“Whatever,” she says. “It’s a really good soundtrack.”
“I know you think so, sweetie.”
“You have a dog.”
“This is my point.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say.” She squinches up her face. “Congratulations?”
“Thank you.” Strummer walks over to me and rests his head on my knee. It’s quite possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. It is in this instant that not only is my taking him home validated, but I decide that I love him.
Love is pretty much a decision anyway. Just like happiness. You can decide to either love someone or not, be happy or not. The rest is just commitment to the idea. I am now committed to this dog.
“I think I’m pregnant,” Sydney says.
“You’re not.”
“I’m late.”
“You’re late every month,” I say. And it’s actually not true that she’s late every month. Just that she says it.
“Well, I don’t have unprotected sex five times in one night every month.”
“With a stranger, you forgot to mention.”
“I knew him,” she says defensively. “I met him once. A year ago. But thanks for making me feel better.”
“Sorry, but you still should have used a condom.”
“We meant to.”
“Well, you’re not pregnant,” I say. “I know because you’ve been in a very bad mood all week, which means you’re clearly PMS-ing.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she says. “What’s going on with you? You haven’t had sex in a while.”
“I haven’t had a date in a while. No dates equals no sex.”
“Not true,” she says.
“For me, it’s true.” Sometimes I wish I could be the kind of person who has one-night stands, and instead of feeling guilty about it feels empowered by it. But I’m not. That’s Sydney’s role. I just can’t do it.
There’s a knock at my door. Sydney looks at me funny.
“You expecting someone?” she says.
“No, but it’s probably Brady.”
“Who’s Brady?”
“My neighbor.” I open the door, and it is indeed Brady.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back. Strummer runs to the door, and Brady starts to pet him.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I didn’t. Just got him.”
“What’s his name?” Brady says.
“Strummer.”
“Cool. After Joe?”
“You got it.”
“Wow.” He smiles. “Good name.”
“Ahem,” Sydney says.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is Brady. My neighbor.”
“The retarded one?” Sydney asks before I can stuff a pair of thick woolen socks in her pie-hole.
“What is it with this retarded thing?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “So, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to say thanks. You know. For what you did. With Sarah. It was really cool.” After a moment he walks to the elevator and presses the call button.
“You’re welcome. She’s a real peach, that one.” The elevator comes and he gets in.
“Yeah. No kidding. Anyway, I’m on my way out. I just had to tell you that what you did . . . was perfect. And that kiss. Nice touch,” he says as the elevator doors start to close.
“No problem,” I say. And just as the doors shut I add, “By the way, I have mono.”
“It’s really human of you to listen to all my bullshit.”
—Samantha Baker, Sixteen Candles
“ You aren’t dying, you just can’t think of anything better to do.”
—Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
Brady
I know she’s kidding. She better be kidding. She is kidding. I know it.
I feel a tickle in my throat. I swear to God, I do. I hate her.
I’ve called just about every dairy company and none of them want to hear my idea. This morning I called Knudsen. Who transferred me to Santee Dairy. I told them I needed to speak to someone about a new product idea. They said the person I need to get in touch with is a Lydia somebody. So I called this Lydia. She directed me to their Web site, and suggested that I click on the link to their customer comments section and leave my comment there.
I don’t have a fucking comment. I have a million-dollar idea. Don’t they get this? I explain to Lydia I don’t want to just submit my idea at random. What I am offering is a business proposition, and I’d want to be involved. She stutters a bit and puts me on hold.
When she comes back she informs me that she doesn’t think she can accommodate me with what I am looking for.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because we don’t do partnerships,” she answers.
“This is a really good idea, Lydia,” I say, thinking that using her name will somehow help matters. I think I can feel her caving a little bit. But not enough.
“I’m sorry. I really don’t think I can help you.”
“Fine,” I say. I’m tempted to add, “But don’t come crying to me when this thing goes double-platinum.” But I don’t.
I need a cup of coffee. Lucky for me there’s a Starbucks on my corner. In fact, there’s a Starbucks on just about every corner in Manhattan. I know what you’re thinking, but I like my coffee to be consistent, and Starbucks is nothing if not consistent. Plus, they filter their water. I won’t make coffee from my tap at home. I know they say New York water is the best water, but who really knows? Maybe the water is clean, but the pipes are nasty. There are all kinds of good minerals, bad minerals, too many minerals, chemicals in some cases, contaminants, carcinogens, and well . . . cancer-flavored coffee tends to taste bad.
And this just in . . . it was recently on the news that Orthodox Jews can’t drink water from the tap because there are shellfish in the water, which makes it not kosher. For those who don’t know, kosher is only kosher because it passes a rigorous inspection test. Since my body is made up of like 80 percent water, I’m gonna make sure it’s the purest form of water known to mankind. If that means kosher water fits the bill . . . that’s what I’m going for. And I’m not even Jewish. But if something that goes into my body as frequently as water does can’t even pass a kosher test . . . I ain’t drinkin’ it.
