“Good question,” I say, pondering.
“Dead at 27 PR?”
“Not the most uplifting . . .”
“Cool firms have cool names . . .” she says. “Nasty Little Man . . . Girly Action . . . Big Hassle . . .”
“Okay . . . it can be a working title.”
“I like it,” she says confidently.
“Fine,” I say, knowing full well that this will be the name of her company. And I raise my glass. “To you, and Dead at 27 . . . may you have more success than you ever dreamed of . . . and may you make Superhero famous as fuck and make both of us very, very rich!”
“Hear! Hear!” she says, and we clink.
We get to the airport and check Strummer in. It’s always hard to say good-bye to that little dude, but I know we’ll see him on the other end of the flight.
Heaven
When we land back in New York, reality quickly sets in. The good thing is, the weather is nice, but I don’t want to go back to my apartment. What with the mold and everything. I’d forgotten about the mold. Brady and I retrieve Strummer, and Brady takes off with him for a run around the airport. Two little boys, wreaking havoc in JFK. I find them, both panting, at the baggage claim. My bag comes out first, and Brady’s takes six weeks. When we finally get it all together, we grab a taxi and head back to our humble abode.
Our apartment building is the same as when we left it, only our relationship isn’t. I mean, nothing happened, but it’s been five nights sleeping in the same room with Brady, so it’s gonna be weird to split up. When we get upstairs we each walk to our separate doors and look at each other. I know he’s thinking the same thing.
Brady
Finally, some peace. It will be nice to not be responsible for Hurricane Heaven. God, my front door looks good. Brady needs some peace. Brady needs some alone time. Brady knows he needs alone time when he is talking about himself in third person. And I’m not talking hand-lotion-and-a-towel alone time—I just need to decompress. Plus, she still has that Victoria’s Secret catalog, anyway.
Heaven
I put my key in the lock and turn.
“Well,” I say, “guess you’ll be glad to have your place to yourself.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Not that you haven’t been good company . . . but it will be good to have some personal space.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well . . . good night. See ya around.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says. “Good night.” And we both walk into our separate spaces.
I stand in my apartment and look around. Everything looks the same. I walk over to my bed and lie down. Brady was right. It’s good to have private time . . . personal space. I take all of my clothes off and run a bath. And as I immerse myself in my tub of banana coconut bubbles, Strummer walks over and rests his chin on the side of the tub. I pat his head and think to myself, This ain’t too bad at all.
Brady
This sucks. How is it possible that I finally have Heaven out of my hair, and all I’m doing is wondering what she’s doing? This can’t be normal. I must just be overtired.
I wonder what Strummer is thinking. I’ll bet he misses me. Crazy mongrel with his love that goes on and on.
I need ten thousand dollars.
Wait a second. On and on . . . like the love that the compilation keeps bringing to Phil and me and Sleestak records. That’s it. Or anyway, it’s worth a shot. I’ll call Phil right now, and we’ll go all in. We’ll stake the revenue stream from the compilation as collateral for a loan and bet our whole future on an unknown Superhero.
Heaven
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. So much so, that this morning when I get up I decide that I will eat breakfast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I even make a small bowl of oatmeal for Strummer because his nose is twitching while I’m eating mine, and I take that to mean he wants some too. Oatmeal and dogs are not a very good fit. His face ends up covered in dried oatmeal. But he’s happy. And isn’t that what it’s all about?
I’m listening to the Superhero demo that Brady gave me, thinking about marketing ideas for them, when my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Heaven,” an unmistakable Albanian voice says. “I am on break. I must talk with you. If you have time right now?”
“Marco?”
“Who else do you know who sounds like this?” Marco says.
“What’s going on, kiddo?”
“Can I speak with you? In person?”
“Sure,” I say, and I agree to meet him at the little park across the street from Temple.
When I get to the park I spot Marco pacing, and I notice that he’s wearing a blazer, which is very uncharacteristic. He looks almost dressed up.
“Hi, sunshine!” I say and give him a big hug. “How’s the restaurant?”
“How do you think? It is awful. Same as always,” he says. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. “I have received bad news.”
“What is it?”
“My visa is expiring in four days.”
“Oh no!” I say, truly alarmed.
“I don’t know why I don’t have received this paper before now. If the idiots think I can resolve this in four days, I don’t know how.”
“Will you have to go back to Albania?”
“Eventually, yes,” he says.
“In the next four days?”
“No, of course not in the next four days. I can’t. And Jean Paul made me a fake social security number when I started, and now when I called for my visa they have two social security numbers—and I have no proof of working, and I can’t work in the restaurant without my visa. It is some mess. Why Jean Paul gave me fake social security number I don’t know.”
“Well, why would he?”
Marco sighs. “Because when I was hired I didn’t have one yet, and he just said that he made it up to be finished with paperwork.”
“How thoughtful of him.”
“Yes,” Marco says. He lights another cigarette with the one that he’s just about totaled.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I say. “Is there anything that I can do?” It’s in that second that I really regret asking, because Marco gets down on both knees. I think he’s about to propose to me, but he can’t really be about to propose to me, can he? He is. This is awful.
