“No . . . but the least you could have done is brought me some.”
“Sorry,” she says. She unlocks her door, and Strummer runs out into the hall and over to me. I pet him on his head, and he nestles his body against my knees.
“God, I’ve missed this little guy.”
“Yeah, he’s good company,” she says.
“Maybe we can all hang out tonight?”
“Oh . . . that would be fun . . .” I can tell there’s a but coming. “But I already have plans tonight.”
“Oh . . . okay. That’s cool,” I say. “We’ll do it another time.”
“Definitely,” she says. “Oh, I spoke to my friend Bart, and I told him I’m starting my own PR firm. And I told him about the band, and he said he’d do their Web site for us.”
“Really? That’s awesome!”
“Yeah, he’s really cool, and he knows his shit. He’s even designing my logo for me.”
“Very cool,” I say. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Yeah, me too!” she says. “I just downloaded the forms to start my LLC. Anyway . . . I’m gonna take Strummer for a walk over to Staples to pick up some expanding file folders.”
“Wow. Look at corporate you.”
“Hey—I’m no slacker. You just met me at an off time. Believe me . . . you just got the best PR firm you could ever have hoped for.”
“I have no doubt about that,” I say.
“You know, you were so right. I’ve been going over it in my head—all the contacts I already have. This thing is really gonna work.”
Heaven puts Strummer’s leash on, and I watch them get onto the elevator.
What plans?
* * *
Not too long ago this girl was Satan. Now I can’t get her out of my head. I’m so used to being around her that I find myself walking outside about ten minutes later (coincidentally close to Staples), and I bump into Heaven.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey back.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Just enjoying the day. Taking a walk. Wanna get some ice cream? I saw that they have Oreo Cookie at Tasti D-Lite.” I know this will get her.
“They do? Shit, yes, I want ice cream!” And we head over to Tasti D, which is just around the corner. They have this retarded plastic rim that they put around the cone, and it pisses me off. It’s another reminder that I really need to talk to someone about my Catch-It Cone. It’s hard when you have so many inventions swimming around your brain.
“See this thing?” I say to Heaven.
“Yeah?”
“I invented it,” I tell her.
“You don’t say.”
“Well, not this, but my own variation of it. Move over here,” I say because I don’t want anyone to hear me. “It’s called the Catch-It Cone.”
“Okay?”
“When I invented it they didn’t even have these plastic thingies. But mine is the whole cone!”
“I don’t follow . . .” she says.
“Okay, my cone, the Catch-It Cone, has this plastic rim thing built into the cone. And not plastic. In cone . . . wafer . . . whatever the hell they make it out of. So, yes, it does the same job as this thing . . . but mine is edible! More cone. More sugary goodness. No ice cream drips on your brand-new summer tank top. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” she asks.
“I have no idea. Or maybe I have every idea . . . I don’t know. But then again, none of them ever seem to go anywhere—”
“Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”
“No, I was focusing on Cinnamilk. And we saw how well that worked out for me.”
“Hey,” she says. “Don’t be negative. You don’t know what will come of it.”
“I think I do. A whole lotta nothing.”
“Well, there are other investors,” she says. “Plus, there’s your MP3 Flush, and this cone thing. One of them is bound to hit.”
“Speaking of hits . . . did they have the folders?”
“Yeah, right here.” She holds up the Staples bag and looks down at her arm. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That,” she says, pointing to something on her arm that I don’t see.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“That red spot!” she says with alarm.
“That’s a freckle!”
“It wasn’t there before . . .” she says as she inspects her entire arm.
“It’s cute.”
“It’s not cute.”
“Then it’s mine,” I say. “If you don’t like it, it’s mine. I’ll call it Brady.”
“My freckle?”
“Yes.”
“You’re naming my freckle after yourself?” she says. “And you think I have issues?”
“It’s like a star. People buy stars in the constellation and name them after people all the time. As gifts.”
“So then are you buying my freckle? Because I don’t know if you can afford my freckle. My freckles don’t come cheap, you know.”
“I’ve already claimed it,” I declare. “It’s not up for discussion anymore. Just eat your ice cream. And don’t spill any on Brady.”
“Well, I could guarantee that I wouldn’t if I had a Catch-It Cone . . . but some lazy slob is too busy putzing around to bother inventing it.”
I’m taking my trash out at 7:29 when I see Darren Fucking Rosenthal walking around our hallway looking at the different apartment doors like a simian. At first I’m thinking he’s come to congratulate me on beating him out for the band, but the door he stops at . . . is Heaven’s.
“Darren?” I say as I push my ice cream back down my throat. This is who she had plans with?
“Hey, man!” he says. Man? I’m not his man—or his boy or his bro.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Coming to fetch my girl,” he says. My head is instantly on fire, and I want to knock his teeth out. Don’t say “my girl.” She is not your girl. She is not your anything. She may have once been your girl. But that time has come and gone.
