I start wondering if she’s even in the hotel room. The last time I left her she wound up in bed with Darren Rosenthal. My heart starts racing at the thought of it. It’s fucking nuts. I’m either keeping an eye on Heaven so she doesn’t end up with Darren or keeping an eye on the band so they don’t end up with Darren. This dude is a serious pain in my ass.
But Superhero just agreed to sign with me, so at least I know I can relax about that. Fuck. It’s like I can finally exhale on that one.
“And, dude . . .” Sam says. “You’re driving around Los Angeles buying up all the Funyons and shit. We could just have my mom send you a box of them once a month, so you don’t have to be like this crazy guy with all these groceries in his car.”
“That would be awesome. I’ll just take a few for the road then.”
“Whatever you need, bro,” Sam says.
And then I say something before it even occurs to me that I’m thinking about Heaven. “Hey—this is kind of random, but—do you happen to know if it’s possible to get Tab out here?”
“Yeah, my mom drinks that,” Justin says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I might even have some in the house. You want a can?”
“It can’t be that easy,” I say aloud, though it was really to myself.
“You want it?” he asks again.
“Could I?”
“I don’t drink the shit. Sure.” Justin takes off and shows up moments later with a pink/maroon can with the white Tab logo on it. That logo really is one of the coolest logos ever created. But it’s even sweeter to look at, knowing how excited Heaven is going to be when she sees it. That is, if she’s not having sex with Darren right now.
When I drive away from the band there’s about seven seconds where I’m totally elated. I got the deal. They’re signing with me. They are my band. Life is good.
And then it sinks in a little more clearly. I just promised ten thousand dollars that I do not have. But there’s got to be some way. Think, Brady . . . think. A loan . . . but how? What do I have of value? Aside from things banks don’t have any way of appreciating . . . like my signed Johnny Cash train whistle or my original-issue Land of the Lost lunch box.
I’m starting to get that clammy, sick feeling again. So I try to think of things that make me happy. Puppies? Paychecks? Heaven? Bacon. Bacon is a safer bet. I love bacon. I love bacon so much that I could write a poem about it. I’m also a big fan of cheese. A world without cheese . . . that’s a world I just wouldn’t want to live in.
This isn’t working. I’m sweating, and I have the AC on full blast. Of course the AC doesn’t work. It’s just a massive gust of air pouring in my direction, and it’s not helping. Everything is fine, I just need to breathe. And calm myself down. I know this business. You can talk about deal points, publishing, advancing gigs, and booking tours until you’re blue in the face, but it all means nothing without a good relationship with the artist. There needs to be respect, open communication, and an overall good vibe between you and your band. To me, this is the only way it can work. And so far, I think I have that with Superhero. Minus, of course, the whole thing about me lying about being in a band back in the day. And having ten thousand dollars.
It’s like back in school when the teacher would say, “You’re all starting with an A. Now all you have to do is keep it.” We all have an A right now. The band has an A. I have an A. Everything is cool.
Until I’m up at all hours of the night listening to why their girlfriends don’t want them to go on tour. Or when right before the start of a tour they all of a sudden want a tour bus as opposed to an Econoline van . . .
So they get the freakin’ bus. And then they bitch about the hotel room . . .
Now enter alcoholism and drug addiction . . .
And how the fuck am I going to come up with ten thousand dollars?
Heaven
I read somewhere, maybe in that DSM-III-R, that an average person is someone who is ordinary and represents most people. Meaning that if an average person eats two chocolate bars a week, then some people will eat more, and some will eat less—but most will eat about two bars a week.
I really don’t eat chocolate bars at all. So by this reasoning, I am not normal. Or not average, at least. And as American Beauty taught us, there is nothing worse than being average. Well, they said there was nothing worse than being ordinary, which is essentially the same thing.
Now, celebrating is something average people do when they’ve accomplished something. The average person will cook a nice dinner or take someone out for a nice dinner. That would be expected. Typical. I—being not average—decide that I want to do something different to celebrate Brady getting the band, because I know in my heart of hearts that he will return with good news.
