Stupid and Contagious

by Caprice Crane

  I walk into El Compadre and they’re already drinking margaritas. Though it occurs to me that the drummer is closer to twelve than twenty-one, I keep my trap shut and order one for myself.

  Sam is the mouthpiece for the band, and as I take a tortilla chip and pop it into my mouth he casually says, “Wanna hear something crazy?”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Looks like we have two record deals on the table. Darren Rosenthal met with us this morning, and he offered us a deal. Our lawyer is looking over both.”

  Fuck.

  Not only do I choke on my chip, I scratch my throat. This is turning out to be a really bad day.

  Sam looks at me to gauge my response after he casually drops the Rosenthal bomb. I play it cucumber style.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “Anyone who’s heard you would be a complete moron not to want to sign you.” This answer works twofold. It shows that I am not deterred by Rosenthal’s offer, and it strokes their ego, which every band feeds off of.

  “Thanks,” he says, and I know my response was correct. The only problem is, I’m practically shitting in my pants. Darren motherfucking Rosenthal works for a major label. I can’t compete with that. The only thing I can do now is pray to God they don’t fall for his schmooze. Well, that and tell them some cold, hard facts about the business.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say as I sip on my much-needed margarita. “Major labels are sexy. They’re powerful and exciting. You look at some of the bands on their roster and can’t help but be awe-inspired.”

  “Totally,” he says.

  “And you’d be psyched to be on the same label as them.”

  “Absolutely,” Ethan tosses in.

  “I know. I was where you are. I used to be in a band.”

  “What did you play?” Sam asks.

  “Guitar.”

  “Right on,” he says. We clink our glasses to our shared talent. “You just got sick of trying to make it?”

  “Sort of,” I say, and I take another sip before I go in for the kill. “My band was called Crooked, and we were signed to Warner about six years ago.”

  “You were?” he says, totally surprised by this.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, setting my glass down as if to suggest I’ve got something incredibly important to reveal at this moment, for his ears only (though I’ve tried it on ten other rising stars like him). “We had a three-record deal and they sold us all this bullshit about us being the next Stones.”

  “So what happened?” they all ask.

  “What, you never heard of Crooked?”

  “No,” they say.

  “Exactly. What happened? I’ll tell you what happened.” The whole band is now on the edges of their seats. “We signed the deal and went into the studio to cut our album. We recorded all of our best songs and made a kick-ass record. The only problem was they’d signed about seventeen other bands at the same time as us and didn’t want to put a lot of money into promoting us. Any of us, really. They already had their star bands, and with the rest of us it was pretty much: Let’s see how many records you can sell with no help from us.”

  “That sucks,” Sam says.

  “Yeah, it does, but that’s what happens at the majors. One in a hundred bands make it. Labels just snatch everybody up because they don’t want to miss out, but they don’t take the time to nurture a band and really help make them successful. And if you don’t produce in, say, six months or a year—and really, how can you—you get dropped. Not only do you lose your deal . . . you lose your best songs.”

  “Jesus,” he says.

  “Yeah, and by the way . . . those advances you get? They’re recoupable. Which means that if you don’t make back the money they spent on you—you’ll end up owing them all kinds of money that you don’t even have.” Okay, maybe I’m laying it on a little thick here.

  “Fuck,” Sam says.

  “I know. It sucks. That’s why I switched to the other side of the business,” I say. I start to sense something I don’t believe I’ve even seen before. Not hero worship, but maybe an unwitting or unconscious respect for someone who’s been there. Even the drummer looks up for the first time. I have all of their innocent faces looking up at me. They look so young that for a split second I don’t know if I want to coax them into a contract or offer them chocolate milk. I stand up, and they’re transfixed. At this moment, someone needs to start humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  “To actually help other bands, I do what I was once promised back in the day: nurture them and help them grow. Help build fan bases and set them up for a long career, not just a three-month shot and then fuck you. Overnight success is rare. Sometimes it takes a couple records to truly figure out exactly what you’re about. My thing is . . . I give bands that time. I’m not in the immediate results business. I’m in the business of putting out music that I love. Music that I believe in and I think other people should hear.” All of the guys are looking at each other and nodding.

  “Totally,” Sam agrees.

  “I like to think so. So I can’t offer you the slick contract at the giant corporation. But I can offer you loyalty. And if you sign with Sleestak, you’re making a home for yourself for as long as you want. And we will continue to put your records out for as long as you want us to. We’ll give you 200 percent of our attention and do everything in our power to make you rich and famous.”

  I leave the restaurant feeling better than I did when I first sat down, but there’s still this nagging feeling that Darren can woo them with money I just don’t have. I hope what I said to them sinks in. Hope is really all I have right now. That, and, as I mentioned earlier, my talent for lying when I have to. The truth is, I exaggerated my whole band scenario. And “Crooked”? Well, I guess that was an homage to Phil’s fucked-up dick. Don’t get me wrong—I was in a band, and I did get screwed by a label. But not to the extent that I described, and it certainly wasn’t Warner that had signed me. Anyway, everything I told them happens every single day in the music business, so even if it didn’t happen exactly that way to me . . . it really could happen to them.

