Stupid and Contagious (35 page)

“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 . . . real y—”

“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 tel you that I would be your new boyfriend

—”

“Marco, listen . . .” I say, but then he reaches into the pocket of his blazer and pul s 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?”

“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. “Wil 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 wil love you forever, you know,” he says. “Not just until I make citizen.” I believe him. I’l bet he
would.

And given the fact that I stil 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 stil 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 real y 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. Wel , it’s real y . . . real y . . .

special.”

“I am glad you like it. I hope you wil wear it often and think of me.”

“I wil ,” 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 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.

“Tel 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, smel ing a notion baking in that oven.

“I just thought for sure you would have,” she says. “
I
would have.”

“Wel , 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’l 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. Real y awful.”

“Wel , 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.

“Actual y 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 cel phone rings, and I don’t recognize the number on my cal er ID.

“It’s 213,” I say to Syd, and then I answer. “Hel o?”

“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 fil 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.”

“Wel , I’m with Sydney right now.”

“Tel her she’s a ditz. Ask her if she’s had a substantive thought since last time I saw her.”

“Okay, I’l tel her you said that.”

“How ’bout tomorrow night?” he says. “Aqua Gril ?

Like old times?”

“Sure . . .” I say slowly. “Sounds good.”

“Great. I’l grab you around seven?”

“Uh . . . fine,” I say. I give him my address and we hang up. “He said he misses you,” I tel 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 stil sucks, but at least now I know that he real y feels bad about it.

“Yeah, man. It’s cool. If you’re happy, that’s al 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 hel .”

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 actual y 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’l 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’l do what’s best for us, and he knows I wil , too. We both have
ears,
and when it comes down to mastering and picking the single, we’l 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 wil work as a first single or as the al -important fol ow-up. You can real y make or break a band by picking the right or wrong single, or by introducing the band the wrong way.

Take a band like Jel yfish. 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 Jel yfish went on to become a bril iant 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 hel 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
actual y sing. But he picked the wrong single and got overshadowed by Jessica Simpson’s boobs.

Happens al the time. Bril iance 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.

* * *

“Is that to mock me?” I ask.

“Oh, am I supposed to stop drinking coffee now because of al this?”

“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 hal 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 al hang out tonight?”

“Oh . . . that would be fun . . .” I can tel there’s a
but
coming. “But I already have plans tonight.”

“Oh . . . okay. That’s cool,” I say. “We’l 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.”

“Real y? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, he’s real y 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—al the contacts I already have. This thing is real y gonna work.”

Heaven puts Strummer’s leash on, and I watch them get onto the elevator.

What
plans?

* * *

“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 wil 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 real y need to talk to someone about my Catch-It Cone. It’s hard when you have so many inventions swimming around your brain.