Stupid and Contagious

by Caprice Crane

  So these hags stand there drinking their free drinks. And stay for another half hour. I write on a piece of paper and hold it up so Doug can see:

  They only tipped me 5%.

  Cunts.

  At that minute—in the mirror behind the bar—I catch the reflection of one of the women. She is reading what I’ve written.

  “ She is the only evidence of God I have seen, with the exception of the mysterious force that removes one sock from the dryer every time I do my laundry.”

  —Kirby, St. Elmo’s Fire

  “ Did you know your foot’s as big as your arm, from your elbow to your wrist?”

  —Vivian, Pretty Woman

  Brady

  I’m standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment when a car full of pretty girls slows down and they do a double take. I look behind me to see if they’re looking at someone else. Nope. Nobody else there. They start to back up. I try to fix my hair without them noticing. Then one of them rolls down her window and smiles.

  “Is that your car?” she asks.

  “No, I don’t have a car,” I say. “No” would have sufficed. She doesn’t need to know I don’t have a car.

  “Oh,” she says, disappointed. “We were hoping we could take your parking spot.” Ouch. Boy, do I feel like an idiot. But they drive off so quickly I don’t have time to think about it much.

  I decided to have a poker game at my place tonight. I need a win. I haven’t won a hand of poker in two months, and it’s not because I don’t know how to play. It’s the deck, I’m sure of it.

  Anyway, Phil and Zach are coming over, and Jonas, too. He has new artwork to show me. I’m psyched. I even bought some of those mini-pizzas to commemorate the occasion. The oven is already preheating when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Entrez-vous,” I say in my best French.

  “Mange a bitte,” a female voice says back. The unmistakable female voice of—you guessed it . . . Heaven.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she says as she strides in, surveying the place.

  “Getting ready for some friends to come over.”

  “Cool,” she says, sensing a slumber party in the making. “What are you guys gonna do?”

  “Play poker.”

  “Fun.” And now I can see in her eyes . . . the slumber party is on. “Can I play?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I know how.”

  “It’s guys’ night,” I tell her. “Just like you like to stay in on Sundays and watch Sex and the City with your friends, we like to drink beer, play poker, and fart.”

  “First of all, Sex and the City has been over for a long time, and second of all . . . you’re gross.”

  “Good, then you won’t have a problem making yourself scarce.” I put the little pizzas in the oven.

  “Why can’t a girl be there?” she says. Why is it that every girl who ever hears about a poker game tries to invite herself? “I’m sure I’d have plenty to talk about with your friends,” she adds.

  “See, that’s the thing. We just want to play poker. We don’t want to talk.”

  “How do you know? You speak for them?”

  “Trust me on this one. It’s a fact.”

  “Really, now?” she says with this face that is just begging for trouble.

  “Yes,” I say. “Fact.”

  “Documented somewhere?”

  “Actually, yes. Men’s Health magazine says that men speak thirteen thousand words a day. Women, however, speak twenty-five thousand words a day. But here’s the kicker.” And I frame the revelation with my hands. “Men speak twelve of those thirteen thousand during business, leaving one thousand for the rest of their talking. But the women speak ten thousand during business, leaving fifteen thousand miserable words for the rest of the time. Fifteen thousand variations of ‘Do I look fat in these jeans?’ I tell ya, God plays a strange game.”

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “What? Don’t give me ‘whatever.’ I just gave you documented fact proving my point.”

  “No,” she says. “You summarized what you read in a sad men’s magazine.”

  “I didn’t need a magazine to tell me what I already know. I know the fundamental differences between men and women.”

  She puts her hand on her hip. Why do girls always do that? As though a hand on a hip constitutes a valid argument? “And you get this from how much we want to talk?” she asks.

  “It’s not just how much. It’s also content,” I reply. And for some reason, as though I’m about to count the ways, I start enumerating on my right hand. “Talking about feelings? We don’t want to talk about feelings. We don’t even want to talk. We only have a thousand words. So we choose them wisely.” Now I look at my hand and it occurs to me that I’ve only counted one.

  “Ha. And what else do you know?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t,” she says.

  “Okay . . . sushi. We don’t like it. We know you do. Oh, you girls love sushi. Where do you want to go for dinner? Sushi! Nine times out of ten you want sushi. And it’s expensive. They’re not even cooking your food, and it’s the most expensive meal you can get.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “What else?”

  “Wine. We don’t like wine. We like beer. Clothing? Do you think we really care? We don’t. Shoes? Forget it!”

  “Some men do care about clothes and shoes. Men with taste.”

  “Gay men. And what about bathrooms? Your bathrooms are a mess. Here’s what we have in our bathrooms: a toothbrush, a razor, and a towel.”

  “True,” she says. “Who needs toothpaste, soap, or deodorant when you’re gonna be alone all your life?”

  “You ladies, you have about three hundred products, two hundred and ninety-four of which—we have no idea what they are.”

  “You don’t wear makeup,” she defends.

  “There’s a lot more than makeup going on in there. It’s a war zone.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” she says, contemplating her fingernails again. “You can have your little man party.”

