Stupid and Contagious (10 page)

“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 partial y successful. “It’s a little much, don’t you think? Life is short! Who has time for al this?”

“Actual y, that’s not actual y 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 real y.”

“Wel , 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 hel 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 stil 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 actual y 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 actual y 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 hel , 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’l have more comers than tables al 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
s to p
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 real y 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 al kinds of talkative. Basical y 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, al was confirmed when he actual y 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 yel ing 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 al of the toilet paper from the bathroom and shit al over the seat and the floor!”

“That’s
disgusting
!” I say.

“Grab her!” he yel s, 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 real y 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 col ection, only to have her yel at me because she likes them arranged in such a way that no two same-color stems are next to each other.

“
You
grab her,” I say.

“I can’t. I’m a man. I’m a triple black belt. I don’t want to come off as attacking her.”

“Then let it go.”

“No,” he blasts. “She stole our toilet paper, and it’s not the first time she’s done it.”

“Is she a customer?”

“No! She just walks in and goes straight to the bathroom.”

“Did somebody clean the bathroom up yet?” I ask, glancing with no smal amount of dread in that direction.

“Wil you get moving? She’s getting away!”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Bruce. I’m not going to go and grab that woman.”

“If you want to keep your job you are,” he says with his chin out and his eyebrows raised. This is total bul shit. I’m supposed to chase some freak of nature down the street? Some freak of nature who has just shit al over our bathroom and stolen the toilet paper?

Because Bruce can’t spring for a couple extra rol s?

So I start after her down the street and catch up to her. Sure as shit (pun intended) she’s got al of our toilet paper in her tote bag.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Piss off,” she says.

“I don’t want any trouble, ma’am. But my boss would

“I don’t want any trouble, ma’am. But my boss would real y like his toilet paper back.”

“I don’t have your fucking toilet paper. Leave me alone or I’m cal ing the police.”

“I see the toilet paper in your bag, ma’am.”

“
Aaaaaaaah!
” she screams at the top of her lungs, which scares the hel out of me. She also has a few longish hairs growing out of her chin. I look back at Bruce, who gives me the thumbs-up. This woman is insane, and I want to go home. But if I don’t come back to Bruce with some toilet paper I’m going to, once again, be out of a job. This is total bul shit.

“Look,” I say. “Can you just give me one rol ? If I walk back to the restaurant with nothing, I’m going to get in trouble. I’m not even asking you to split it with me. Just one rol is al I ask.” I look at her pleadingly.

“Eat shit, you little tramp!”

I take a breath. Inhale . . . exhale.

“One rol ,” I ask again. She starts walking away again. I don’t want to touch her, but I can already hear Bruce yel ing at me, “Why didn’t you grab her?” Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know what to do. So I grab the bag, and it becomes a tug-of-war. She screams some more. People are turning, looking to see what the commotion is. Then I see Brady, my neighbor. He too is looking at me—at what apparently looks like me trying to steal this woman’s bag.

“Help! Police!” she screams. Brady’s watching this with the most confused and horrified look on his face that I’ve ever seen. The kind of look that tel s me, if he wasn’t sure before, he’s now 110 percent positive that I’m insane. And why shouldn’t he think that?

I’ve had it. This woman is making a scene and making
me
look even worse. Bruce is tapping his foot, which I know means nothing good, so I just decide,
fuck it.
I’ve already got one hand on the tote. I reach in, grab two rol s of toilet paper, jerk my hand back as she tries to bite me, and storm back to the restaurant. As I’m walking back, I see Brady’s jaw drop. So I do the only thing I can think to do, which is give him the finger, and then I walk back into the restaurant.

Brady

Oh my God. There are no words to describe what I just saw. She is total y insane. And a kleptomaniac.

And it just so happens that the restaurant my neighbor walks into after stealing toilet paper from an old lady is Temple. The same restaurant where the John Ritter incident took place. That place is nothing but bad news, so if
she
works there, it’s fitting.

I sneak over and peer into the window. Lo and behold, there she is taking an order. What was that hideous display I just witnessed? A mini break to mug a bag lady and loot some Cottonel e?

She spots me and ducks. But a second later I guess she thinks better of it, because she walks straight over to the window and says, “What?” I can’t hear her, but I can read her lips. And even though there’s a glass partition between us, I’m fairly certain her tone wasn’t warm and welcoming. Frankly, I don’t know why she’s giving
me
an attitude. I didn’t do anything except witness her thievery. Which reminds me, I want to listen to the Thievery Corporation CD

when I get home.

I just walk away. I shake my head and walk away.

This girl is a menace. On my way home I walk right past porn legend Ron Jeremy. I tel ya, nobody can wear tube socks like that guy.

I get home, throw on the
Sounds from the Verve
Hi-Fi
CD, brew myself a cup of coffee, and plan my strategy. I’m starting big. Hershey’s makes chocolate milk and they’d be lucky to have my Cinnamilk. I Google Hershey’s and find their Web site. Incidental y, I think it’s fascinating that Google is a verb. Here’s something that didn’t exist a few years ago, and now there it is, noun, verb—and something I, frankly, can’t live without. And if it’s not official y a verb, it is now.

You’re welcome.

I get the phone number off the Web site and place the cal . The conversation is as fol ows:

“Hershey’s customer satisfaction, this is Darlene, how may I help you?”

“Hel o, Darlene. I’m looking to get in touch with the main headquarters. Do you happen to have a number I can cal ?”

“What is this regarding?”

“It’s regarding a new product idea.”

“I can forward your comments to the corporate office, and they’l get in touch with you.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I kind of need to speak to someone directly.”

“You’re speaking to me,” she says. Is that the tiniest edge I hear creeping into Darlene’s formerly sweet voice?

“Yes, I am. And while I do appreciate your time,
Darlene,
I real y need to speak to someone about setting up a meeting. This is a potential gold mine here. And someday you can say you were part of that first phone cal .
So
if you’d be so kind as to point me in the right direction—”

“I’l tel you what I’l do . . .” she says, shaping up.

“What’s that?”

“You can tel me your questions or comments, and I wil forward them to the corporate office, and then someone wil get back to you.” This is the same canned response that she gave me thirty seconds ago. Not only do I want those thirty seconds back, I want Darlene to be fired.

“It’s not a question or a comment, Darlene. It is a product idea.”

“Then tel it to me, and I’l pass it along. And someone wil —”

“Right, I know. Someone wil get back to me. Here’s the thing. I’m sure you’re a great gal, Darlene. I am.

But I don’t know you. This is a multimil ion-dol ar idea.

Do you think it would be wise for me to discuss it with you?”

“That’s how we do it,” she says flatly.

“Wel , I can’t tel you.”

“Then is there something else I can help you with?”