“No, it does work,” I explain. “That’s a look. He’s rockabilly.”
“He’s what?”
“Rockabilly.”
“What is that? Like Hillbilly Rockstar?” she asks. I crack up.
“It’s a music style. And a lifestyle. The tattoos and pompadours . . . hot-rod cars . . . hollow-body guitars . . . pin-up girls. And the girls all want to be Bettie Page. Well, Bettie Page with tattoos.”
“But why mix country with the fifties?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t get it.”
“Oh . . . in that case,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just not a little bit country. I’m all rock ’n’ roll. And speaking of—this sucks! ‘BROWN-EYED GIRL’!” she yells out. I can’t believe it. I know it just happened, but I still can’t believe it.
The band looks out at us and I sink into the floor. “No, don’t do that,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because they’re not taking requests,” I say.
“How do you know?” she says. The band suddenly starts walking off the stage. I think it’s because of her yelling, but it’s actually because they’ve finished their set. And at this very moment, a cowboy takes his cue.
One of the band members took the “Brown-Eyed Girl” shout-out as a mating call, and saunters over to Sydney and me. He’s not totally inked, but the tats peeking out from his cuffed plaid shirt promise more to be discovered. Looks like he’s ripped under that shirt as well.
“‘Brown-Eyed Girl,’ huh?” he says. “Haven’t heard that one in a long time. At least a couple of minutes.” I get it immediately, but Sydney seems to be listening more with her eyes, so she doesn’t make out what he’s saying.
“You guys sounded really . . . really good,” Sydney gushes. “What was that last song?” Oh God.
“It’s an original of mine,” he says, smooth as a Jack Daniel’s milk shake.
“Who wrote it?” Sydney replies. All I can do is smile at him as if to say “she tries.” But he’s way ahead of me.
“What about you?” he says to me. “Did you like our set?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You guys are really good.” I sip my Seven & Seven and sort of look away. Sydney’s eyes widen a little bit as if she’s sensing I’m not into him, and she doesn’t want to let this one flop off the hook.
“Yeah, she liked it a lot. She loves rock-a-hillbilly. We both do. The whole thing . . . the lifestyle,” she says. In that moment he looks at her outfit and I’m thinking, Yeah, you’re in head-to-toe Prada. You’re a regular cowgirl.
Picking up on her eagerness, he not-so-subtly drops, “I’ve got a ’56 Chevy Stepside parked right out front. Wanna check it out?”
“Stepside?” Sydney echoes uncertainly, not knowing what the hell he’s talking about. He takes this as girlish awe and leads the way. Sydney follows him outside to his truck, and I trail behind.
“Wow . . .” she says. “That’s so cool!” Sydney coos. And I have to admit, chromed out with cherry-red metallic paint, which shines like lip gloss, bumper to bumper . . . it is decidedly cool—calculated cool—one bad-ass motherfucker.
“Wanna take her for a spin around the block?” he offers. I know Sydney doesn’t know how to drive a stick, and Sydney sure as shit knows she doesn’t know how to drive a stick.
“Sure,” she says. As I watch her take the keys to his classic car, it’s as though it’s all happening in slow motion.
“Sydney . . .” I say with all the reproach I can stuff into my voice.
“What?” she says, almost angrily.
“Use your blinkers.” I smile.
Sydney jumps in on the driver’s side, and he slides in on the passenger’s side. I slide in next to him. The responsible thing at this moment would be for me to explain to this innocent country boy (probably Brooklyn born and bred) that he’s risking his pride and joy on someone who’s already well past tipsy—and can barely ride a bike on a good day. But I’ve got three drinks in me, I’m preoccupied with my own bad day, and those fuzzy dice he has hanging from the rearview mirror are making me feel lucky. Besides, I’m in that weird place that alcohol takes a person to, where ideas like a late-night bacon and broccoli sandwich start to sound brilliant.
Sure enough, Sydney’s first act in her inaugural run with a manual transmission is to grind the gears raucously—
SGRRRRAAAAAKKKKK. For a split second he looks alarmed, but then he’s like, “Hey . . . happens to everyone,” and he relaxes again into a studied slouch.
“Ready?” Sydney says with a nervous smile, and I detect a warning. Then—bang! All hell’s afire, the pickup lurches forward on a sharp angle into a raging stream of Third Avenue traffic. Taxicabs are swerving left and right, horns blare at us from every direction, and I can actually read the “What the fuck . . .” on the lips of the driver to my immediate right. Abruptly Sydney makes her correction, wheeling to the right at just as sharp an angle. And I am sure I will not make it to twenty-seven . . . or marriage . . . or tomorrow—because barreling toward us is a gigantic garbage truck, resembling a charging prehistoric rhino. Its full-throated foghorn is trying to blast us out of the way.
I hear a high-pitched scream, and I think at first it may be me, but then I realize it’s the manly cowboy to my left who has just turned instantaneously into a bug-eyed, dashboard-grasping Don Knotts. Now we’re stopped dead in the middle of Third Avnue.
