Stupid and Contagious Read online

  I’m troubled because I had a dream about John Ritter again last night, which involved the entire cast of Three’s Company, including both landlords. I wasn’t going to mention this. The only other person who knows about it is Zach—and he’s sworn to secrecy.

  What started out as a funny anecdote to tell your friends at cocktail parties has turned into a guilt weighing so heavy on me that I almost feel like I need to apologize to his family. But I guess this is confusing you, so I’ll just go ahead and explain.

  A few months ago, while having drinks at Temple, this new hip restaurant that Zach insisted we check out, I playfully tossed an olive from my martini glass at Zach. But he ducked and it missed him and hit John Ritter instead. Three days later John Ritter died.

  Of course, maybe I had nothing to do with it—and God, I hope I didn’t. But I keep having this recurring nightmare where Mr. Furley blames me, Mr. Roper blames me, and Chrissy and all her replacements start circling me, as in Lord of the Flies. Then there’s Janet and Larry. They’re all pointing at me and telling me I killed him. They all start throwing olives at me, and it hurts! It feels like they’re olive bullets being shot out of an AK-47, and it fucking hurts. So I’m all crouched down trying to block them, and then I wake up with my heart racing, and well . . . this was one of those mornings.

  So I think I’ll start my week off this very second. I grab my shit and leave.

  “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.

  When I get home there are seven messages on my answering machine from Sarah. Five hang-ups and two actual messages. Call me an analog geek, but like one of those people who swears on his life that he can hear the subtle nuances of music better on vinyl than on CD, I prefer the warmth and hissing and popping of this old cassette recorder to a digital machine. Plus, I’ve been able to assemble a truly uproarious Sarah’s Greatest Hits tape to play at poker games and parties.

  But now that red blinking eye has become my tormentor, bringing ill tidings into my home on a daily basis. It’s bad enough that I have to listen to that detestable outgoing message of mine every time—now I have her clogging up the airwaves. In one message she reminds me of the time—and it was a brief time, I’ll have you know—when I was having some “troubles” in the sex department. Fact: Every guy at one time or another has a problem. I am no exception.

  It started when we were first dating. I think it was partly because I was so nervous about performing that I just couldn’t get it up at all. Plus, she insisted we get AIDS tests first. So it was like a month before we even had sex. It created such a buildup that by the time we were all checked out and ready to go, I couldn’t do it.

  Then the next time I was so freaked out about the first time that again I couldn’t do it. She told me to relax. But then she suggests fucking Viagra, which only made matters worse. I mean, I did not need Viagra. I was suffering from nerves. Normal first-time jitters. I do not have a problem.

  So I took the Viagra. And it worked. If by working you mean I got cold sweats, hot flashes, and felt like I was going to have a heart attack. But yes, I was also able to have sex. To some extent it was a relief—yes, the little bastard still worked—but it was also terrifying, because what if that was the only way I’d ever be able to have sex?

  As it turned out, I didn’t need the little blue pill after all. I was able to “perform” on my own. And I really don’t like to brag, but for the better part of the last two years I made her scream so loud that my next-door neighbor used to actually give me the thumbs-up every time I’d see him in the elevator.

  Sarah’s message was as follows:

  “Hi, asshole. Remember when you couldn’t get it up? And I stuck by you, you pathetic piece of shit! How many girls do you think would have coddled you and nurtured you through that? None. But I did. And this is how you repay me? I don’t know why you think you’re better than me or that you can possibly do better than me, because you can’t. And your little penis problem? It will come back. And if you think I didn’t know you were taking that yohimbe every day, you’re sadly mistaken.” Beep.

  Thankfully, my machine cut her off. But then there’s part two. There’s always a part two.

  “Your stupid machine hung up on me,” she continues. “Anyway, yohimbe is herbal Viagra. Not a vitamin supplement like you said. You are a sad, pathetic loser who can’t get it up without popping pills. Call me.” Beep.

  This message, in and of itself, is not exactly what I’d call a feel-good message. But worse, that dumb neighbor from next door has pushed her way into my apartment and caught the last bit of the message.

  Now, every day is humbling in its own special way. In fact, I like to think I’m building character. Lots and lots of character. You might even say my cup of character runneth over. But that nuisance of a girl walking in at that exact time . . . it took my humility to a whole new level.

  “Hey, lots of guys have, um . . . trouble,” she says.

  “I don’t have ‘trouble,’ and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

  “You left your door open.”

  “It wasn’t an open invitation. This isn’t a dorm.”

  “Don’t take your sexual malfunctions out on me. I’m just here to deliver your mail.”

  “And it better be unopened.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute. She looks around my apartment, focusing on my one blue wall.

  “Are you painting your whole apartment that color?”

  “No, just that wall. It’s an accent wall.”

  “Okay, Martha Stewart,” she says.

  “Is my mail unopened?”

  “Do you want it or not?” she says. And as she says this, for a moment I almost believe it’s entirely possible that if I don’t behave, I won’t be receiving today’s mail. Then I look at the mail she’s waving before me and see that it is indeed already opened.

