"You had a rough night, huh?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Were you just really drunk last night, or is there something wrong with your apartment?"

"Oh," she says as if she's remembering. "Oh, no. I forgot about that."

"Yeah, you started talking about the mold last night, and then you just zonked out."

"Yeah . . . the mold."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I think I have black mold," she says.

"What is black mold?"

"Toxic mold."

"What makes you think you have this?"

"The tests came back inconclusive. I don't wanna stay there."

"Well, then you'll have to come to California with me," I say (of course kidding).

"Okay," she says.

"Fantastic," I say, not taking her seriously. I hand her a cup of coffee.

"I'll go pack."

"Seriously?" I say, now wondering if she's serious.

"Yeah. I seriously don't want to stay in my apartment. And for all we know, you could have the mold here, too."

Holy shit, she's serious. "I was kidding. What would you do in California?"

"Whatever you do. I don't have a job anymore. I'm free to go."

I cannot believe she's serious. She can't come with me. I mean, sure she could come to California to check out the band, I guess, but I have important business to deal with-and no way is she coming to Seattle. I can't have her there messing things up. She does seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, whether she tries to or not. No, absolutely not. She cannot come with me.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," I say.

"Why not? You could use the company. And Strummer has never seen California."

Strummer? She can't be serious this time. "Strummer definitely can't come."

"Why not?"

"This is getting out of hand. We're not seriously discussing this, are we?"

"Yes, we are. Why can't Strummer come?"

"Because," I say. "He can't."

"Doggist bigot," she says.

"You can't come either."

"Why not?"

I want to come up with a really adult-sounding and final answer. "Because I have important business to take care of."

"I heard that part. What does that have to do with me and Strummer?"

"You just can't come, okay?"

"Fine," she says.

"Fine," I say with finality.

I'm on American Airlines Flight #3 on my way to California, and Heaven is sitting next to me. Strummer is in a crate under the plane. His ticket cost a hundred bucks. Apparently Heaven likes the aisle seat, too. But I booked my flight first, and I'm not budging. She could have sat somewhere else. Not my problem. What is my problem, though, is the fact that she's milking it for all that she can. She's gotten up and climbed over me about seventy-five times since we boarded. She demanded I give her my Smokehouse Almonds because she thought she was gypped in her bag. And she's listening to the Chinese channel on her headset and trying to repeat what they are saying. This is even less amusing to the Asian person sitting directly behind us.

I get up and go to the bathroom. As I wash my face, I notice the sign telling me to please wipe the washbasin after my use for the next passenger. Which I do, though I'm not sure I really understand why. Sure, if I was shaving or something-but if all I do is wash my hands or face, I don't know why the inside of the washbasin has to be wiped dry, just so the next passenger can wet it again. Which gives me a thought: What about a self-drying sink? Maybe it could have holes like Swiss cheese that air could blow through. Even better . . . so much air that if you waved your hands in front of it, they'd get dry . . . which would eliminate the need for those separate air dryers. But then how would the water stay in the sink? Bad idea.

And then the flush-the flush is quite possibly the loudest toilet flush I've ever experienced. It gets me thinking about all toilet flushes. They're really unpleasant-loud, obnoxious. Unsettling, really. At that second, it hits me. What if I designed an MP3 player Flush Button. It would play music when you flushed instead of the imposing whoosh. It wouldn't have to play a whole song. That could get annoying-but maybe the chorus, or a clever line, even. "Water of Love" by Dire Straits, "Big Balls" by AC/DC, "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana, "Tush" by ZZ Top . . . even Sinatra's "My Way." I'm sure Old Blue Eyes would be honored. Then again, maybe not. Maybe he'd turn over in his grave, in which case I'd sample the Sid Vicious version. The possibilities are endless. I am a wealth of inventions. This one could even top Cinnamilk-and the Catch-It Cone. Not just because of its genius, but because it involves my first true passion-music.

I come back to my seat and find Heaven in it.

"What are you all smiley about?" she asks.

"Move it or lose it," I say.

"Make me," she says. I lift her up out of my seat and place her in her own, where she sits and pouts but quickly gets over it. "What were you smiling about? Have a wank in there? You know, you're not officially a member of the Mile High Club unless there's another person involved."

"Hmm," I say. "So what club is it when there are two other people involved and they're both flight attendants?"

"The Masturbatory Fantasy Club?" she offers. "Seriously, what happened in the bathroom that was so grin-inducing?"

"I came up with another idea, that's all."

"What kind of idea?"

"I can't tell you."

"What," she says. "You think I'm going to steal it?"