So I’m standing in line deciding. That seems to be a big part of the experience. Decisions: Cappuccino or Frappuccino? Tall or Grande? Or Venti? And then there’s the fixins: Whole milk or skim? Chocolate or vanilla? Nutmeg or cinnamon? Then it hits me. This place is the answer. I need to get in touch with Starbucks. This would be a great market for Cinnamilk. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I even read the book Pour Your Heart into It: How Starbucks Built a Company One Cup at a Time by Howard Schultz. He’s the guy who founded Starbucks. He needs to hear from me. And he will. I’m calling him as soon as I get home.
Not as easy as I thought. All I can get is the customer service line. Can you believe that the phone number is 1-800-23LATTE? How precious. I tell the woman I need the headquarters and she tells me that I’ve reached the headquarters.
“Are you in Seattle?” I ask.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I need to speak to Mr. Schultz.”
“Regarding?”
“Regarding a business idea.”
“Do you have a proposal written up?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Then I can give you the address that you should mail it to, and someone will get back to you if they are interested.” This is, basically, the same as the questions/comments link on a Web site. But I’ll get the address at least.
“Fine,” I say. “What’s the address?”
“P.O. Box—”
“Wait—it’s a P.O. box? That’s not an address. That’s not where Howard Schultz is.”
“That’s where all proposals go,” she says.
“And to whose attentio
n do I put it to?”
“Just to the P.O. box.”
“Perfect,” I say. My sarcasm is lost on her.
“Okay. The address is P.O. Box 3717-L-UE1, Seattle, Washington 98124-3713.”
“Excellent.”
“Anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I say. You haven’t helped me at all. What do you mean anything else? Of course I don’t say this out loud. I just hang up.
I walk into the bar. Zach’s on the mic emceeing. The kid really is smooth. His stage presence is like a get-laid guarantee. It’s the equivalent of a fat bank account or Brad Pitt looks. If he wasn’t my best friend, I’d hate him.
They’re all warmed up, and he turns the mic over to three girls who are doing “Summer Nights” from Grease. Not only the most overdone song, but it’s a duet. For a man and a woman. Not three girls. But that’s not my problem.
“Let me ask you something,” Zach says. “Why is it that every time a girl says the phrase ‘I’ll try anything once,’ I always think she’s talking about anal?”
“Because you’re a twisted fuck. But I admit, my mind tends to wander there, too. There are actually two things that my mind goes to . . . anal, and having another girl join in. I think they do it on purpose.”
“Shit, yeah.”
All of a sudden I think about Heaven, and I swear my glands feel swollen. No, I wasn’t thinking about anal sex with her. Although, now that it’s on the table, I guess I am. But not because I want to. Because the last person I want to have anal sex with is Heaven. Or any kind of sex. I think I have a fever. She better not fucking have mono.
“Do I have a fever?” I ask Zach.
“No,” he says.
“You didn’t even feel my forehead.” He reluctantly feels my forehead.
“No, you don’t.”
“Phew,” I say. But I’m still convinced I can feel something coming on. I pound a shot of whiskey, and all of a sudden it hits me. I know what I need to do. “Do you want to go to Seattle?” I ask Zach.
“I thought you’re supposed to be in Florida.”
“No, I mean for real.”
“Grunge is dead, dude,” he says. “It died with Kurt.”
“I’m serious. I’m going to Seattle. You wanna come? I could use the company.”
“No, I don’t.” He’s serious. And he’s rarely serious. “What the hell’s in Seattle?”
“Howard Schultz.”
“Who is?”
“The founder of Starbucks,” I tell him.
“And you want to go see him . . . why?”
“Because sitting on my ass, looking milk companies up online, and then calling them and talking to idiot secretaries is getting me nowhere. I need face time.”
“Why him?”
“Why not him?” I ask. “He took fucking coffee and made it an event. The guy, bless his heart, has made it okay to charge five dollars for a cup of fucking coffee.”
“Mine’s four-sixty,” Zach says.
“People used to go to coffee shops to get a cup of coffee. Not some exotic trendy milkshake. He’s revolutionized a bean—a silly little bean—and made billions. Not to mention the freedom of expression he’s created.”
“Huh?”
“People are sheep. Consumers. They eat and drink what you put in front of them. But this guy Schultz . . . he’s given them their one shot at individuality. With all the many ways they can order their latte . . . decaf, extra hot, no foam, breve, soy milk . . . he’s provided the people with one way to stand out and define themselves. And I’m here to offer a new choice for their coffee: Cinnamilk. I think Howard may be the only person who will listen to me. But I need to meet with him . . . in person.”
“Maybe you do have a fever,” he says and reaches out for my forehead.
“No, man. Maybe I’ve just finally hit on the path to my destiny.” I play with the skull ring I’m wearing, my homage to Keith Richards. Zach looks long and hard at me.