“Where to now?” Sydney asks, delightfully unabashed by the predicament and the chorus of car horns urging us to a decision.
“Out!” he yells. “Get out!”
I survey the situation, and honestly, jumping out of the pickup into moving traffic on Third Avenue seems safer than continuing on Sydney’s road trip. I grab her hand at the front of the car, and we Frogger our way to the sidewalk.
“Wait!” Sydney screams. And I’m thinking some irate driver has decided to run us down. “I didn’t give him my phone number!” she says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’ll never forget you.”
I check my mailbox when I get home, and I find my mold test results. And something from American Airlines for Brady. Where is he going? I tear open my letter from Mr. Mold, and it says my test was inconclusive. In-con-fucking-clusive? What the hell is that?
So I may or may not have the black mold. All of a sudden I’ve got a headache. It’s probably the mold!
I go upstairs, and once I’m inside my apartment I open Brady’s mail. It’s a plane ticket to California. What’s in California?
I can’t think about this right now. I’m drunk, I have a headache, my apartment is infested with poisonous mold, and my dog is missing. Where is Strummer?
“Strummer!” I call out. Nothing. “Struuummmmer . . .” In the middle of the second syllable I remember he’s next door at Brady’s.
I walk out and bang on Brady’s door. He comes to the door in 3-D glasses.
“Can I help you, madam?”
“I’ve come for my dog,” I say.
He sniffs the air around me. “Has someone been drinking on the job?”
“No,” I say. “Someone got fired, shat on by a pigeon, and embarrassed at a honky-tonk. And went drinking.”
“Come in,” he says. And I do. “You got fired?”
“Yeah,” I say as I slump into his beanbag. Which is new. “When did you get this?” I ask.
“Jonas donated it. Wanna talk about it?”
“No. Lots of people have beanbags.”
“I mean the job,” he says. “Or lack of it?” Strummer comes and sits on top of me.
“What’s in California?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You got a plane ticket.”
“Oh!” he says. “Should’ve known. A band. I’m going to check out a band we might sign. Then I’m going to Seattle.”
“What’s in Seattle?”
“Howard Schultz.”
“The Peanuts guy?”
�
�No, that’s Charles Schulz,” he says.
“Why do you want to see the Peanuts guy?”
“I don’t. And if I did, I’d be shit out of luck because he’s dead.”
I look aside. Had I heard that? I guess so. So many people seem to be dying. I was almost one of them tonight. “Oh. Then why are you going?”
“You have been drinking, haven’t you? I’m going to meet Howard Schultz.”
“Who is he?”
“The founder of Starbucks.”
“I love coffee.” I beam.
“Me too,” he says. “And you could definitely use some right now.”
“No, I need sleep. But I can’t go home.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have the mold.”
“The what?” he says.
“The mold,” I say. I fall asleep on the beanbag with Strummer’s head resting on my leg.
Brady
Heaven is asleep in my apartment. She spent the night last night curled up in a ball on my beanbag with Strummer. It’s actually pretty darned cute.
I’m drinking coffee when Strummer yawns a giant lion yawn and walks over to me.
“Hey, boy,” I say. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Heaven says.
“You’re up?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. She sits up, revealing a crease from the seam of the beanbag etched in the side of her face.
“You had a rough night, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Were you just really drunk last night, or is there something wrong with your apartment?”
“Oh,” she says as if she’s remembering. “Oh, no. I forgot about that.”
“Yeah, you started talking about the mold last night, and then you just zonked out.”
“Yeah . . . the mold.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I think I have black mold,” she says.
“What is black mold?”
“Toxic mold.”
“What makes you think you have this?”
“The tests came back inconclusive. I don’t wanna stay there.”
“Well, then you’ll have to come to California with me,” I say (of course kidding).
“Okay,” she says.
“Fantastic,” I say, not taking her seriously. I hand her a cup of coffee.
“I’ll go pack.”
“Seriously?” I say, now wondering if she’s serious.
“Yeah. I seriously don’t want to stay in my apartment. And for all we know, you could have the mold here, too.”
Holy shit, she’s serious. “I was kidding. What would you do in California?”
“Whatever you do. I don’t have a job anymore. I’m free to go.”
I cannot believe she’s serious. She can’t come with me. I mean, sure she could come to California to check out the band, I guess, but I have important business to deal with—and no way is she coming to Seattle. I can’t have her there messing things up. She does seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, whether she tries to or not. No, absolutely not. She cannot come with me.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say.
“Why not? You could use the company. And Strummer has never seen California.”
Strummer? She can’t be serious this time. “Strummer definitely can’t come.”
“Why not?”
“This is getting out of hand. We’re not seriously discussing this, are we?”
“Yes, we are. Why can’t Strummer come?”
“Because,” I say. “He can’t.”
“Doggist bigot,” she says.
“You can’t come either.”
“Why not?”
I want to come up with a really adult-sounding and final answer. “Because I have important business to take care of.”
“I heard that part. What does that have to do with me and Strummer?”
“You just can’t come, okay?”
“Fine,” she says.