“I am not sure of what is to be proper. Am I to be on both knees or one knee?” he says, and I want to cry. I adore this little dude, and I would really do whatever I could to help him out . . . but there is no way I am going to marry him.
“It’s one knee, but get up, Marco.” He picks up one leg and is now on one knee, looking at me with his one good eye.
“Heaven, I know that this is not very romantic because it seems like it is only because I need citizenship. And it is. But also, I have always thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world.”
“Marco, stop . . . really—”
“It is true,” he says, and he presses my hand.
“I can’t marry you, Marco, so please don’t ask me to marry you. I can’t. I hate to say no, but I can’t.”
“When you were sad because you broke up with your boyfriend . . . when you first began to work with us . . . and you cried, and I told you that there were hundreds of mans that would love to be with you—I wanted to tell you that I would be your new boyfriend—”
“Marco, listen . . .” I say, but then he reaches into the pocket of his blazer and pulls out a box. The box is a little bigger than a ring box, but what else can it be? He got a ring? Oh, this is getting worse by the second.
“I can’t afford the ring that girls want, but I have this to give you,” he says. He opens the box and holds it out to me with the most heartbreakingly earnest expression on his face. And I look in the box.
It’s a belt buckle. It’s a belt buckle with a rooster on it. It’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen.
“It’s a rooster,” I say.
“Yes, do you like it?”
&
nbsp; “I . . . I love it! I think it’s very beautiful . . . but I can’t—”
“Heaven . . .” he says with a long pause that I’m sure seems entirely appropriate to him. “Will you please marry me?”
To say I am stunned by the question would be like saying Michael Jackson’s face has been affected by plastic surgery. No one has ever asked me the question before, but much more unsettling is my realization that it was the one question I needed to hear to dispel my looming dead-by-twenty-seven curse. Instantly, a life with Marco flashes before my eyes: rides in tiny carriages drawn by goats, a diet consisting of potatoes and coarse grain alcohol (made from potatoes), a wardrobe consisting of broad flowered skirts topped off by an apron, smashing plates, milking cows, squeezing out little Marcos with overgrown bowl haircuts and little glass eyes that constantly need polishing.
I snap out of my day-mare to see him standing there looking sweet and hopeful, despite the aroma of stale cigarette smoke hanging about him. “No, Marco. I can’t. I’m sorry.” I hate this. I hate it. This is so unfair. I hate immigration, I hate Jean Paul, and I hate myself.
“I will love you forever, you know,” he says. “Not just until I make citizen.” I believe him. I’ll bet he would. And given the fact that I still need to get married soon, this is almost like some sort of test. I don’t know what I’m being tested for, because of course I’d never marry Marco, but it still feels like something. And I hope I passed. If I did, then why do I feel so shitty?
“I know,” I say to Marco. “Please stand up.” I reach my hands out to help him up.
“It is okay. I didn’t think you really would, but I had to try.”
“I’m sorry. Here . . .” I say as I hand him the box with the rooster belt buckle. “You should keep this.”
“No, I want you to have it,” he says. “I insist.”
“Pardon my ignorance,” I say, “but is there a special significance of the rooster in Albania?”
“No,” he says.
“Oh. Okay then. Well, it’s really . . . really . . . special.”
“I am glad you like it. I hope you will wear it often and think of me.”
“I will,” I say. And now that I’ve said it, it means I have to wear it because I don’t lie. I mean . . . I lie . . . but not when it matters. I never lie when it matters, and I never make a promise that I don’t keep.
I give Marco a big hug, and I start walking back toward my apartment—with my new rooster belt buckle.
“Tell me everything,” Sydney says as we settle into our uncomfortable wooden chairs at Starbucks.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I say.
“Did you hook up with him?”
“Brady?” I say. “No.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what?” I say, smelling a notion baking in that oven.
“I just thought for sure you would have,” she says. “I would have.”
“Well, you’re a little less discriminating than I am.”
“True,” she says. And then I lose her to a cute guy that walks in and orders an Americano. “I’m sorry,” she says without breaking her gaze. “I’ll be back with you in a moment.” And she continues to fixate on Mr. Triple Shot until he walks out. “He was gay. Didn’t even look over here once.”
I cough. Then I let it drop. “In other news I got proposed to today . . .” Sydney abruptly stops drinking her coffee and stares at me with fish eyes. “Remember Marco?” I continue. “Did you ever meet him? The Albanian busboy?”
“The one with one eye?” she says. “Gross!”
“Be nice. He’s in trouble with immigration. I felt awful saying no. Really awful.”
“Well, of course you said no.”
“But I didn’t have anything to offer,” I say. “Like, ‘No, I won’t marry you, but here’s a free pass to stay in America.’”