  “Oh, thanks for your permission.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did you come here for something?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “Almost forgot, I got your mail.”

  “And? What are the lowlights?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t read it.”

  “Really?” I say in shock.

  “No, I read it. You got some CDs. They’re not very good.”

  “You listened to them?”

  “Yeah,” she says, “and they suck.”

  “They’re probably demos. So yeah, they probably do suck.” I’m beyond getting mad at this point. I just assume that she’s going to read my mail. She’s Heaven. It’s what she does.

  “Are you in the music business?”

  “Yeah, I own a label.”

  “Really? That’s cool,” she says, kind of lighting up. “Do you put anything out that I’d know?”

  “Doubt it. Our most popular release was a compilation we put together of cover songs. It’s the only thing generating any income, and I think that stream may be drying up soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I just read on this Web discussion board where someone wrote, ‘Right, asshole, do that and I’ll pay you back with a Christmas present of that played-out compilation disc from Shitstack Records.’”

  “Shitstack? That’s a memorable name,” she says.

  “It’s Sleestak, actually.”

  “What’s the name of the compilation?”

  “Looks Like We Re-Made It.”

  “Manilow? Hilarious. What are they covering? Songs to retch by?”

  “No, cool seventies songs that the kids today don’t know but would love if they were done by bands they like. ‘Baker Street’ . . . ‘Seasons in the Sun’ . . . ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’—”

  “I love that song,” she
says, and she gives me this obnoxious slap on the arm that actually hurts, but I don’t show it. “All of those songs. What else?”

  “‘Crosstown Traffic’—”

  “Hendrix?”

  “Of course.”

  “He died at twenty-seven, you know,” she says. I’m surprised that she knows that.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So did Kurt Cobain.”

  “I know.”

  “And Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin.” She seems to know her dead players.

  “Do you know the ages of all dead musicians or just the ones who died at twenty-seven?”

  “Just those,” she says. And then she adds in an almost embarrassed mumble, “It’s sort of a thing I have.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Just a thing,” she says, looking distractedly across the room. “Nothing you need to know.”

  “You seem to need to know everything about me . . .”

  “You’ll think it’s crazy.”

  “I already know you’re crazy,” I retort, and she makes one of her faces at me. Then she sort of squints her eyes at me. Like she’s deciding if I deserve to know.

  “I’ve always thought that I was going to die at twenty-seven—” she finally blurts.

  “God, that’s really morbid. Why?”

  “Well, you didn’t let me finish. Not conserving your thousand words,” she says with a smile.

  “Finish,” I say.

  “I’ve always thought that unless I do something before I’m twenty-seven that I’m going to die. But if I do something, then I won’t.”

  “Like make a mark in the world? I hate to say it, but all of those people made pretty big marks, and they still died.”

  “No. Not like that.”

  “Then what?”

  She opens her mouth wide and rolls her eyes way up in their sockets. I’ve seen this before. It’s what people do at altitude to make their ears pop. But we’re only on the fourth floor. Then she comes back down to earth. “Get married,” she says—like, no big deal.

  “If you get married you won’t die?”

  “Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. In fact, she says it with such conviction I believe her. At least I believe she believes it.

  “Huh,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. Kurt was married, but I don’t want to bring that up. I don’t think it’s about whether or not they were all married. I think it’s just something she believes, and I’m not going to argue with her about it. For the first time I don’t want to argue with her. It feels kinda weird. She reminds me a little of the dog she just rescued. Helpless, but happy. Not hopeless. And I almost want to take care of her. Almost.

  Just then Zach shows up, and Phil marches in right behind him. I think Phil has always looked up to Zach—or at least wished he and I had the friendship that Zach and I have. But Phil also realizes that he’s the Joey to our collective Chandler.

  “Do I smell mini-pizzas?” Zach asks.

  “The nose knows,” I say.

  “It’s a beautiful thing,” Zach says.

  “How can you smell the difference between mini-pizza and regular pizza?” Phil asks. Nobody responds for a minute, then we all start laughing. All of us, that is, but Phil.

  Heaven looks at me. “I think I get it now,” she says and starts for the door. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “Sure you don’t want to stay?” Zach asks.

  “No, thanks. I have plans,” Heaven says.

  “No you don’t, loser,” I say.

  “Yes, I do,” she insists. “I have plans with Sydney.”

  “That’s why you were just begging me to let you play poker with us,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t say I was begging,” she replies. “And I was only asking you to see what your response would be.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re so funny when you think you’re right. It’s kind of sad, actually. Love to chat, but Sydney is probably waiting in the hall right now wondering where I am. By the way, Hi . . . and bye,” she says to Zach and Phil.

  “By all means, invite Sydney,” I say, calling her bluff, wanting to watch her squirm a little. Which is mean, I admit.

  She opens the door and smiles.

  “Hey, girl! Come in here for a second.” She’s either taking this way too far or I’m a huge idiot. Once again.

  Sure enough, I’m a huge idiot. In walks her friend, Sydney. The one that called me retarded. Idiot, retarded—six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  “This is Sydney, everybody,” Heaven says. “I’d introduce you gentlemen, but I don’t know your names.”

