Stupid and Contagious (3 page)

Right then I take a good look around the plane and start to freak out. Everyone else on the plane looks just like me. Except the hot chick. The closest thing to compare it to would be a complete and utter Malkovich moment. The entire plane is fil ed with twenty-eight-to

thirty-something

guys

who

undoubtedly fancy themselves the lead characters in a Nick Hornby novel.

They al look the same, dress the same, talk the same. They al have their iPods on and
Q Magazine
in their hands. And worse—I know most of them or know who they are or know someone who knows them. They probably al think they have a chance with the hot chick, too.

Suddenly I get this vision of the entire plane ful of geeks re-enacting the scene from
Say Anything,
except instead of boom boxes they’re holding iPods over their heads à la John Cusack, blaring “In Your Eyes” in an earnest attempt to win her heart.

This actual y makes me laugh out loud until I look into my bag and cringe when I realize that I too have a copy of
Q Magazine
and the latest Nick Hornby book.

Fuck me, I think. If I could shred and burn them with my mind, I would.

I decide to do the crossword puzzle instead. That wil surely make me feel superior. Who am I kidding?

I’m just another overgrown indie-rock kid, fighting the I’m just another overgrown indie-rock kid, fighting the good fight against the corporate behemoths of radio.

At what point should col ege radio no longer matter?

Is there a cutoff? How many years, post-col ege, do I get to cultivate the whole music snob thing? I don’t want to be thinking about this shit. This is al Marc’s fault. And worse, now I have to pee.

Heaven

I worked at Schiffman Morton PR. Affectionately known as S&M PR, it’s one of the top public relations firms in New York. Greg Schiffman and Lisa Morton started the firm two years before I came on board and have an amazing array of A-list clients. You could look at them in one of two ways: as scrappy, bril iant, driven entrepreneurs who cut their own path in a tough business, or as conniving, backstabbing frauds whose ticket to success was Lisa’s dad’s position as senior VP of corporate affairs at Chase. As far as I was concerned, the jury was stil out.

Greg put me in charge of the
Tommyland
book signing because he knew I had a borderline obsessive affinity for music. And because he had walked in on some interns the day they watched the Pam and Tommy sex tape in the office, and Greg didn’t want to be in the same room as a man he’d seen honk a boat horn with his penis. I, however, was excited about the prospect.

I got to Astor Place and Lafayette and was struck by the proximity of two different Starbucks. I wondered if I stood at the exact midpoint between the two, would I be sucked into a coffee vortex and emerge a superhero . . . Caffeine Queen—able to wage at least six different arguments simultaneously, stay awake for weeks at a time, and strike down foes with the sheer force of my pee.

I could tel the book was going to be a grand slam when I could barely squeeze past the groupies and fans lined up around the block. Girls in Mötley Crüe baby-dol T-shirts that barely covered their breasts, and guys with almost forgivable mul ets. Almost.

I walked into the Barnes & Noble and saw the table set up. But there was a pink tablecloth. Pink streamers. Stacks of books, sheathed in pink. Pink ribbons
everywhere.
What was up with the pink?

Tommy Lee
dated
the singer Pink, but working
that
angle seemed like a stretch.

As I stepped closer, I noticed that the pink ribbons were actual y the single-fold Breast Cancer Awareness ribbons, and with each step I took toward the table I found it harder to swal ow and got that panicked feeling in my gut—the same feeling I got when I was caught stealing bubble-gum-flavor Bonne Bel lip balm from Rite Aid when I was eleven years old.

The big pink 45-by-30-inch sign read:
Farewell My
Breasts.
Unless Tommy was giving up on women with fake double-Ds, there had been a huge mistake.

After running around frantical y for what seemed like an hour (but was real y only three minutes), I found the woman I dealt with on the phone, Jeannie Sayer. She stood in black high-waisted trousers, which left only about two inches for her blouse. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, and her whole face came to a point, like a bird beak.

“Hi, Jeannie, I’m Heaven,” I said in a saccharine-sweet voice to hide my panic. “We spoke about the
Tommyland
signing?”

“Right,” she chirped. “We’re looking forward to it!

He seems like a real pip!” she said with a knowing glance. “Did you want to take a look around before the big day next month?”

The words “next month” were like an air horn going off in my ear. They echoed about seven times before I was able to recover. “No,” I said, sucking the breath in through my gritted teeth. “The big day is
today.
In one hour, in fact.”

Jeannie pul ed out her Palm Pilot and then squiggled up her face when she realized they’d made a mistake.

“Fuck,” I said. Jeannie winced more at my cussing than at the mistake, it seemed.

“Someone must have made a mistake. I guess . . .

oh gosh . . . I must have made a mistake.
Farewell My
Breasts
is next month,” she said, meekly adding,

“One woman’s struggle with breast cancer.”

I took a few deep breaths as I looked at the display.

“I understand scheduling snafus. I do,” I said. “And there may come a time in Tommy Lee’s life when he struggles with breast cancer and writes a memoir about his brave journey. And when that book comes out, I’l be happy to set up a book signing here. But the book Mr. Lee has just written is about sex and drugs and the underbel y of rock and rol . And the hearty yet satisfying soup that you get when you blend the three together. There are two hundred people lined up outside to get
that
book signed. So if you could get the copies we ordered on or around this table in oh . .

. say . . . the next twenty minutes . . .” But her darting eyes told me there was a huge problem.

“There’s a smal problem,” she said. “When we order large quantities for book signings we have them delivered in time for the event. It’s a matter of storage.” She looked out the window at the gathering leather horde. “I
wondered
why the breast cancer crowd looked so . . . scruffy.”

I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t—because at that moment I needed heavy metal paraphernalia and two hundred
Tommyland
books.