“Fine,” I say with finality.
I’m on American Airlines Flight #3 on my way to California, and Heaven is sitting next to me. Strummer is in a crate under the plane. His ticket cost a hundred bucks. Apparently Heaven likes the aisle seat, too. But I booked my flight first, and I’m not budging. She could have sat somewhere else. Not my problem. What is my problem, though, is the fact that she’s milking it for all that she can. She’s gotten up and climbed over me about seventy-five times since we boarded. She demanded I give her my Smokehouse Almonds because she thought she was gypped in her bag. And she’s listening to the Chinese channel on her headset and trying to repeat what they are saying. This is even less amusing to the Asian person sitting directly behind us.
I get up and go to the bathroom. As I wash my face, I notice the sign telling me to please wipe the washbasin after my use for the next passenger. Which I do, though I’m not sure I really understand why. Sure, if I was shaving or something—but if all I do is wash my hands or face, I don’t know why the inside of the washbasin has to be wiped dry, just so the next passenger can wet it again. Which gives me a thought: What about a self-drying sink? Maybe it could have holes like Swiss cheese that air could blow through. Even better . . . so much air that if you waved your hands in front of it, they’d get dry . . . which would eliminate the need for those separate air dryers. But then how would the water stay in the sink? Bad idea.
And then the flush—the flush is quite possibly the loudest toilet flush I’ve ever experienced. It gets me thinking about all toilet flushes. They’re really unpleasant—loud, obnoxious. Unsettling, really. At that second, it hits me. What if I designed an MP3 player Flush Button. It would play music when you flushed instead of the imposing whoosh. It wouldn’t have to play a whole song. That could get annoying—but maybe the chorus, or a clever line, even. “Water of Love” by Dire Straits, “Big Balls” by AC/DC, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, “Tush” by ZZ Top . . . even Sinatra’s “My Way.” I’m sure Old Blue Eyes would be honored. Then again, maybe not. Maybe he’d turn over in his grave, in which case I’d sample the Sid Vicious version. The possibilities are endless. I am a wealth of inventions. This one could even top Cinnamilk—and the Catch-It Cone. Not just because of its genius, but because it involves my first true passion—music.
I come back to my seat and find Heaven in it.
“What are you all smiley about?” she asks.
“Move it or lose it,” I say.
“Make me,” she says. I lift her up out of my seat and place her in her own, where she sits and pouts but quickly gets over it. “What were you smiling about? Have a wank in there? You know, you’re not officially a member of the Mile High Club unless there’s another person involved.”
“Hmm,” I say. “So what club is it when there are two other people involved and they’re both flight attendants?”
“The Masturbatory Fantasy Club?” she offers. “Seriously, what happened in the bathroom that was so grin-inducing?”
“I came up with another idea, that’s all.”
“What kind of idea?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What,” she says. “You think I’m going to steal it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t, not here at least. Too many people around.”
“Fine. But I’m going to make you tell me later,” she warns.
“Okay.”
“And I’m not going to forget, either.”
“I’m sure you’re not.”
“I don’t forget things,” she says.
“Of course you don’t.”
“Especially things like this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do forget where I put my keys.”
“We all have our faults,” I say.
“I wouldn’t consider that a fault.”
I notice that she’s made a list on the vomit bag in my absence. “What is that?” I ask.
“It’s my
updated funeral persona non grata list.”
“I see,” I say.
“A plane is dangerous. Might as well have an updated version with me.”
“So there are other versions?” I say, craning my neck in a half-assed attempt to see if my name is on the list.
“Yes.”
“And you want your final version to be on a throw-up bag?”
“It’s as good a place as any,” she says, checking up and down her list.
“And if we have some kind of tragedy on the plane, don’t you think that list will be destroyed along with the rest of us—and the plane?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But you’re thinking some other tragedy that would just take you and leave your list unharmed.”
She thinks for a second. “It’s a precaution,” she says.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“Fair enough,” I say and open my duty-free shopping catalog to see if anything new has shown up since my last flight.
We arrive at Long Beach Airport. The band’s playing in Costa Mesa, so we flew into Long Beach instead of LAX.
We’re reunited with Strummer, and I swear that dog smiles at us when he spots us. I didn’t fully understand until this moment—this dog has a soul. And a fantastic smile. He jumps up on Heaven, and she’s giddy with love for this mutt. I pat him on the head and try to play it cool, but I gotta say, I’ve fallen for him, too.
We get in my rental car, and Heaven pulls out a CD mix she made for the trip. The first song is by Spoon, which just happens to be one of my favorite bands. The second song is a Wilco song, another near-perfect band. Then she’s got Franz Ferdinand’s “Come on Home” going straight into “Heart of Glass” by Blondie, which blows my mind because I thought I was the only one who noticed the similarities between those two songs. I’m afraid that if the rest of this CD is as good as its beginning I’m going to have to ask this girl to marry me. And that is definitely not in the cards. As soon as I think this, “Little Guitars” by Van Halen comes on. Seriously proposal-worthy, so we’ll just keep this between us.
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