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “Look, at least I’m giving it to you.”

  “Can you please stop opening my mail?”

  “Can you please stop having your mail end up in my mailbox?” she says.

  “I’m not having it end up there. It’s a mistake. Which the post office needs to fix.”

  “Agreed.” We stand there for a second. She still hasn’t given me my mail. I hate that she heard that message. I want to say something about it, but I don’t want to even bring it up. Fuck you, Sarah.

  “So can I have it?” She finally hands it over. Opened.

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” she says, knowing full well that I’ll probably mind, “your finance charges are really high on your credit card. You should call them and try to get them lowered. I’m only suggesting this because I did it with mine. Those credit card companies totally fuck you if you let them. I mean . . . provided they’ve taken their yohimbe that day,” she says, completely deadpan.

  I want to punch her. “Is that funny?”

  “I thought so,” she says and laughs. “Lighten up, I was kidding. Was that the toothbrush girl? Sarah?”

  “You shouldn’t know her name. You shouldn’t know anything about her.”

  “Well, it would seem that I do. And now I know a little more than I bargained for.”

  “You didn’t bargain for anything, and you don’t know anything,” I say. “That woman is insane. You two should meet. You have a lot in common. I’m sure you’d get along famously.”

  “Well then, maybe we will meet. Maybe the next time she sends you one of your shoelaces back or something, I’ll save her address and write her a note inviting her over for tea.”

  “Perfect.” She’s still standing there. Does she think I’m going to invite her to sit down? Go away!

  “Okay then,” she says. And yet she still stands there.

  “Is there anything else?” I ask.

  “No, that’s all your mail,” she says,
looking past me into my apartment. “Well, that’s not true,” she adds. “I kept your Victoria’s Secret catalog. They have these really cute pj’s I want to order. Plus, you don’t need it.”

  “You really have problems.”

  “What? I let you keep the Pottery Barn one. And it looks like you can use it. Ever hear of decorating? I mean, aside from your ‘accent wall’?”

  “I just moved in,” I say. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m leaving,” she says, and I notice she’s picking absentmindedly at her fingernails.

  “Pity. I hate to see you go.” I inch the door closed, taking her up on her offer.

  “Was that some of that newfangled sarcasm thing I’m hearing so much about?” she says with a crooked smile and enough gall to fill my very empty apartment.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” she sings, flouncing out like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just totally invade my space, overhear my own private nightmare, and steal my fucking Victoria’s Secret catalog.

  “ Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast or something?”

  —Heather, Heathers

  “Fuck off, fur shur . . . like totally!”

  —Randy, Valley Girl

  Heaven

  Some people are so rude! That guy needs to get his head checked. No wonder he’s single.

  As I sit and think about what an ass he is, I suddenly remember I still owe him ten dollars. He’s kind of in a bad mood today, so I’m not sure if I should go back there now to return it. But I can tell he’s the kind of person who’ll hold it over my head if I don’t, so I take a ten out of my wallet and knock on his door.

  “Who is it?” he yells.

  “It’s me,” I yell back.

  “Why, God? Why?” I can hear him say. And I stand there thinking he is coming to the door, but it doesn’t seem that he is. I press my ear against his door to see if I can hear him moving toward it, and at that exact second he opens it. I fall inside his apartment, taking him down on my way.

  Suddenly I’m lying on top of him. It’s odd making physical contact with someone for the first time. Especially horizontally. Even if it’s only for a split second, like this is, you feel every contour—the good ones and the bad ones. You’re exposed to that person in his totality. This is an unexpected contact, however, and although my chin seems to fit perfectly into that crook between his collarbone and neck, I feel panicked because maybe it doesn’t belong there. He smells like the plastic you tear off a brand-new CD, and I purposely don’t look in his eyes. Then he starts laughing, and my body moves with him for an instant as his stomach tightens. It feels a little like body surfing. Then I wipe out and fall off.

  “You’re it, aren’t you?” he says. “You’re my karmic punishment for some bad thing I did.”

  I get up and brush myself off, trying my best to pretend I wasn’t just superimposed on him. “I came back to give you the ten dollars I owe you.”

  “That you stole.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you want it or not?” I say.

  “Yes, I want it,” he snaps back, snatching it out of my hand. “Does this mean you’ll be returning my Victoria’s Secret catalog as well?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not moving,” he says.

  “What?”

  “If this is some ploy to get me to move out so your best friend can move in next door to you or something, it’s not going to work.”

  “Jeez! Talk about paranoid!”

  “Well, what other reason could you possibly have for wreaking havoc on some poor stranger’s life?” he asks. I’m almost insulted, but a little bit proud at the same time.

  “Is this havoc? Seriously?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I’m just being friendly.”

  “This is how you act friendly?” he says incredulously.

  “Neighborly?”

  “Neighbors open other neighbors’ mail, steal money and catalogs—”

  “Borrow.”

