Free Stupid and Contagious by Caprice Crane Page A

mean to animals
    2. People who are selfish and self-centered 3. People who abuse their car horns, which is a major problem in New York City
    These are things that are allowed to make me crazy. They are legitimate gripes.
    Here’s an example of something that might make you crazy, but is not legitimate: You’re on an elevator, zooming up to your desired floor, when suddenly it stops and someone gets on. Then they get off on a different floor. Al during your ride, which you got on first. Some people might get mad at this. As if their own personal elevator had just been invaded by someone with the audacity to need also to be somewhere that required the use of the elevator.
    Granted, this has pissed me off on occasion too, but I know that it’s wrong, and that is key.

    Brady
    I don’t lie much, but when I have to, I’m alarmingly good at it. Sometimes it’s best to go big or go home. I need time to write out the business plan for Cinnamilk. So when I tel Phil my grandfather in Florida has broken his hip and needs assistance, and I’l be taking the week off to visit him, he believes me and understands.
    Phil’s understanding is not of the situation as I presented it, however, but it’s as Phil sees it in Phil’s world.
    “Goin’ to Florida, eh?” he says.
    “Yup,” I say.
    “Wil maintenance?”
    “Huh?”
    “Making sure you’re there in the end so you get good placement in the wil ?”
    “He’s not dying. He’s just got a fractured hip.”
    “We’re al dying, dude. And he’s in Florida. He’s halfway there.” This is true. I’ve always cal ed Florida
    “God’s Waiting Room,” but what he’s saying is just plain wrong. I wouldn’t go visit my grandfather just to angle for his wil . Plus, he died three years ago.
    “How was your date last night?” I ask him.
    “I think I blew it.”
    “Why?”
    “When the bil came, I didn’t have enough money,”
    he says.
    “What about a credit card? Don’t you have a credit card?”
    “Maxed out. Shit, I maxed that puppy out the first month I got it.”
    “So what did you do?”
    He doesn’t answer at first. Then he tries to throw a bal ed-up piece of paper at the wastebasket, arcing it high, like he’s LeBron, and missing badly. “I had to ask her for money.”
    But this miss is so far off the mark. The clock has run out. The game is over. There wil be no postseason for this relationship. “Oh, Phil.”
    “Did I blow it?”
    “I don’t know the girl.”
    “She was pretty pissed,” he offers.
    “Then yes.”
    “I knew it,” he says, pressing his palms to his forehead like it’s just hit him. “Fuck. But she had no right ordering the duck anyway. It was like forty dol ars. That’s just mean!” he adds, like a wounded child.
    “I don’t think she meant it as a personal affront.”
    “I think I love her.”
    “It was a first date.”
    “And?”
    “Never mind,” I say. I can’t be bothered to get into it with him. There are days I can, and days I can’t. This is one I can’t. I can’t because today I’m troubled.
    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 tel 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’l 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 playful y 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.