  When I get back to the Hyatt, which is where Heaven and I are staying, Heaven is nowhere to be found. For the first time it occurs to me—wow, we’re sharing a room. But at the same time the voice also says—wow, at these rates it’s amazing we’re not sleeping in the park, sharing a bench with a crack addict.

  So I wait.

  Three hours later she is still not back. Her cell phone is going straight to voice mail, and I’m starting to get worried. The girl is a menace. God only knows what kind of trouble she’s gotten into, and we are in a strange city.

  Five hours later she comes tiptoeing back into the room to find the lights on and me with a scowl on my face.

  “You’re up?” she says.

  “No, I’m sleeping,” I answer. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you’d be busy with the band.”

  “Didn’t I say I’d meet you back here in a few hours?”

  “I guess.”

  “Right. Well, what that meant was that I would meet you back here in a few hours. Which in layman’s terms equals one hundred eighty minutes.”

  “Gotcha,” she says.

  “Right,” I say. And then I just sort of look at her while I wait for her to tell me where she was. But she gets up, walks into the bathroom, and starts washing her face.

  I walk in after her. She comes up from the sink all wet-faced, and I hand her a towel.

  “Thank you,” she says and takes it.

  “So where were you?” I ask.

  “With Darren,” she says, and I snatch the towel back. I don’t know why, but I do.

  “Can I have the towel, please?” she says, almost laughing. I fail to see what is so funny.

  “You were with Darren?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rosenthal?” I ask, knowing full well it’s Rosenthal.

  “Yes.
”

  “Why?”

  “He called me,” she says, stretching and unstretching her hair scrunchie but refusing to meet my gaze. “Wanted to hang out. Catch up.”

  “I’ll bet he did.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “He did.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet,” I say again because I don’t know what to say right now. I mean, it’s really no big deal, so I don’t know why I’m even freaking out. They dated a long time ago. She wouldn’t actually do anything with him. Not a chance. I’m certain of it.

  “Would catching up involve nudity?”

  She chucks the scrunchie back into her makeup bag. “God, Brady.”

  “Would it?” I pursue.

  “Well, I can tell you this,” she says, spinning to face me. “Either I forgot what it was like with him, or he’s picked up some new moves in the past few years.”

  “No, you didn’t just say that,” I say, suddenly channeling a trailer-park baby momma on the Jerry Springer show.

  “Yes, I did,” she says, rubbing moisturizer into her face a little too aggressively. I half expect to hear her say, “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” If I wasn’t absolutely certain to the contrary, I could almost swear that with this motion she wipes away a single tear. “I’m so glad I came out here with you. I am really enjoying this trip.” And with that she walks out of the bathroom and plops herself down onto her bed.

  “Well, I am really not enjoying you right now,” I say and stomp out after her.

  “What’s your deal?” She’s playing it tough, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice.

  “My deal?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I’ll tell you what my deal is.”

  “Please do.”

  “God! I can’t believe you!” I say. It occurs to me, in all the emotions she’s ever inspired in me, the anger or mock anger I felt was never really rooted in actual feelings. Until now.

  “What?” she says. “Can you please explain what your issue is here?”

  “Look, I don’t care what you do or who you have sex with. I don’t. It’s none of my business,” I say for the second time today, when both times I’ve felt that it was absolutely my fucking business.

  “Good. Because it’s not.”

  “Right. See, the thing is . . . the person with whom you have just done things that I don’t care to think about is the same person that offered Superhero a record deal this morning.”

  “What?” she says, all surprised.

  “Yes, he did,” I say. “So in essence, he’s actually just fucked both of us. Only I didn’t bend over by choice.”

  “ My God . . . I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.”

  —Marla, Fight Club

  “ Try not to suck any dick on the way to the parking lot.”

  —Dante, Clerks

  Heaven

  Some people pick the wrong things to say all the time. I am one of those people. I also happen to pick the wrong men, jobs . . . you name it. I don’t mean to do it. Of course I don’t. But if there was a cartoon bubble over my head at all times, and everyone could read my thoughts, I can safely say that 87 to 90 percent of the time, it would say “Shit!” or maybe “Fucking shit!” or simply “Oops.” Those seem to be the three major thoughts that arise after I do or say something regrettable—most often a combination of the three. It may start out as an “Oops,” but quickly turns into a “Shit” or a “Fucking shit” without fail.

  It seems that I am Lucy. I don’t know how or when it happened, but I do everything short of crying, “Ricky, why can’t I be in the show?”