“Dude, I hate to say it, but you are one bad career move away from working at the Guitar Center.”
“Fuck you,” I say and cringe inside because he’s totally fucking spot on.
“I’ve gotta get up there,” he says. “If I don’t go wrangle some more people, the Jersey boys will take over and it’ll be a medley of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’ ‘American Pie,’ and ‘Margaritaville.’”
“We can’t have that.”
“No, we certainly can’t.” He gets up and takes over the mic. I stick around for a few more songs, then walk home.
The next night I’m passing by Heaven’s door, and I almost knock. But I don’t. I decide to go back to my door. Fuck it. Who needs the hassle? Then I go back to her door. I stand there for a moment and then laugh to myself. Because I’m knock knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door. I pull my shirt over my face so I won’t breathe her germs. She answers in a mask. A green facial mask. No shame whatsoever.
“Hi,” I say.
“What are you doing? Why are you burying your face?”
“I just had to make sure. You were kidding about the mono thing, right?”
“No,” she says with the best poker face I’ve ever seen. Then adds, “Of course I was kidding, you doughnut.”
I expose my face. “I knew that. I just had to make sure. And what’s with this retarded thing? Why did you and everyone you know think I’m retarded?”
“Whether you are or not is still debatable.”
“Seriously, what’s the deal?”
“It’s a long story,” she says. “And it’s time for me to remove my mask. I have to leave in fifteen minutes.”
“It’s a good look, by the way.”
“Thank you. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Good night, Brady.”
“Good night, Heaven.” Where is she going?
Heaven
Why is he still standing there?
Brady
“Where are you going?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.
“I’m going out with my vet.”
“You have a vet?”
“Yes,” she says.
“You just got a dog. Like yesterday.”
“And I got a vet. Like today.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I needed to get Strummer checked out, so I took him to a vet.”
“And now you’re going on a date . . . with your vet?”
“It’s not a date,” she says as though she believes her own bullshit.
“It is so a date.”
“It’s a platonic date. He’s new in town. Just started his practice. He needs friends.”
“Right.” You’ve gotta hand it to the guy. Playing the “new in town” card. I’ve done it myself, but coupled with the great humanitarian angle of a veterinary career . . . that’s a tour de force. “So this is going to be your boyfriend? A vet.”
“He’s not going to be my boyfriend.”
“Well, at least you’ll have all your shots,” I say, feeling pretty good about the line.
“Cute.” See?
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. We’re meeting downstairs.”
“This is such a date. I’ll bet he’s getting groomed right now.”
“Funny,” she says. “I’ll give you a dollar if you stop saying it’s a date. It’s annoying.”
“You can keep your dollar.”
“Good, because I’m short on cash.”
“That’s okay. Vets make good money.”
“They do?” she innocently asks.
“Think about how much you paid. Unless he didn’t charge you.”
“If he doesn’t charge every hot girl that walks in there, he’s not going to make a very good living.”
“I’m glad you realize you’re hot.”
“Hey—I got charged,” she says defensively.
“Now that’s funny.”
“Can I go now?” she says, making a little fist and dig
ging it into her thigh.
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Good night, Brady. Again.”
“Good night, Heaven. Again.”
Heaven
I go downstairs and wait for Chris, my vet. I guess Brady was sort of right about it being a date. But I wasn’t really looking at it that way. He is kind of cute and I do admire what he does for a living, but I genuinely just want to show him around. It’s hard to move to a new city and try to start a life and make friends.
I mean . . . should I consider this a date? The first time I met Chris, the majority of our conversation involved ringworm. We determined Strummer’s probable age and his likely place of birth, and we clearly established that he’d never been to Asia and therefore had a zero percent chance of having contracted a Malaysian bird flu. And then he chased me out onto the sidewalk to make sure I’d taken my complimentary pen. And then . . . he asked me if I “know of a good place to eat, in your neighborhood, that you wouldn’t mind eating at, possibly with me.”
I’ve never understood why guys have to wait until the elevator doors are almost closed before blurting out some awkwardly phrased solicitation for your company. Go ahead and ask! I’ll probably say no . . . but at least we won’t have wasted the time. Dating is like pushing your tray along in a cafeteria. Nothing looks good, but you know you have to pick something by the time you reach the cashier.
Chris shows up in khakis and a sweater, and in that instant it becomes no longer a date. I’m sorry. Call it what you will, but I hate khakis. It’s the weekend uniform of the uninitiated. I don’t like to stereotype people, I really don’t. But I’m just not interested in the khaki armada. I don’t worship Dave Matthews, and I never play Hacky Sack or Rollerblade. This is not my husband.
I take Chris downtown, and we hit this tiny sushi restaurant that hasn’t yet been discovered by the masses. The women that work in this place all wear these geisha getups. They look so uncomfortable that it’s almost uncomfortable to watch them. And they have these weird-looking packs strapped to their backs, and I have no idea what they’re for. If it’s for fashion . . . somebody needs to clue them in.
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