“Your girl?” I say, still playing stupid.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, ignoring me. “Oh, right . . . you’re neighbors.” And suddenly I’m reduced to a neighbor. We are more than neighbors. Way more. Aren’t we?
“Yeah, we’re neighbors,” I say. “Seriously . . . why are you here?”
“I just told you. I’m taking Heaven out.”
“Why?” I say, suddenly sounding like a bitchy teenage girl whose parents have just told her that she can’t spend the night at Becky’s.
“Because I want to,” he says. “Because she used to be my girlfriend. And who knows . . . she might be again—”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I mean, there must have been a reason you guys broke up, right? Why move backwards in life? Never move backwards. You gotta move forward.”
“I miss her,” he says.
Fucker. “Well, you didn’t miss her for the past few years. You were fine until you saw her in L.A.”
“Okay . . . I see what’s up. I get it.”
“You do?” I say.
“Yeah, man, it’s cool,” he says. “I mean . . . she’s awesome. How can you not dig her?” And for a minute I start to feel better. Until he says, “But seriously, dude . . . you didn’t think you’d get the girl either, did you?”
Huh?
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea . . . you and her,” I say.
“Well, I do.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Fine,” he says. And he thinks to himself and smiles. “Okay . . . here’s one. Heaven and I used to practically live together. I mean . . . we were together all the time. And I went home for Christmas vacation, you know—to see the folks.”
“Isn’t Rosenthal Jewish?”
“Yeah,” he says. “So? Whatever, winter break—”
“
Fine. Go on.”
“So I’m gone for like two weeks . . . and the day I get back, I leave the airport and head straight to Heaven’s place—where she’s waiting for me.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“So I ring her bell . . .” he says, raising his hands in front of him like he’s ringing her bell, “and she answers the door, naked. Completely butt naked . . . but with one red rose stuck in between her ass cheeks. I mean . . . how do you not love a girl who does that?”
And just then Heaven opens her door, looking of course like a twelve on a scale of one to ten.
“I thought I heard voices,” she says. “Hey,” she says to Darren. “You two know each other, right?”
I walk back into my apartment, and the blinking light on my answering machine is taunting me, giving me its little red evil eye. I resign myself to hearing another humiliating Sarah screed.
I press the Play button.
“Hi, this is Brady Gilbert. I missed your call, but you missed a scintillating moment with me. If you’d like to try to recapture that moment . . . leave a message, and I’ll call you back.” Beep.
“Brady . . . this is Sam . . . from Superhero. Sam. Hey . . . we wanted to let you know that we’re really sorry and everything, but we’re going to go with Darren Rosenthal. It’s not anything with you guys or the contracts, but Darren’s thing is just probably better for us now. At this point. And . . . so, anyway . . . sorry. And . . . I guess we’ll see you around.”
“ If somebody doesn’t believe in me, I can’t believe in them.”
—Andie, Pretty in Pink
“ She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart . . . she gave me a pen.”
—Lloyd, Say Anything
Heaven
Darren and I are seated at a table in the back of Aqua Grill. A couple minutes after we’re seated, this big party gets put next to us at the prime table, which was no doubt reserved for them. Sean Puffy Combs, or P. Diddy, or Ditty—or whatever we’re supposed to call him this week—is in the group. So is Russell Simmons, who goes by Russell Simmons. I don’t recognize the other people, but they make a hell of a scene when they walk in. Russell gets seated closest to me.
“How’s it goin’?” Russell says to us.
“Good, thanks,” we both say.
“Do you know those guys?” I ask Darren, thinking he might since he’s in the same business.
“No,” he says. “I’ve seen him out at functions, but I don’t really know him.”
“Guess he’s just really friendly,” I say.
We order some appetizers from the raw bar, and they bring us the complimentary salmon tartare on those waffle potato chips that I always end up dreaming about after I’ve been here. Yes, they’re that good.
“So this lady dies,” Darren says. “And this is a true story—”
“Someone you knew?”
“No,” he says. “A friend of a friend. And her family goes to the funeral home and is making arrangements for the woman. The funeral director is asking questions about her, what kind of casket would she like, what kind of flowers did she like, what kind of music did she like?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m not sure if I should be eating the tartare or if I’m supposed to hold off because this is a serious story that requires a moratorium on the waffle chips.
“So the daughter picks out a mahogany wood casket, tells the guy her mother liked white roses, and that she really liked Elvis. So when they come to the wake a day or so later they find their mother, lying in a casket in a white studded Elvis jumpsuit, with muttonchop sideburns glued onto her face and her rigor mortis lips curled into the trademark Elvis snarl.”
“No! This has to be a joke.”
“No, I’m telling you,” he says. “So the daughter pulls a different funeral director aside and asks him where the guy she spoke with is, and wants to know what the hell happened to her mother. The guy she first spoke to isn’t there, so this funeral director takes her to the office, and together they look at the work order and they see that the first guy wrote ‘Like Elvis’ instead of ‘Liked Elvis.’”
“That’s insane,” I laugh.
“It’s supposedly true.”
“Oh my God.”
