Free Stupid and Contagious by Caprice Crane Page B

Roper blames me, and Chrissy and al her replacements start circling me, as in Lord of the Flies. Then there’s Janet and Larry. They’re al pointing at me and tel ing me I kil ed him. They al start throwing olives at me, and it hurts! It feels like they’re olive bul ets being shot out of an AK-47, and it fucking hurts. So I’m al crouched down trying to block them, and then I wake up with my heart racing, and wel . . . this was one of those mornings.
    So I think I’l start my week off this very second. I grab my shit and leave.
    “Hi, this is Brady Gilbert. I missed your cal , but you missed a scintil ating moment with me. If you’d like to try to recapture that moment . . . leave a message, and I’l cal you back.” Beep.
    When I get home there are seven messages on my answering machine from Sarah. Five hang-ups and two actual messages. Cal 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 il 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’l 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 al . 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 al 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 stil 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 pil after al . I was able to “perform” on my own. And I real y 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 actual y give me the thumbs-up every time I’d see him in the elevator.
    Sarah’s message was as fol ows:
    “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 wil come back. And if you think I didn’t know you were taking that yohimbe every day, you’re sadly mistaken.” Beep.
    Thankful y, 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 pil s.
    Cal me.” Beep.
    This message, in and of itself, is not exactly what I’d cal a feel-good message. But worse, that dumb neighbor from next door has