But we’re leaving in the morning, and we don’t have much time. My first thought is to take Brady’s favorite things and make him a cake. But I don’t have an oven. So I think . . . maybe a drink. Maybe I’ll take some Munchos and Funyons and mash them into a glass of Jolt and make this his celebratory beverage. I could call it Munyon Cola. Munyon. It’s even fun to say. See? I’ll bet the average person wouldn’t have the inspiration to concoct this delicacy. I’ll bet the average person wouldn’t want to drink it either. I’m going to include Brady and me in that one too, as it may be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever thought of. So on second thought, I’m not going to make it. Munyon Cola will never be, and I’ll just leave the drink inventions to Brady.
But I want to do something to celebrate. Brady’s been so stressed out, and we need to do something fun. Not just because he’s stressed out, but because, let’s face it . . . I’m on a vacation from life right now. When I get back, I have no job, no way of making rent without dipping into the rainy-day fund, no man, and no obvious means of securing any of the above. When it comes to worrying, usually I don’t have my priorities straight. Maybe this is what worrying should feel like. Normally, I’d just worry about the fact that my hairdresser is going on maternity leave this week, so God only knows how long it’ll be before I get a decent haircut—which is true.
We need to have a party. Too bad we don’t know anyone in L.A. You know what? A party is a party. Most of the time you don’t know people at a party, anyway. That’s what parties are for—mingling. Making new friends. This is an excellent idea. I’m going to invite all the cool people at this hotel to our room. To celebrate.
Brady walks in and our room is wall-to-wall people. He actually walks out and checks the door to make sure it’s the right room. And when he walks back in he spots me in the corner. The music is blaring, and everyone is drinking and having a good time. I wave Brady over, and he squeezes through the crowd to get to me.
“What is going on?” he asks.
“Surprise!” I scream. And I blow the party blower thing that the people in Room 801 were kind enough to bring.
“What is this?”
“It’s your party! This is Brady,” I say to everyone in the general vicinity. Everybody raises their beer bottles.
“Congratulations, man!” one guy says, putting up his hand to high-five Brady.
“Who are these people?” Brady asks me.
“Don’t leave him hanging!” I say to Brady, who looks at the guy still standing there with his hand up waiting for him to respond. Brady finally high-fives him, and the guy turns back to whatever he was doing.
“Are you ready to have an Effen good time?” I ask Brady.
“Heaven!” Brady says. “What is this?”
“It’s your party,” I say. “We couldn’t stay in a hotel dubbed the ‘Riot House’ and not oblige. Plus . . . we’re celebrating!”
“Celebrating what?”
“Superhero! Them going with you.”
“How did you know?”
“I knew. I had faith,” I say. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, you were,” he says as a big grin spreads across his face. I jump up and hug him.
“B
ut what if they hadn’t?” he asks.
“Then this would be a come cheer Brady up party.”
“And I ask again . . . who are these people?”
“Neighbors,” I shout. “People staying in the hotel. Cool people I saw downstairs going to Chi, which Justin Timberlake owns, by the way. Did you know that? The place right downstairs is his new restaurant bar.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well . . . he’s busy. He couldn’t attend.”
“You invited Justin Timberlake?” he says.
“No, he wasn’t there. But Kevin Dillon was.”
“Who’s that?”
“Matt Dillon’s brother. He’s actually over there,” I say, pointing. “In the red bowling shirt. Next to the girl with the fake boobs. Wait—that’s every girl in this room.” I hand Brady a beer. “Drink up, bud. It’s our last night in L.A., and this party is in honor of you, my friend.”
“You did this in a matter of hours—”
“Yup. I pretty much just gave out the room number, and the rest is history.”
“You are a strange and wonderful creature,” Brady says. He takes the beer, and we clink bottles. “I take it this party was B.Y.O.B.?” he asks as he looks around and sees all the alcohol. Then he notices the table full of Effen Vodka. “And where did that come from?”