Darren rips off a piece of bread and dunks it in some olive oil. “So, uh . . . what’s up with you and Brandon?”
“Brady?” I ask, knowing full well that Darren probably knows his name, but he’s pulling that dick move guys do when they’re jealous.
“Yeah, Brady.”
“Nothing’s up,” I say, playing dumb. “Why?”
“You guys more than friends?”
“Nope,” I say.
“You just travel together?”
“Yup.”
“That’s kinda weird, don’t you think?”
“We’re just friends,” I say as a couple of people walk over to the hip-hop table and say hi to Russell. They sort of seem to reintroduce themselves, and Russell is totally cordial. He nods and says “Good to see you,” and then as soon as they leave the table he says, “Never seen that motherfucker in my life,” and his whole table laughs.
Our appetizers come, and Darren orders a bottle of wine. He knows I get drunk on wine, but I don’t object. When the waiter comes back to do the wine service I almost cringe. This is the first time this is being done for me since I got fired, and it brings back all kinds of bad memories. I’m overly friendly to the waiter. I’ve always been nice to waiters, but now I feel like I’m in the club, so there’s a different bond.
Darren holds his glass up, so I raise mine as well.
“To us finding each other again,” he says. I give him a look as I think, Well, I’ve been right here. We clink our glasses and drink.
“So you didn’t tell me what you’re doing here,” I say.
“I’m here a lot. I’m working out of our New York office. I’m thinking about getting a place here again.”
“Wow,” I say. A flat wow.
And then another group of fans, or friends, goes to say hi to the Puffy/Simmons table. This is the third or fourth time people have interrupted them in seven minutes. Must be annoying to be them, I think. But they don’t seem to mind. They’re having a great time. They’re laughing and telling stories, and they’re loud. They are really loud.
“Do you think I’m losing my hair?” Darren asks.
“No!” I say. When Darren and I were together he used Rogaine regularly, and he wasn’t even close to balding. I think he was using it as a preventive thing, but he was always paranoid about his hair, and it looks like he still is. “You have as much hair as you had the last time I saw you.”
“The last time in L.A.,” he says, “or the last time a few years ago?”
“Both. Relax.” I sip my wine.
“So what did Sydney say when you told her that you were having dinner with me?”
“She said what she always says about you.”
“Which is?” he asks.
“‘He sucks.’”
“Yeah,” he says, chomping on a piece of bread, “she never liked me. What does she know?”
“She knows how you treated me.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” he says. And then he gives me this innocent look and bats his eyelashes.
Right then someone at Russell’s table points to someone sitting at another table. “See that guy over there?” Russell’s friend says, and his whole table looks—and so do I. The guy looks like some self-important dude in an Armani suit, which he probably has in every color. He’s got his nose stuck in the air, and you can just tell he’s a jerk. “Back in the eighties,” the guy goes on, “I was in a club chillin’ one night . . . and when I went to the bathroom . . . that guy’s girlfriend came in after me. I busted a nut in her mouth . . . and then she walked out there right after and kissed that nigga on the lips!” The whole table erupts with laughter and high fives.
“Plus, I’ve grown up since then,” Darren continues.
“Oh yeah?” I say,
trying to keep a straight face—not because of Darren, but because of what I just overheard. Because that was really fucking funny. Gross . . . but funny.
“Yeah,” Darren says. “I’m ready to settle down.”
“Really . . .” I put some disbelief in my tone for good measure.
“It’s true,” he says. “With the right girl. I just think I may have blown it with her a long time ago, and I don’t know if she’ll give me another shot . . .”
Oh God. If it wasn’t obvious before, now it is—he’s talking about me. And he’s trying to be romantic and sincere, but some guy is in my right ear, still talking about that time he busted a nut in that guy’s girlfriend’s mouth, and I’m finding it a little hard to focus.
There was a time when I was crazy about Darren, but that was years ago. When we hooked up in L.A., I thought it was just going to be one night of really good sex. I didn’t even entertain the idea that we’d ever get back together, so this is all a bit of a surprise. That said, the sex was really good. This is so confusing. Then again I don’t have anyone else in my life, right? Do I? What’s to be so confused about? Why do I feel so goddamned confused?
When we ask for the bill our waiter tells us that it’s already been taken care of.
“By who?” Darren asks, clearly feeling aced out.
“Mr. Simmons, the gentleman at the next table. He knew they were going to be loud, so when he came in he told us he was going to pick up the tab for the tables on either side of him.”
Now that is one cool dude. We thank him, he shakes our hands, and we walk outside and pour ourselves into a taxi.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my couch with Darren. He’s kissing me, and clothes are starting to come off. And all I can think about is Brady. Brady! What the hell is this? This is not supposed to be happening. I try to put him out of my mind but I can’t. It’s like he’s here in the room with us. I push Darren off me and get up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I’m thirsty,” I say. And I walk to the kitchen and get some water. I sit on this bar stool just outside the kitchen and slowly drink the whole glass of water.
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