone directly.”

  “You’re speaking to me,” she says. Is that the tiniest edge I hear creeping into Darlene’s formerly sweet voice?

  “Yes, I am. And while I do appreciate your time, Darlene, I really need to speak to someone about setting up a meeting. This is a potential gold mine here. And someday you can say you were part of that first phone call. So if you’d be so kind as to point me in the right direction—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do . . .” she says, shaping up.

  “What’s that?”

  “You can tell me your questions or comments, and I will forward them to the corporate office, and then someone will get back to you.” This is the same canned response that she gave me thirty seconds ago. Not only do I want those thirty seconds back, I want Darlene to be fired.

  “It’s not a question or a comment, Darlene. It is a product idea.”

  “Then tell it to me, and I’ll pass it along. And someone will—”

  “Right, I know. Someone will get back to me. Here’s the thing. I’m sure you’re a great gal, Darlene. I am. But I don’t know you. This is a multimillion-dollar idea. Do you think it would be wise for me to discuss it with you?”

  “That’s how we do it,” she says flatly.

  “Well, I can’t tell you.”

  “Then is there something else I can help you with?”

  “No.”

  “Have a Hershey’s day,” she says and hangs up. I want to punch Darlene.

  Well, that didn’t work out quite as I’d intended. Maybe a trip to Hershey’s headquarters is in order. Or maybe I’ll just call Knudsen, Tuscan, Borden, or Parmalat.

  I’m about to look up their Web sites when I hear drumming on my door. It’s Zach. He knows I’m not really in Florida. I let him stay out there and drum for a few minutes, but then he breaks into song.

  “Josie’s on a vacation far away . . .” he sings in a high-pitched voice that actually does the song justice. Then again we’re talking about The Outfield, a one-hit wonder if there ever was one. He does this to embarrass me, and because he knows I’ll get off my ass and open the door. And I do. ’Cause if I don’t, I know that “Sister Christian” can’t be far behind.

  “Perfect crime,” he says as he breezes past me and opens up my refrigerator.

  “I just got off the phone with Hershey’s.”

  “I was in the record store the other day,” Zach continues.

  “Hey, Hershey’s?”
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br />   “In a sec,” Zach says with a wave of his hand. “I’m just about to walk out with my DVDs—”

  “Your porn DVDs,” I interject.

  Zach does not even acknowledge. “And this girl walking in sets off the shoplifting alarm with something in her bag. Here’s the plan: we figure out what sets off that alarm, equip somebody with it, stuff a backpack full of Lord of the Rings trilogies, then time our departure to coincide with the arrival of our confused friend—who can’t figure out why this thing he’s bringing into the store has set the alarm off. The embarrassed security guard, not wanting a lawsuit, waves everybody ahead.”

  “Shoplifting—is our coup de grâce?” I say. “What are we, a bunch of troubled high school sophomores?”

  “Okay . . . how about this? I send you a letter in a resealable envelope, and you stick your reply inside, reseal it, then write ‘Return to Sender’ on the front. Full round trip for the price of a one-way.”

  “That’s great, Zach,” I say. “We’ll make our fortune by bilking the government thirty-five cents at a time.”

  “For your information, it’s more like thirty-seven . . . or thirty-nine cents now. Okay, now what’s your thing?”

  “Just got off the phone with Hershey’s.”

  “And?” he asks.

  “Bitch wouldn’t help me at all and told me to ‘have a Hershey’s day.’”

  “That’s a little Disney-ish.”

  “It’s something-ish.”

  “Ish,” he says.

  “Hey—guess who I walked past on my way home?” I ask. And then I answer, because he’s not going to guess. “Ron Jeremy.”

  “That guy’s fucked like every girl in the world.”

  “Well, every porn star,” I say.

  “I never got that. The guy is ugly. He reminds me of a guy I used to get pizza from. The pizza guy’d show up, and we’d have bad dialogue for a couple seconds, and then the next thing I knew we were fucking. Wait a sec . . . he was a girl. And there were two of them. Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Really,” I say, “how is it that guy got all those parts?”

  “I think it was that one big part,” he says. “But maybe back then it wasn’t so much about the looks as it was about the . . . sex.”

  “Or maybe it was about who was willing to fuck in front of a camera for fifty bucks.”

  Zach nods in solemn agreement. “That’s a good sighting. I’d say you’re in the lead, but I had a good one the other day too, and forgot to tell you . . . who was it?” He taps his chin. Then his finger rises in discovery. “Oh! It was the woman from the Palmolive commercials.”

  “Madge?”

  “Yes, Madge!”

  “Nice,” I say. “How’d she look?”

  “Dude. It’s not like she was ever hot. What do you mean how’d she look? She looked like Madge.”

  “True. Madge might beat Ron Jeremy.”

  “Could be a tie,” he offers.

  “I think you’re in the lead,” I admit. Zach and I have this ongoing competition of B-list celebrity sightings. Anyone can see Britney Spears or Harrison Ford. Living in New York, that’s shooting fish in a barrel. To us, it’s much more exciting to see someone like Gary Coleman or that guy from Bosom Buddies. Whatever his name is. The one who didn’t have Tom Hanks’s success. The one who’s probably bitter as hell right about now.

  “Come downstairs,” Zach says. The bar he works at is conveniently located right down the block from my apartment, and tonight is a karaoke night.

  “Can’t. I’m planning my strategy.”