  Here I thought I was having a perfectly innocent sex-with-an-ex moment, and it turns out I’ve just completely fucked Brady over. But did I know it at the time? No. And if Darren hadn’t offered the band a deal, Brady probably wouldn’t even give a crap. This was not supposed to make me feel bad. So why do I feel like my new puppy just got hit by a car? Because Darren did offer them a deal? Which means I have now lain down with the enemy? Although, truth be told, there was actually very little lying down involved. Honestly, I kind of thought that I’d swayed Darren the other way when we were watching them play. I had no idea that he offered them a deal. So Darren offered them a deal. That’s life. I still think Brady will win them over in the end. But he’s all pissed, and I don’t know what to feel right now. But I’m feeling it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

  “Whatever,” Brady says.

  “I really am. I never would have . . . I wouldn’t have, if I thought he would in any way mess things up for you.”

  “I know,” he says without looking at me.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” he says, and this time he looks right at me. “You may be a bit of a nuisance and a gigantic pain in the ass—”

  “No offense taken—”

  “—but I know that you wouldn’t willingly jeopardize my deal.”

  “Well, I didn’t jeopardize your deal.”

  “No,” he says, “but you slept with the person who did.” I’ve seen Brady up, and I’ve seen Brady down, but I’ve never seen or heard him be this . . . vacant.

  “And we didn’t exactly sleep.”

  “Your semantics aren’t helping.” He sighs.

  Oops, says my thought bubble. See?

  “Just out of curiosity, what part of your brain thought it was a good idea to say that?” he asks.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Wow, what?”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  “You were thinking what?”

  “That I seem to have this uncanny knack for saying the wrong thing all the time.”

  “And doing,” he adds.

  “Yeah, that too,” I say. And start to genuinely feel awful. I mean, I felt bad before, but now I’m starting to think that I may need a muzzle.

  I get up and grab my jacket.

  “Where are you going?” Brady asks.

  “Just for a walk.” I grab Strummer’s leash, and he jumps off the bed, putting his paws up on me to assist the attachment of leash to collar.

  “Why are you making me feel guilty?” he asks.

  “I’m not. I’m just taking Strummer for a walk.”

  “Fine,” he says. “I don’t feel guilty, you know. I’m not going to feel bad because you feel bad that you had acrobat sex with Darren Rosenthal.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to. I’m the one that feels bad about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says. And Strummer and I head out for a walk down Sunset, and over to the Starbucks where we can sit outside.

  It’s 6 a.m. and people are starting their day. I haven’t slept yet, but that’s okay.

  A guy walks by and smiles at Strummer. He tells me how cute he is, and I thank him. As if I had something to do with it. I watch people get their coffee, and there’s an almost physical change that happens when they drink it. If they are uptight or pissed off or just plain tired when they walk in . . . you can see an improvement the minute they are handed their triple shot, no-foam latte—and then when they’re done at the fixings bar and actually take their first sip, it’s like all is suddenly right in the world. Shoulders become un-hunched. People look around and actually notice that other people are there. It’s a helluva thing to watch.

  Then a guy who looks an awful lot like Ben Stiller walks in. I’m sitting out on the patio, and when he passes, he looks at Strummer and smiles. When he comes back out he walks over and I can see that he is indeed Ben Stiller.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say back, a little in shock that Ben Stiller is talking to me.

  “Great dog,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say. Again, I think about how funny it is that we take credit for compliments to our dogs. But then again, if Strummer had green dreadlocks, and I dressed him in a tutu, it would sort of be my fault—so conversely, the fact that he is a good-looking, non-dreadlocked, undressed dog . . . is to some extent my doing.

>   “What’s his name?”

  “Strummer.”

  “Hi, Strummer,” he says. “Is he friendly?”

  “Totally,” I say. Ben leans down and starts petting him.

  At which point, Strummer lifts his leg and pees on Ben Stiller. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m mortified. Ben jumps back and sort of squeals.

  “Whoa, what the fuck?” he says. In his little dance to get out of the way and shake the pee off, he knocks his coffee over.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Jesus!” he yells. “You could have warned me that your dog pees on people!” He’s pissed off—and now pissed on—but it’s not my fault. I’ve never seen Strummer do anything like that before. How could I know that Strummer was going to pee on him?

  “I said he was friendly . . . I didn’t say he was potty trained,” I say in my defense. Strummer’s defense.

  “That’s great. That’s just great,” he says. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m sorry!” I say. “I’ve never seen him do that before. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Whatever,” he says as he tries to shake the remaining urine off his pant leg.

  “I’ll be happy to pay for your dry cleaning,” I offer.

  “That’s okay,” he says.

  “And if it makes you feel any better, it’s probably good luck.”

  “Yeah?” he says. “How do you figure?”

  “Well, if a pigeon shits on you it’s supposed to be good luck. I can only imagine that a dog peeing on you would bring you some sort of . . . something.”