“Jon,” I reply.
“And Jon would be?”
“Only the coolest guy ever! I was downstairs, and I saw these two guys hanging out by the restaurant, so I invited them. Turns out one of them founded this new vodka called Effen Vodka. Cool name, huh? Anyway, I sat down with them for a half hour and we got to talking about launch strategies—kind of a specialty of mine. I threw out a couple ideas they fell in love with—”
“Like what?”
“‘Effen Cool’ merchandise and wearables, an Effen-sponsored worldwide poker tournament . . . stuff like that. His guys were doing a little promotion downstairs at Chi that didn’t seem to be generating much heat, so I found them a ready-made, targeted audience of qualified prospects.”
“Meaning?” he says.
“I told him they’d be suckers if they didn’t supply free booze for your party. So . . . we are among the first to try Original and Black Cherry Effen Vodka.”
“Effen unreal,” Brady says. “Only you could pull this together and manage to somehow get a liquor company to sponsor it.” He shakes his head in amazement, and we spend the next five hours making new friends and hyping Brady’s new band.
We both wake up with black cherry hangovers. The phone rings to deliver our wake-up call, and it’s akin to a megaphone pointing directly in my ear. We went to bed approximately seventy-eight minutes ago.
“Make it Effen stop!” I say. Strummer looks at me like I’m talking to him, and he cocks his head to the side. “Not you, boy.”
“Hello?” Brady moans into the phone. “Thank you,” he says and hangs up. “Get up. Time to go. We have to be at the airport in an hour.”
“Ugggh,” I groan, dragging myself out of my bed.
I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom, and I walk over to the door and push it open.
“I’m coming in,” I say and head to the sink to wash my face.
“In here? That’s new,” he says.
“No, dumbass. You must still be drunk. I’m just washing my face.”
“Well, I’m glad that we’re comfortable enough to share a bathroom now,” he says, oozing with sarcasm.
“Not like I can see anything in there. Or want to. Do you pee in the shower?”
“No,” he says vehemently.
“Liar,” I say back.
“Whatever,” he says.
“Madonna does,” I say.
“She told you this?”
“No, I think I saw it on Letterman. She told Dave. Apparently it’s good for you. She said it is.”
“This should be interesting,” Brady says.
“It prevents athlete’s foot.”
“Okay then.”
“So . . . that’s all I’m saying. Were you so inclined to pee in the shower . . . it may be gross, but it could be beneficial.”
“I don’t have athlete’s foot,” he says. “But thank you for the newsflash.”
“No problem,” I say. And then I add, “You’re probably peeing right now. Make sure you aim at your feet.”
“You’re retarded,” he says. I leave the bathroom and start to pack my bags. I pack four six-packs of Jolt for Brady at the bottom of my bag. Not that he’ll go through all of them in Seattle, but he’ll have the option—which is nice.
When we get to the airport, we have a little time to kill. So we check in and see if they’ll give us a free upgrade. They won’t. And once again, Brady has an aisle seat. He won’t budge, and I don’t want to be stuck in the window again. So I ask if there’s another aisle seat available. Turns out the aisle seat right in front of Brady is open, so I switch my seat.
When we board the plane nobody is sitting next to Brady, and I have some thinnish droopy guy sitting next to me. He’s not overweight, but he looks like at one time he was very overweight. He’s got that Jared-from-the-Subway-campaign thing going. I can almost see him proudly holding up a pair of pants that were ten sizes bigger and then stepping out in his new svelte form. Speaking of which . . . the new Subway ads have Jared with his shirt untucked—possibly hiding something?
“Well, how’s it going?” he asks. “I’m Evan.” He smells like chicken noodle soup.
“Fine,” I say. And knowing that my name rhyming with his will spark all sorts of hilarity in him, and at least thirty more minutes of conversation, I decide not to tell him my name. “I’m Belinda.”