  “Come have a Jameson and then plan your strategy.”

  “Because that’s good advice,” I say.

  “C’mon,” he says, brushing off the sarcasm as though it were dandruff. “Just hang out for a little bit. You know I get the ladies in there. You can have some of my spillover.”

  “I’m out of the business. No ladies for me. You know that.”

  “Because of stupid Sarah?” he asks.

  “No, because I’m done. I don’t want a relationship. This is me time. Maybe in five years or so, I’ll think about it.”

  “Five years? What the hell are you talking about? You’re not going to have sex for five years?”

  This throws me into a profound, if momentary, contemplation of five years without sex. And to give you some idea of my weakened mental and romantic state, the prospect almost sounds enticing. Think of it: No more praying to God that she doesn’t roll over and face the wall when I give her the subtle “Can we?” signal by placing my hand on her right breast. No more transforming my tongue into a ragged scrap of sandpaper over the course of an interminable journey toward an elusive orgasm. No more testing the condom, post-coitus, for signs of leakage. God forbid any of the fruit of my loins should test the fragile wall of her uterus and leave her baking up a Brady Junior to one day cure cancer or solve the energy crisis. No more returning to a half-asleep body whose only epilogue to the rapture is to mutter, “And don’t go hogging the comforter.”

  “I said nothing about not having sex,” I say. Because when all is said and done, were there a pair of breasts and a taut naked stomach staring me in the face, I’d gladly ride that toboggan straight back down to hell.

  “Then come out.”

  “Sex isn’t my main priority right now. I’m trying to start a company. Invent things . . .”

  “Is this because of the ‘little problem’ you’re having?” he asks, and I feel my temperature rise about twenty degrees. Zach is my best friend. I tell him everything. But I never told him about that.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sarah told me.”

  “Oh my God, is that what this is about?”

  “You need to get back on the horse,” he says, drawing near and threatening to put his arm around me. But with a single look I back him off. “Shit, man. Sarah was such a miserable bitch, I’m sure I couldn’t get it up for her either. You’re lucky she didn’t turn you gay.”

  “Dude! There . . . is . . . no . . . problem.”

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “And when did you talk to Sarah, by the way?”

  “I didn’t,” he says. “She left me a message on my answering machine. I’m pretty sure she’s leaving the same message on everybody’s answering machine.”

  “That’s just fucking great.” Now I need that Jameson.

  We go to the bar and I have not one, but two Jamesons. I explain the whole situation to Zach, and how it was only in the very beginning of the relationship, blah, blah, blah. But he doesn’t care. He tuned me out as soon as the Twister Twins walk in. Tara Clean and Darling Nikki.

  Tara Clean got her name because she carries around the most recent copy of her AIDS test everywhere she goes, and Darling Nikki’s been called that since the eighties when “Purple Rain” came out and it was every girl’s favorite song. They’re the “Twister Twins” because Zach’s bar has a dance floor designed like the game Twister, and Nikki and Tara usually go out there in revealing clothes and start everyone off. Before long, everybody wants in. It’s become the main attraction at the bar. The girls get a small cut off the net in exchange.

  I check my messages at home, and there’s this message from Phil:

  “Hey, man. I guess you’re on the plane or something. I just wanted to tell you that Sarah called me. She said that . . . well, it doesn’t matter what she said. But listen . . . I have a Viagra. It’s been in my wallet for like four months, but you can have it if you want it. I got it because of that twenty-four-year-old that I was seeing, but she changed her number.” Beep. My machine cut him off. Of course he calls back. “I don’t know why she changed her number. We were getting along so well. Anyway, she did. So I never got to use it. And you can have it. But we can talk about it when you get back. Have fun in the Sunny State,” he says, and hangs up. It’s the Sunshine State, Phil. And right now I hate Sarah more than Billy Joel hates sobriety.

  “Another shot, please?” I
say. Zach hits me with a double this time, pointing out a beautiful girl who just walked in with her two friends.

  “Check her out. She’s fuckin’ hot.”

  “Wedding band,” I say.

  “She sings in one?”

  “No, jackass. She’s wearing one.”

  “Good catch,” he says. I’m so pissed right now, and I need to leave. I pull out a twenty and slap it on the bar. “You know your money’s no good here. And where you going?”

  “Home,” I say, getting up quickly because I know he’ll try to talk me out of it. I have a giant headache. Plus two fat girls are on the mic singing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” “Look,” I say as I point to the two girls. “Two more reasons to hate this song.” And when he turns to look at them and starts laughing, I make my hasty exit.

  Of course I run into Heaven in the elevator. What a misnomer that one is. This is the last thing I need right now. I don’t even say anything. I think maybe if I don’t say anything she won’t say anything, and maybe we’ll never have to speak again.

  “You don’t say hello?” she spews.

  “Hello.”

  “Look, about what you saw—” she starts to say.

  “I don’t want to know,” I say, interrupting her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of my business. You are none of my business, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “That’s rude,” she says.

  “Oh, really? And what would you call coming into my apartment uninvited, opening my mail, which is not only rude but illegal, borrowing my money without asking, and attacking that woman today?”

  “I didn’t attack her and you’re right . . . it’s none of your business.”

  “That’s right, it’s not.”

  There’s another moment of totally palpable silence. Then she comes out with “I have your mail.” Fuck. Of course she does.

  “Which is none of your business.”