“Ooh! While you’re handing out good stuff . . . can I get a key to Gramercy Park?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Too bad he’s not loaded. I’d do it for the money,” Sydney says as she sips her coffee. And then it hits me. Marco showed me pictures of his parents’ home in Albania. They do have money. She wants new boobs, and he wants to be a citizen. Seems like a fair trade to me.
“Actually I think his family does have money . . .”
“What kind of money?”
“The boob-buying kind?” I offer.
This seems to touch her in a special place. She ponders. “Would I have to have sex with him?”
“That’s your business,” I say, laughing. “I’m a matchmaker, not a pimp.” I was only half serious when I brought this up and I think Syd was only half serious when she asked about the money. And oddly, that seems to add up to one whole serious proposition. Then my cell phone rings, and I don’t recognize the number on my caller ID.
“It’s 213,” I say to Syd, and then I answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, sexy . . . miss me?”
“Yeah . . . desperately,” I say even though I have no idea who it is.
“It’s Darren,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Hey, Darren,” I say, and Sydney’s eyes pop out of her head.
“Oh yeah . . . you need to fill me in on that one,” she says, and I shush her.
“I’m in New York,” he says. “I wanna see you.”
“You’re here? Wow. Okay . . . what’s your schedule?”
“I’m free . . . right now.”
“Well, I’m with Sydney right now.”
“Tell her she’s a ditz. Ask her if she’s had a substantive thought since last time I saw her.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her you said that.”
“How ’bout tomorrow night?” he says. “Aqua Grill? Like old times?”
“Sure . . .” I say slowly. “Sounds good.”
“Great. I’ll grab you around seven?”
“Uh . . . fine,” I say. I give him my address and we hang up. “He said he misses you,” I tell Syd.
“You’re seeing him?” she asks.
“I guess so. He caught me off guard.”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh boy . . .” she says.
Brady
I wake up to a pounding on my door that can only be Heaven. So you can imagine my surprise when I open my door and find Phil standing there.
“Hug me,” he says, thrusting himself into my arms. So I throw my arms around the fucker and hug him back.
“What’s up, man?” I ask as I try to break away from our embrace.
“We just need a hug.”
“We do?”
“I love you, man,” he says. I start looking around and wondering what he wants, because this is frighteningly reminiscent of a beer commercial.
“Okay, bro. I love you, too. It’s cool,” I say as I pry myself out of his clutches.
“Is it?” he asks. And now I realize that this is about Sarah. He genuinely feels bad, and I’m touched. It still sucks, but at least now I know that he really feels bad about it.
“Yeah, man. It’s cool. If you’re happy, that’s all I care about. But be warned . . . she is the Antichrist.”
“She just needs love, man.”
“Is that what she needs? Funny . . . I thought she needed a lobotomy and a one-way ticket back to hell.” And Jesus Christ, is she pregnant with my baby?
Phil eyes me cautiously. “I went to the bank,” he says, “and I met with—”
“Wait—you actually did something I asked you to do?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’ve got the forms, and I had a good chat with my main man Lawrence at the Prince Street branch.” Phil detects his opening. We’re back on solid ground. “I’m psyched to get to know the band better, too.”
“You’ll hit it off,” I say. “They’re awesome.”
The good thing about Phil and me is that there’s never a power struggle. I know he’ll do what’s best for us, and he knows I will, too. We both have
ears, and when it comes down to mastering and picking the single, we’ll probably lean toward the same shit anyway. Having ears means having the ability to pick hits. A lot of people can have good taste or are able to listen to something on the radio and respond to it. But few people can pick out what will work as a first single or as the all-important follow-up. You can really make or break a band by picking the right or wrong single, or by introducing the band the wrong way.
Take a band like Jellyfish. I picked them out to be rising stars first time I heard them. Easily one of the greatest bands ever, and one of the least appreciated. You can say they were too ahead of their time, and they were. Years before their time. Bands like Radiohead and Beck also pushed the musical envelope at the same time, and went on to have great careers. And sure, Jon Brion from Jellyfish went on to become a brilliant producer, and Eric Dover sang for Slash’s Snakepit (not that that’s the biggest crowning achievement), but they could have been huge. Same with Fishbone. Had they been marketed by the Chili Peppers’s team, things could have been a hell of a lot different. And even in pop music today . . . I have a friend who works with the bubble-gum pop stars. He swears that Nick Lachey is an amazing singer. I’ve heard the tracks and the kid can actually sing. But he picked the wrong single and got overshadowed by Jessica Simpson’s boobs.
Happens all the time. Brilliance gets overlooked or marketed wrong, and one-hit wonders become megastars. You not only need to be able to recognize talent, but you have to know how to pick the hits. Phil and I both have had this ability since we were kids, so as soon as we get this band off the ground, I’m pretty sure the sky’s the limit. And I hope the sky’s the credit limit. Because otherwise . . . we’re sunk.
* * *
I bump into Heaven when I’m heading out the next day. She’s got a Starbucks cup in her hand.
“Is that to mock me?” I ask.
“Oh, am I supposed to stop drinking coffee now because of all this?”
Stupid and Contagious Page 26