“Here it is . . .” she said. “This is what confused me.

Greg Schiffman sent me an e-mail that mentioned the reading, dating it next month. See?” She showed me a printout of Greg’s e-mail, and my eyes grew wide as I saw it in black and white. The wrong month. So Greg screwed up
and
she screwed up. But none of that mattered right then.

“Where’s the PA? Do you have a PA system?” I asked. She pointed to the front of the store. And the next thing I knew, I was standing on top of the front counter with the mic in my hand. “Attention,
all
personnel: Report immediately to the
Farewell My
Breasts
display.”

I marched over to the display in ful dril -sergeant mode and saw the various employees gathered before me. About fifteen of them. Al looking bored and annoyed.

“Hi, everybody. I’m Heaven Albright,” I said in as sweet a tone as I could muster.

“Hi, Heaven,” one or two of them said distractedly, like an unenthusiastic reply at an AA meeting.

“There has been a
really
big misunderstanding and I need you guys to take these books and put them somewhere safe.” Now I seemed to have earned at least a glare from the majority of the group. “These are for next month. Today you’ve got Tommy Lee coming. I need al of these pink ribbons gone and . . .

is there anything else we can put up?”

“We have some black garland left over from Hal oween,” offered a malnourished goth girl with a safety pin poking lewdly out of her eyebrow.

“Perfect. I’l be back in twenty minutes. When I get back I want this place to look like a headbangers’

bal .”

I bolted out the door and cal ed Greg from the cab. I told him to send the fifty copies we had at the office over with an intern. I stopped at Borders and bought up al seventeen copies they had, then went to Tower Records and bought up al of their copies. I had Karen, my assistant, doing the same. By the time Tommy Lee sat his leather-clad self down . . . there were two hundred copies of
Tommyland
beside him, Mötley Crüe posters behind him, and an extra hot Starbucks latte in my hand, which his assistant requested ahead of time.

“This is for you,” I said, handing him the Starbucks cup. His tattooed hand took the cup from my inkless hand, and he smiled at me. I watched as he took his first sip.

“Extra hot,” he said with a nod of approval. And even though I knew he was talking about the coffee, I couldn’t help but hope that he was referring to me.

I got back to the office, and as soon as I walked in, Lisa and Greg stopped talking. If I were the paranoid type, I’d have thought the hasty hush meant they were talking about me . . . but I’m not. So, as soon as Lisa walked out of Greg’s office, I took it as my cue to go in and col ect my praise. Greg saw me walking toward him and got this weird expression on his face. He barely looked at me. He awkwardly turned in to his desk, banged his knee, and tried to cover it up. Final y he looked at me.

“Anything you’d like to tel me about today?” he asked.

“Ugh!” I said. “It was a total cluster-fuck. They had the months confused and set it up for another book.

But it turned out great, and they sold every copy.”

“I didn’t hear it was great. Tommy’s assistant was there a half hour before and said the whole place was in a panic.”

“It was nuts. They had only seven copies in the store and zero decorations, but I got the books in time—”

“I
sent
you the fifty copies,” he barked.

“Fifty wasn’t enough. I had to run out and buy another hundred and fifty.”

“One hundred fifty hardcover books at ful retail?

And how’d you pay for them?”

“I charged them.” What the hel ? I had just saved the day! Why was he giving me attitude?

“On your corporate card?”

“Yes,” I said. “Greg, what’s the problem? We were twenty minutes away from a complete train wreck, and I got us out of it in record time. I stil haven’t caught my breath.”

“Wel , if you’d set it up properly, that wouldn’t have happened.”

“I did!” I defended. “This wasn’t my mistake. The manager didn’t even know what day it was.”

“Heaven, we can’t have this type of thing going on.

Not at your level.”

“What thing? Me saving
your
ass? You sent—”

“My ass wasn’t saved. My ass was pretty much chewed off by Tommy’s assistant. I’l be surprised if he ever works with us again.” Greg looked out the window and clenched his teeth. Then he looked at me again. “I’m afraid there’s no longer a role for you at Schiffman Morton.”

I was stunned. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” he said.

My heart was pounding. This couldn’t be real. I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. Nothing. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He was serious.

“Fine. I’ve worked my
ass
off for you every single day—including today . . . but fine—it’s your name on the door, Greg.” I started to walk out, but stopped short at the door. “What kind of severance package are you giving me?” I turned and asked.

“Severance packages are for people who are laid off. You are being fired for
cause.
”

“What cause?”

“Gross misconduct.”

“Misconduct of
what
?”

“Abuse of corporate funds. However, due to your previous good service, I’m not going to press charges.”

“Press
charges
?” Was he insane?

“For the books you charged. I’l let it slide.”

“How generous of you,” I seethed. “Jesus, Greg!”

and I started to storm out. “Press charges. What an ass,” I said just loud enough for him to hear.

“Heaven?” he cal ed out.

“What?” I said as I turned back.

“I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

“I’m not,” he said. I started on my way again, but he cleared his throat. “And I’l need you to surrender your corporate card. Now.”

Brady

Sitting on a plane doesn’t leave too many options for activity, so I start thinking about things that I’d blocked out for the week of the conference. Like the fact that Sarah’s moving out. Wel , that’s not true. I’m moving out of the apartment, but Sarah is moving out of my life. Sarah didn’t want to break up and refused to move out, so I’m the one who’s going. It’s like that
Seinfeld
where George was trying to break up with the girl and she just wouldn’t let him. Only my efforts didn’t end in half an hour, there was no laugh track, and I’m now being forced to give up the rent-control ed pad I’ve been in for seven years and move into a new apartment. The place that was mine before she got there, and was supposed to be mine long after she left. As they always do. Which is a real fucking drag. Losing the rent control . . . not Sarah.