Chris is sweet and genuine. He tells me about the time when he was eleven and a half years old and his doctor asked him if he was sexually active. He said yes because he wanted to look cool, and then had to sit through an embarrassing forty-five-minute lecture on safe sex and how to properly use condoms.
After dinner we walk around the Lower East Side, and I show him some of the cool places to go and some places he’d be wise to avoid—like the Third Street block governed by the Hells Angels. Then I take him to this cozy little tea shop that I love, and we sit and drink chocolate mint tea.
I begin to wonder if Chris thinks this is a date. The clues: The pointless chair reposition, so now he’s a little closer but no longer facing me. The arm touch—I’ve counted two, and I swear if I say anything else even mildly funny, he’ll use the opportunity to make it three. I begin to feel nervous. Not really nervous, but guilty. I hate that awkward thing when one person doesn’t feel the same way about the other. I know what I’ll do . . . I’ll fix him up with Sydney.
And just then, my suspicion is rewarded. He leans in, his face centimeters from mine, and tries to kiss me. I pull back and put my hands up like one of the Supremes. Stop, in the name of . . . whatever this is.
“Whoa.”
“Not okay?” he asks, face still directly in my face. It’s now not centimeters away, but still inches from mine, and way too close.
“Well . . . I just thought—I don’t know. I thought we were going to be friends.”
“Friends kiss,” he says.
“They do.” Like hello and good-bye! “But I really need a good vet.” And you’re wearing khakis.
“And you’ve got a good vet.”
“But if this doesn’t work out, then I’ll be out a vet. And a good vet is hard to find. You come highly recommended.” And you’re wearing khakis.
“I think the phrase is, a good man is hard to find. Probably harder to find than a good vet. And if it’ll help, I can get recommendations from some of my exes.”
“I’m sure they’d be thrilled to do that.”
“I really like you,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know you. But I thought we clicked today.”
“I like you too.” God, I hate this.
“Not gonna happen, huh?”
“Sorry . . .” I say.
And now comes the awkward silence. I hate this part, too. And while we’re sitting there in awkward silence, I start to think about Brady. God knows why, but I do. I think Brady was jealous about my going out with Chris. At the time I thought he was just being his usual annoying self, but now that I think about it, he was definitely jealous.
When I get home, Brady’s Pottery Barn catalog is under my door. The one I generously let him keep in exchange for keeping his Victoria’s Secret catalog.
There are a few pages earmarked, and when I turn to those pages there are Post-its with question marks on them. I think he’s asking my opinion. Does he have no friends? Are we friends now? And no, he cannot get that stupid fake antique phone. I can’t believe he’s even thinking about it. I skim through the catalog and look at what else he’s picked out. It’s not the worst stuff, I guess.
I’m tempted to knock on his door and give him my opinion, but I’ll wait until tomorrow. Let him sweat it out, not knowing when I came home from my non-date, which he thinks was a date—and which Chris thought was a date, too. Apparently, I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.
The truth is, Chris is a good-looking guy. He’s smart and funny, and a doctor. I’d probably go out with him any day of the week at any other time. But if I’m really going to be honest, I guess I’m still hurt. Not hurt, but a little gun-shy. I haven’t had the best luck in love, which we’ve never gotten into and don’t need to. And khakis had nothing to do with it. I think I’m scared. Which is extremely inconvenient because, as I’ve already told you, I need to be married in . . . well, now in only fourteen months. Ugh.
When I get to work, I’m informed Bruce and Jean Paul want to meet with me. Just the three of us. Which usually means bad news. When I find out they want me to come in early tomorrow for this meeting, I’m sure—it’s definitely bad news. Okay, fine. But as angry as they are, I’m pissed now, too. That I have to come in an hour early just to get bad news. Fuck that. It’s my spare time. My free time. My time away from this hellhole. And for added enjoyment, I get to dread this meeting for all of tonight.
I see Marco in the kitchen putting the bread baskets together. I walk over to him and make a face.