"No."

"Then tell me."

"I can't, not here at least. Too many people around."

"Fine. But I'm going to make you tell me later," she warns.

"Okay."

"And I'm not going to forget, either."

"I'm sure you're not."

"I don't forget things," she says.

"Of course you don't."

"Especially things like this."

"Uh-huh."

"I do forget where I put my keys."

"We all have our faults," I say.

"I wouldn't consider that a fault."

I notice that she's made a list on the vomit bag in my absence. "What is that?" I ask.

"It's my updated funeral persona non grata list."

"I see," I say.

"A plane is dangerous. Might as well have an updated version with me."

"So there are other versions?" I say, craning my neck in a half-assed attempt to see if my name is on the list.

"Yes."

"And you want your final version to be on a throw-up bag?"

"It's as good a place as any," she says, checking up and down her list.

"And if we have some kind of tragedy on the plane, don't you think that list will be destroyed along with the rest of us-and the plane?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps. But you're thinking some other tragedy that would just take you and leave your list unharmed."

She thinks for a second. "It's a precaution," she says.

"It's ridiculous."

"Nobody asked you."

"Fair enough," I say and open my duty-free shopping catalog to see if anything new has shown up since my last flight.

We arrive at Long Beach Airport. The band's playing in Costa Mesa, so we flew into Long Beach instead of LAX.

We're reunited with Strummer, and I swear that dog smiles at us when he spots us. I didn't fully understand until this moment-this dog has a soul. And a fantastic smile. He jumps up on Heaven, and she's giddy with love for this mutt. I pat him on the head and try to play it cool, but I gotta say, I've fallen for him, too.

We get in my rental car, and Heaven pulls out a CD mix she made for the trip. The first song is by Spoon, which just happens to be one of my favorite bands. The second song is a Wilco song, another near-perfect band. Then she's got Franz Ferdinand's "Come on Home" going straight into "Heart of Glass" by Blondie, which blows my mind because I thought I was the only one who noticed the similarities between those two songs. I'm afraid that if the rest of this CD is as good as its beginning I'm going to have to ask this girl to marry me. And that is definitely not in the cards. As soon as I think this, "Little Guitars" by Van Halen comes on. Seriously proposal-worthy, so we'll just keep this between us.

We drive straight to the nearest Fatburger, which is my obvious first stop. Truth be told, I'd prefer an In-N-Out Burger-which are the best burgers in the world-but Fatburger's closer, and it's the next best thing. We'll hit In-N-Out Burger tomorrow. I haven't been to L.A. in a while, but I used to spend a lot of time here, and I know where the burgers are.

Or at least I used to. Unfortunately, the Fatburger I picked out has been replaced by a strip mall, and the next closest one is a few miles away in Orange. So we drive-or shall I say crawl-in traffic for a half hour. During which time I marvel, once again, at Heaven's choice of placing Soul Asylum's "Somebody to Shove" back to back with Adam Ant's "Beat My Guest," a B-side from Stand and Deliver. Both songs begin with almost the exact same guitar riff, and this track selection leaves no doubt in my mind that this girl knows her music. Maybe she should be a DJ instead of a waitress?

We finally get to Fatburger and I order a Double Fatburger, Fat Fries, and a vanilla shake. Fatburger makes the world a better place. I tell Heaven that she has to also order the Double Fatburger, which she does, but she orders the Skinny Fries. Girls.

"Don't you think they could have come up with a better name for this place?" she asks.

"The name is great," I say.

"No, it's not," she says. "They might as well call it 'Increase Your Ass Burger.'"

"No, see . . . back in 1952, when this place opened, Fat meant you had really made it. 'Fat City,' 'Fat Times,' 'Fat Cat . . .' It was a good thing."

"Like phat with a 'ph' now," she surmises.

"Exactly."

"So when phat-with a 'ph'-came out over the last few years, they were totally copying the fifties. It's totally unoriginal. Someone should call them on that."

"You go ahead."

"I might," she says.

"I have no doubt about that."

We get an extra burger for Strummer and sit on the grass at this little park across the street. It's nice not to be wearing a winter coat. Los Angeles is a really nice place. If it weren't for the smog . . . and the earthquakes . . . and the people . . . and the traffic- Okay, not that nice, but the weather's good.

"This is a really good burger," she says after her first bite, as if she's surprised.

"As if I'd steer you wrong?"

"Well . . . you know . . ." She cracks a crooked smile.

"Yeah, yeah," I say. And we settle into a comfortable silence as we eat our Fatburgers in sunny California.