  “Where are my manners?” I say. “Zach and Phil.” And then Jonas walks in. “And Jonas.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Sydney says.

  “You’re so burned,” Heaven says. Then she slowly walks up to me and gets really close. It’s almost sexy. Who am I kidding? It is very fucking sexy. And she whispers, “But not as burned as your mini-pizzas,” and she cracks up, dashing out and dragging her friend with her. I turn around and see smoke coming from my oven. Zach’s jaw drops after she leaves.

  “Dude,” he says. “Totally holding out. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I run to the oven and open it, letting out a giant cloud of smoke. “Shit.”

  “Salvageable?” Zach asks.

  “Definitely,” I say as I pull out the sheet of burnt-to-a-crisp mini-pizzas. “If you mean, can we still use them for something.”

  “Poker chips!” Phil offers.

  “So, uh . . . that Heaven chick? She’s hot, man,” Zach says. “What’s going on there? I detected a little sexual tension.”

  “Nothing going on. She’s just the local pain in my ass.”

  “Then may I?” Zach asks.

  “No, you may not,” I say.

  “Knew it,” he says.

  “What about the friend?” Phil asks. “She looks like she’d take it in the poop chute like a champ . . . if you catch my meaning.”

  “No, Phil,” Zach says. “We have no idea what you mean.”

  “What is wrong with you?” I ask. “Never mind.”

  “I have some stuff to show you,” Jonas says, and he pulls out his latest incarnation of the Cinnamilk mock-ups. It’s much better. No sign of the mystery meat. Bacon and eggs. Some buttered toast. And Cinnamilk. Glorious Cinnamilk.

  “Love it,” I say. “I need a tagline. You guys got any ideas?”

  “How about . . . ‘Who needs the cereal when you have the leftovers?’” Phil offers.

  “It’s not about cereal,” I say.

  “You said it’s like the milk left over in the bowl after Cinnamon Toast Crunch—”

  “But it’s about the milk. Chocolate milk may resemble the milk after a bowl of Count Chocula, but they don’t talk about Count Chocula in the ads.”

  “Okay, I got it,” Phil says. “‘Because you’re too young for fiber.’”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I sigh.

  “Fiber cereals!” Phil explains.

  “I know, Phil. So we’re back to cereal. Cereal I just said I didn’t want to use. And by the way, you’re never too young for fiber.”

  “Dude, no shit,” Zach says. “I didn’t eat enough for dinner last night, and the first thing I ate this morning was pretzels. It was like a giant fist trying to come out my ass.”

  “Not helping the plight,” I say.

  “Okay,” Zach says. “How about, ‘Cinnamilk! Two of the worst bad-breath creators . . . together at last!’”

  “Fuck you,” I say. “Cinnamon is good. They make mints . . . gum . . . cinnamon freshens breath.”

  “I’ve always hated cinnamon gum,” Zach says.

  “This isn’t gum!”

  “‘Cinnamilk! When you’re done . . . smack your lips and gums! It’ll sound like two beavers fucking.’” This gem comes from Phil. Then he walks over to my refrigerator and swings the door open. “Dude . . . speaking of—the typical proto
col is to chuck the milk before it goes brown.”

  “Ah, but not just any milk,” I say. “Cinnamilk—that’s it. Want a sip?” Phil shrugs and begins to lift the plastic container to his mouth. “DUMBASS,” I shout. “That’s okay for me, but I have home-field advantage.” I grab down a motley assortment of glasses, at least two of them clean, and pour three samples. Zach is the first to bite the bullet.

  “You know something?” he says.

  “What?” I say excitedly.

  “That tastes exactly like cow piss.” He sees I take this seriously and quickly corrects. “Kidding. Brady . . . you may be onto something.”

  Jonas nods his head. “I wouldn’t give up regular or chocolate milk for it, but not bad,” he says.

  Seeing the others’ reactions, Phil downs his. “Yes, indeed. Definitely . . . very good. Really. I’d pay for this shit.” Then he returns to the refrigerator. “But let’s move on to that other brown beverage I saw in here.” And he pulls out four beers. All in all, very positive, considering the generous helping of negativity and humiliation these guys normally dish out.

  “Hey, thanks for the new artwork, man,” I say to Jonas.

  “No problem. We’ll think of a tagline. Don’t worry,” he says. “Hey, Jenny and I are selling our living room carpet, since she’s forcing me to remove anything manly and stylish from our apartment in favor of more feminine furnishings. Before I post any flyers in our building or at work, you want anything? You know that killer rug I have? It’s in great condition. Be perfect here, dude. Looking for around ten thousand dollars, but that’s highly negotiable. I’m thinking around fifty bucks.”

  “As much as the offer’s appreciated,” I say, “I think I’m going to pass. I am intent on getting a nice Persian rug.”

  “To allow for some nice Persian rug burns,” Zach chimes in.

  “Suit yourself,” Jonas says.

  “Dudes . . .” Zach says, “try this one on for size—”

  “Oh, God,” Jonas says. “Here comes another imperfect crime.”