“Well, that’s an unusual name,” he says. And I immediately wish I’d gone with Jane . . . or Mary . . . or Cathy. Maybe Sue. “You know this is the bulkhead seat, right, Belinda?”
“Yeah,” I say. “More room for us. And by the way, you misheard me. My name is Sue.”
“Well . . . oh,” he says with an odd look. “But listen . . . when the stewardess comes by she’s going to ask us if we’re okay with opening the emergency door and helping people exit the plane if there’s a problem.” And then he leans in. “Just say yes,” he says.
“Okay . . .” I say.
“Well, a pilot buddy once told me that if we crash . . . the emergency exit door is useless, anyway. Plus, there are going to be so many cracks in the fuselage that we’d be better off just crawling out through one of the cracks.”
“Um . . . okay,” I say, not exactly sure why he’s discussing this with me moments before we take off. I’m wondering why everything he says begins with “well,” and starting to get the feeling that all is not well with this man.
“And as far as helping the other passengers . . . I say—” And he doesn’t actually say anything, but he dismisses all of humanity with a wave of his hand. What is wrong with this man? I can hear Brady snickering behind me too. With his damned empty seat next to him.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. I open up the in-flight magazine and pretend to read an article about Queen Latifah so he’ll stop talking to me about plane crashes. Of course, this doesn’t work.
“Well, when they go into their little demonstration about flotation devices? Just plug your ears and go la la la, because if we torpedo into the ocean . . . well, your seat cushion is about as useful as—well, it’s not very useful. If we crash into the water, we’re all dead. Flight 21 Soup.”
Okay . . . there is a certain way to behave on an airplane. There’s a little thing I like to call “Jetiquette,” the rules that govern appropriate behavior whilst flying on an airplane. I don’t know what kind of egg this Evan was hatched from, but apparently good breeding and social graces were not high on his family’s list of priorities. And just as I’m about to get up and reclaim my seat next to Brady, the fattest woman I’ve ever seen comes and sits next to him. She barely squeezes herself into my would-be seat. And the cherry on top is . . . she�
�s got an infant with her. Splendid.
“ I’ve worn dresses with higher IQs, but you think you’re an intellectual, don’t you, ape?”
—Wanda, A Fish Called Wanda
“ No, no, you’ve always had that wrong about me. I really am this shallow.”
—Will, About a Boy
Brady
I’m sitting next to the fattest woman in the world. This is no exaggeration. There are rolls of fat overflowing into my seat, touching my arm, and I think I may very well get sick. She’s got a baby on her lap, and I genuinely fear for that child. What if she falls asleep and crushes it? One wrong move and that little tot is a pancake. And then if she gets hungry . . . oh, the horror! All right, that’s just gross. But she’s really fat. And I’m really wishing Heaven and I didn’t change our seating arrangements.
“They make these seats so small!” the woman exclaims, and I bite my tongue. “I hate flying,” she adds.
“I do too,” I say, and I pull out my iPod.
“God, this is a tight squeeze,” she continues. Does she really need to keep bringing this up? The Suez Canal would be a tight squeeze for you, lady! “Did you know that Southwest Airlines actually makes heavier people buy two seats? Two seats?” she scoffs. And I’m thinking, two . . . maybe three. Then again, it’s not such a bad idea. She is clearly in my personal space. “Do you think that’s fair?”
How am I supposed to handle this one? I feel Heaven’s eyes on me, and indeed they are. She is peering through the seats in front of me with this shit-eating grin, just waiting for my response.
“Um . . .” I say, “no, I guess it’s not fair.” And I should have stopped it there, but of course I’m a little miffed, so I keep going. “If it’s not their fault.”
“Oh, so if I’m what society calls fat, and it’s because my thyroid doesn’t work properly, then I shouldn’t have to pay for two seats . . . but if I’m fat because I just can’t stop stuffing my face then I deserve to pay double? Is that what you’re saying?” I look at Heaven, who is nodding her head yes. She’s egging me on, but she doesn’t have to sit next to this woman.
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