“What is this face for?” he asks.
“I think I’m getting fired,” I say.
“I think perhaps, too.”
“Really?” I say, now completely freaking out. I thought maybe they’d at least give me a warning first.
“Why do you think you are getting fired?”
“Because Jean Paul and Bruce want to meet with me. In the morning. Why? What did you hear?”
“They don’t tell me anything,” he says. And he squeezes the bread to check it for freshness.
“You must know something. You agreed with me when I said I thought I was getting fired!”
“I know that Bruce has spoken of your many conflicts with the customers. It seems you have had several conflicts, yes? Many scandals?” I guess by conflicts, he means problems. Which is close, I guess. Maybe that’s even a better way of describing it. I’d just say my customers are assholes who want to feel superior, so they treat me like crap, but yes, I guess I have “conflicts” with them.
“Yeah, I have had a few,” I say and sort of laugh. Then that seems stupid, so I stop.
“Don’t let the customers make you nervous and collapsed,” he says. Marco says “collapsed” instead of “upset.” I’ve tried to teach him, but he hasn’t gotten it yet.
“Upset . . . angry,” I say. “Not collapsed and nervous.”
“Yes. Angry. Mad. Don’t let these customers get you mad.”
“I try.” Then I sigh. “I’m not a waitress, Marco,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said this out loud. It freaks me out because, yes, I’m not a waitress—so maybe that makes my behavior okay . . . sort of. But really because . . . I am a waitress. This is what I do. For now I am a fucking waitress. It’s the only thing that’s paying my bills. Without this, my nest egg would be scrambled in no time. And as much as I don’t want to admit it . . . it’s the cold, hard truth. Maybe I need to shape up and try harder not to fuck up. It’s not a question of skill, really. It’s basically an attitude adjustment. Or maybe it’s time to quit procrastinating on what I’ve wanted to do since the moment S&M PR showed me how not to run a PR agency—start and run one of my own. That’s the one good thing that came out of that job, I guess. They taught me that I don’t want to work for corporate America anymore. And I sure as hell don’t want this either.
“I know you are not a waitress,” Marco says. “This is why I like you. I don’t like a woman who can carry more plates than me.”
I smile. “It’s not just how many plates I can carry. It’s a mentality thing,” I say, not sure if I’m talking above his level of understanding.
“I know this, too. I understand you, Heaven. Better than you think,” he says. I adore him. Not in a want-to-throw-him-up-against-the-refrigerator-and-have-crazy-sex-with-him way . . . but in a sweet way. He’s one of the good ones. I know he can tell what I’m thinking because he says, “Who is your favorite Albanian?”
“You are,” I say, and I give him a squeeze.
“Yes,” he says. “But unfortunately I don’t have any competition.”
“Marco, if everyone who worked in this place was Albanian, I promise you—you’d still be my favorite.” He smiles, which shows off his missing tooth. It’s not right in the front, but on the side. He’s quite a vision with the eye patch and the missing tooth, but it just makes him that much more lovable.
“Albania . . . it sucks. We have nothing,” he says. “Even Bulgaria won an Olympic medal, but it was stupid.”
&nbs
p; “Why was it stupid?”
“Because it was for weight lifting. And then they got kicked out for drugs. I don’t understand this weight lifting. It is stupid sport. Why do people watch this? To see one man pick up a piece of metal? This is not very interesting to me.”
“You have a point there, Marco.” I laugh.
There’s an older man sitting by himself, eating Canh Chua soup, and he clears his throat. He does it again. And then once again, with more effort.
The next thing I know, Marco lifts the man out of his seat and starts to shake him. He gets behind him and starts to do the Heimlich maneuver. I’m stunned, as is everyone else. No one is as stunned as the poor man, though.
Marco’s now standing behind him, his hands together in a fist, which he is hurling into the man’s stomach. He’s literally lifting him off the ground with each hurl. Tossing the man around like a rag doll. The man is actually trying to speak, in between each punch to his gut.