  “Whatever!” he shouts. Then closes his eyes in an attempt to get back a little self-control. Only partially successful. “It’s a little much, don’t you think? Life is short! Who has time for all this?”

  “Actually, that’s not actually true. Life is not short,” I say. “Life happens to be the longest thing that you are ever going to do.” And for once he is quiet.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Is that rhetorical, or are you asking me my name? Which you haven’t done, by the way.”

  “It was rhetorical,” he says. And then there is a long moment before he adds, “What is your name, anyway?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Is that the name you were born with?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hippie parents?” he says.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it’s an unusual name.”

  Was that a compliment? I wonder. No, it wasn’t. Unusual means unusual.

  “It’s very pretty,” he adds. I notice he’s not looking at me and won’t. Was he just reading my mind? If no, then his timing is damn good. If yes, then I’m getting the hell out of here.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” We stand there for an awkward moment. I guess there’s nothing else. I’ve given him his money, so I should go.

  “Okay then,” I say. “Have a good night.”

  “You too,” he says, and I go back to my apartment.

  Today I discovered a new noise I can make with my mouth. I do it by curling my tongue up and pressing it against the roof of my mouth. Then I sort of click it or suck it or do something. It’s still new, so I haven’t quite worked it out yet—but it is loud and fun, and I can’t seem to stop doing it.

  At first people at the restaurant were amused by it, but now, after an hour of hearing me do it, I think—not so much. It sounds sort of like a chipmunk. And the face I have to make in order to get the sound out involves sticking my lips out, open, and slightly flaring my nostrils. I don’t know if I have to flare my nostrils, but I do it anyway. I can’t see myself when I do it, but I can see my protruding lips if I look down, and I think I might look like a monkey. I’m too scared to look in a mirror and do it. I’m fairly certain, whatever the face is—it’s not attractive. If I actually caught a glimpse of myself doing it, I’d probably never do it again—and it’s way too much fun for that. If this sounds odd, I can only liken it to sex. I’m sure you make some doozies of faces when you’re in the throes of passion. If you ever actually saw what you look like, you might not want to do the evil deed again. But sex, like my new noise, is fun. Both things do not need to be scrutinized in a mirror. Unless you find yourself in one of those motels with mirrored ceilings.

  I’m clucking away, polishing our silver with our cheap vodka, when it occurs to me that maybe I should pour a little in my coffee. Our coffee sucks anyway, and this place is boring as hell, so it can’t hurt. I instantly realize it’s a mistake, but now I’m too lazy to go and get another cup, so I just finish it and make a mental note to myself: Coffee + vodka = bad.

  Some people dream in color—I daydream in PR. Case in point: I’m lazily looking over a flyer for the prix fixe we’re having for Valentine’s Day when it hits me—this has the potential to be a little too successful. Three courses, choice of our best entrées, coffee, tea, and dessert . . . for how much? It’s Valentine’s Day, for crying out loud. The night when every man tries to compensate for what a slouch he seems like the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year. We can charge double this and still pack ’em in. Where’s the thinking here? The profit potential is proportional to the market potential. And in this case, we’ll have more comers than tables all night long. Regardless of the prix. If I cared about this place, I’d offer them this nugget. But I don’t, so I go back to making my sound.

  I stop making the sound when Brett, our new busboy, storms past me. “I�
��m gonna torch this place,” he mumbles, kicking the swinging door on his way into the kitchen. Brett’s been with us for three days, and he’s pretty odd. He’s supershort and really goofy looking. He has a very thin mustache, which looks drawn on, and he’s constantly disappearing during his shifts.

  His first day here he didn’t speak. Not to anyone. I tried to spark up a conversation but didn’t get much in return. Then midway through his second shift, he was all kinds of talkative. Basically doing stand-up. It was the most bizarre thing I’d ever seen. Until it hit me that he was probably just on coke.

  And the next day, after one of his many disappearing acts throughout his shift, all was confirmed when he actually came back with white shit on his nose.

  Now, three days in, he apparently wants to “torch this place.” I myself am not a fan of the place either, but sheesh! Torching the place? Our new busboy just might be a few inches short of normal. A few hundred inches.

  Meanwhile, I notice Bruce outside, jumping up and down like a maniac. He’s tapping on the window furiously, motioning for me to come over. I make my way over to the window—he’s pointing at some woman quickly walking away up the street, and he’s yelling at me to get out there. So I walk out the door.

  “Grab that woman!” he shouts, pointing to the woman again.

  I look at her. “Why?”

  “Because she just stole all of the toilet paper from the bathroom and shit all over the seat and the floor!”

  “That’s disgusting!” I say.

  “Grab her!” he yells, waving his hand in her direction as though he and it have become unhinged.

  “Why? What do you want me to do with her?”

  “Get our toilet paper back!”

  This is one of those “what am I doing here?” moments that I have, probably, once per shift. I really need to get a regular job again. Though I swore to myself I would never work in an office again after I once spent three hours organizing my former boss’s PEZ collection, only to have her yell at me because she likes them arranged in such a way that no two same-color stems are next to each other.