“What . . . [punch] are . . . [punch] you . . . [punch] doing? [punch]”
“I am saving your life,” Marco says. “I have had extensive training in Albania for just this thing!” he announces, heaving his doubled fist once again into the man.
“I . . . [punch] don’t . . . [punch] need . . . [punch] the Heimlich!” the man says.
“Marco!” I say. “The man can speak! If he can actually say Heimlich, he doesn’t need it!”
Marco puts the man down and looks at him. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“No!” says the man. “I was just clearing my throat and you beat the living crap out of me!” Marco looks like he’s going to cry.
“We are incredibly sorry, sir,” Bruce says. “Our busboy is new to the country. He’s very stupid and very sorry.”
“Yes,” Marco says. “I am terribly sorry. I thought perhaps you had one shrimp from the soup there inside of your throat.”
The man throws his napkin onto the table.
“Your lunch is on us,” Bruce offers meekly as the man storms out. Bruce then whirls on Marco. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“And if he was choking?” Marco asks.
“Let him die!” Bruce yells and storms out after the old man to do damage control.
I get home and Brady’s blasting music so loud I can hear it while I’m still in the elevator. I get out and go straight to his door. He’s listening to Massive Attack. I bang on his door. No answer. I bang again. Nothing. I should know by the choice of music that maybe I shouldn’t just barge in, but the door is slightly open. So, I think, Fuck it. I go in.
And fuck it is exactly what I walk in on. Brady is fucking it—that monster of an ex-girlfriend of his. She’s on top, riding him like a cowgirl. In the middle of his living room. On the floor. I should, of course, turn and leave immediately, but I’m so shocked that I actually stay and watch for a second. Literally a second. Which is all it takes before Psycho-girl sees me, and the next thing I know Brady is howling in pain and I am out the door.
Brady
Sarah shows up at my apartment in those wrap-around-the-ankle, all-the-way-up-to-the-knee, fuck-me heels and . . . what do you want me to say? You’ve seen those shoes.
Honestly, I wasn’t even going to go there, but she had this take-charge thing going on and just pushed me down onto the floor and began having her way with me. Believe me, she’d have preferred a bed with 800-thread-count sheets, but we were on the floor because I still have no furniture.
Sarah was never all that adventurous in the bedroom and rarely spent time on top. This time was definitely an adventure. I think, partly because she’s trying to win me back, and partly because, as I said, we were on the floor—and she’d be damned if she’d be on the bottom.
So there she is, putting on quite a performance. Touching herself to try and get me hotter as she rides me into my hardwood floors. I should really get an area rug. Anyway, she starts really getting into it. She’s thrusting up and down, up and down, harder and harder. You know how it is when girls really start going at it. That kind of raw, animalistic, your-cock-means-more-to-me-than-chocolate-or-even-diamonds-right-now kind of way. First off, forget about the twinges of pain in places I don’t need to have pain, but there’s always that chance she goes up too high—and it pops out. And then she comes crashing down on you. Down comes a hundred-and-twenty-pound bag of flour onto your cock. It’s like running into a wall at top speed with a hard-on. It fucking kills. People don’t talk about it, but I think most guys are terrified of this happening.
But she’s off . . . going higher and higher. All I can think is: Please don’t go up and down so hard, please don’t go so high, please for the love of God be careful. Shit, I wonder if it can break. I mean, I know there are no bones in a boner . . . but as hard as it is, maybe it can snap. And man, would that hurt.
And just as I’m picturing my dick snapping in two, Heaven comes prancing into my fucking apartment, and every single one of my fears are realized. Sarah sees her, which throws her off her game. I pop out, she comes crashing down, and bones or no bones . . . I think she broke my dick.
Sarah is gone, I am sitting on the floor with a bag of frozen peas on my dick, and I want to cry. Then she knocks on my door.
“Go away!” I yell.
“Can I come in?” Heaven asks.
“No,” I yell again. And then it gets quiet. I think for once she’s listened to me. Maybe she’s gone back into her lair.
“Captain Kangaroo died,” she yells through the door.
“I never liked him anyway,” I yell back. “Him and his freak-of-nature walrus mustache.”
“That’s not very nice,” she says.
“I’m not a nice person,” I say. “Look, can you come back another time? What you did—you have no idea what you did,” I say. I look at the quickly thawing bag of peas and wonder if I should actually see a doctor.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
And then she’s quiet again. Peace. I start to draw a glass of milk. I’m going to make a presentation to show Schultz when I get there, and I think a mock-up is a good idea.
“Did you know that the host of Romper Room got mugged last week?” she now yells. “She did. And they stole her mirror. The one she’d look in and say who she saw. She never saw me. I used to wait for her to say my name. She never did. I used to cry when it ended because she’d never see me. ‘I see Tommy and Mary . . . and Lucy . . . and Kevin . . .’”
I can’t take it any longer. She’s not going to fucking shut up.
“‘And Karen . . . and Lisa . . .’”
So I get up and open the door.
“What do you want?”
“They stole her mirror!” she says. “The muggers.”
“Okay. They mugged the Romper Room lady and Captain Kangaroo is dead. I hear you. I understand. Bad week for kids’ TV. Too bad Mr. Rogers died last year. Could have had a hat trick. Does this conclude your morbid update of children’s TV hosts of yesteryear?”
She looks at the bag of peas in my hand.
“Cooking?”
“No.”
“Look—I’m sorry about before. Your door was open.”
“That doesn’t mean come in,” I say. “It means I—or someone else—didn’t close it properly.”
“Someone else like Sarah? That was Sarah your crazy ex, right?”
“Yes, it was Sarah.”
“Guess you two are on better terms today,” she says.
“What do you want? What did you want when you came barging into my fucking apartment?” I say, waving my arm for effect. And then, smack, I end up hitting myself in the crotch with the bag of peas. “Fuck!” I yell.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, one whole octave higher.
“Seriously, are you okay?”
“I would be if you’d leave me alone.”
She pauses. “I only came back because I heard her leave.”
“And?”
“I was going to give yo
u my opinion on the stuff in the catalog. The Pottery Barn.”
“I don’t care anymore.”
“Then why did you shove it under my door?” she says.
“Because . . . God, you are annoying! Can you just leave it alone? I don’t want to talk about the fucking Pottery Barn right now.”
“You’re very hostile,” she observes. “Is this a side effect of that herbal stuff you take when you want to have sex with Sarah? Who you supposedly hate? Funny way of showing it, by the way.”
“We’re done here,” I say, starting to close the door.
“Fine,” she snaps. I slam the door in her face. Hard. I’m fuming. I stand there for a minute, then open the door again.
“It’s yohimbe,” I call out. “I don’t take it regularly. I haven’t taken it in months, in fact. And not that it’s any of your business, but right now I wish I did have problems getting it up. If I’d been Mr. Softy today when you came barging in, I wouldn’t be in the massive pain I’m in right now. But I wasn’t soft. I was hard as steel, baby! And it was all natural.” But . . . she doesn’t respond. I peek my head out, and she’s not there. But our other neighbor is. This fat Polish nanny who watches the kids across the hall. She looks somewhat shocked and not even a little bit amused. She shakes her head in disgust, and I meekly smile at her and then duck back into my apartment. I hate Heaven.
I’m back at the office, and Phil wants to know how Florida was. I feel bad. But not bad enough that I don’t spend the first twenty minutes filling him in on the elaborate details of my trip.
The truth is, I don’t feel like I did enough to get the ball rolling on Cinnamilk, but it’s not easy. My buddy Jonas, who’s a graphic artist, offered to make some sample ads for me so I’m looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. Anything remotely professional looking will further the cause.
Stupid and Contagious Page 11