"Guess what I just did?" she asks.

"I can't imagine."

"I just set up a PayPal account."

"To buy things off eBay?" I ask, because this is why I have a PayPal account.

"Nope," Sydney says, totally serious. "Guess again?"

"I really have no idea."

"I've just set up a Boob Fund," she announces proudly. I take the phone away from my ear and look at it. Why I do this, I don't know. I guess to amuse myself. When I put the phone back she is still talking. "-so for my twenty-sixth birthday, as a gift to myself, I've decided to buy myself a new set of boobs."

"Oh my . . ." I say.

"But I don't have enough money, so I've set up a Web site where people can donate to the Sydney's New Boobs Fund and I put a link to it on my Friendster page and my MySpace page."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Nope, I'm totally serious. And people have already donated! Can you believe it? There's $153.67 in the account."

"No, I really can't. And who would donate sixty-seven cents, is what I wanna know."

"Who cares? It's so cool. Why didn't I think of this before?"

"Because you were sane?"

"Pot . . . kettle . . . hello," she says. "Anyway . . . how's la la land?"

"It's good. We're having fun."

"If you can call having Darren Rosenthal parade bloated rock stars before your potential band fun, it's fun," Brady shouts.

"What's he yelling about? Darren Rosenthal, your Darren Rosenthal?" Syd asks.

"No, not my Darren Rosenthal, but yes, the one you know."

"Oh, yes it is her Darren Rosenthal," Brady contests. "You'll be happy to know that Heaven and Darren were reunited!" and he starts singing the seventies song by Peaches and Herb, "'Reunited and it feeeels so gooood!'"

"What?" Sydney asks.

"Can you shut up?" I say to Brady. "It was nothing," I say into the phone. "Look, Brady is meeting with the band in a few minutes, so let me call you back."

I hang up the phone and stare at Brady, who is driving and looking straight ahead.

"What is wrong with you?" I say.

"Besides everything?"he says back.

"What did I tell you before? Stop stressing. You're gonna get this deal. You will walk away from this meeting with a deal."

"Yeah . . . so you say."

"I believe in you," I say, and he looks over at me for the first time. "It's gonna happen. I promise."

"Thanks," he says. We pull into the Hyatt driveway, where Strummer and I jump out, and he drives off to meet the band.

Brady.

You know how you see those movies about the music and entertainment business and you think, Wow, that seems like a really cool job. Well, it's not. It's nearly fucking impossible to have any kind of success. There's one Lester Bangs for every trillion wannabe music critics. There's one Clive Davis or David Geffen for every zillion A&R dudes. And any way you look at it, Cameron Crowe is just one lucky motherfucker. Sure, he's talented as shit, but who gets to write for Rolling Stone magazine at age fifteen? Who gets to write genius movies like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Say Anything, Singles, and Almost Famous? Ever hear of a flop, Cameron? And my God, the guy even got to marry the hot chick from Heart! (Oh, I forgot about Vanilla Sky. Guess Cameron Crowe isn't untouchable. Still . . . the dude's had a pretty good run so far.) Well, I sit on the other side of the fence, in the house on the wrong side of the tracks. (Cue the soundtrack from Some Kind of Wonderful.) Where I sit, I have three hundred sixty-four dollars in my business bank account, a psycho-woman who may or may not be carrying my child, no Top 20 albums on my label-or even Top 1,000 for that matter-and I'm pretty sure I'm losing my hair.

I pull up to where I'm meeting the band, and they're all peering into my car.

"Dude . . . what the fuck?" Sam says.

"Oh, this?" I say when I realize they are talking about the many bags of snacks that have taken over the car. I explain about my long-lost foods, and they all start cracking up.

"How are you getting this stuff home?" Justin asks.

"I guess I need to ship it. Because from here I'm actually going to Seattle."

"What's in Seattle?" Sam asks. I don't want to tell him about Howard Schultz and my Cinnamilk get-rich plan, because I want him to think I'm committed to the label. And I am. If he would just give me a reason to stay committed. I'm pretty much hanging my hopes on this band. But that's too much pressure to put on them. I get out of the car and walk with the band into their rehearsal space.

"Just visiting some friends up there," I say.

"Cool. So listen," Sam says. "Darren offered us ten thousand dollars to record some demos."

"That's a lot of money," I say as my heart sinks into my stomach and the bile crawls up my throat.

"Just so I understand correctly . . . is that an advance that he's offered to pay you guys or is that money he's going to put into studio time?"

"Studio time," Sam says. "Look, we all really like you," he goes on to say, and I feel like I'm getting dumped. It always feels the same. Suddenly I'm in the fifth grade, standing on the playground in my orange and blue plaid pants, and Danielle Boranski is telling me that Stuart Armstrong gave her his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so she's going to be his girlfriend starting right after lunch. "But the thing is, Darren has the money to back up the promises." And I'm wishing I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to offer Sam. "We really do like you, though, dude."

"Thanks," I say. I mean, what do you fucking say when you have only three hundred sixty-four dollars in your business account? "Look . . . I know it seems really cool that you got to hang out with Pearl Jam last night, and that Darren is all slick and trying to give you a taste of the good life," I say. "But the fact still remains that Darren is going to have to walk into his boss's office at the end of the year, and if you haven't met the quota they had in mind-you're done." They look at each other and start to get uneasy. This is the one thing I still have going for me. My loyalty.

"Yeah, we know," Ethan says. "That's the one scary thing."

"Well, that's not going to happen with me. As I've told you, I'll start from the ground up and make it happen for you guys. I have faith that we'll make it on the first time out, but if not, there'll be a second and a third chance. As many as it takes. When you're done recording, I'll get you set up with a good booking agent. Plus, with my contacts, I have no doubt I'll be able to get you set up on some good tours and that's where you'll develop a wider fan base."

"We're into that," Sam says, and they all nod in agreement.

"I'll set up a big grassroots, street-team marketing campaign all over the country," I continue. "And as far as the record goes, I'll get it into all the stores, targeting the places you need to be . . . all of the major online retailers, all major chains, and the super-cool indies. And mom-and-pops too, which major labels sometimes neglect. Plus, I'll place the record in overseas stores and retail programs, and we can also secure separate overseas deals for you-which could mean more advance money that goes directly to you guys."

"That sounds cool," they all agree.

"Plus, I don't know if you're into it, but we could place your music in TV or movies-"

"Car commercials?" Justin says.

"No car commercials," Sam says. And then he adds, "Unless the price is right." They all high-five. "Brady, we totally dig your vibe. For real. But seriously, dude, it's the ten grand."

All of these things are the same as what Darren is offering them. But the difference is, there's a chain of command in Darren's world that's nonexistent in mine. He has to answer to someone, and I don't. Therefore, if Darren's boss says to get rid of them . . . he will. I've got loyalty to offer. A guaranteed home. Everybody wants to feel safe, and that safety is the one thing that I can offer that Darren can't.

"Are you telling me that if it wasn't for Darren Rosenthal offering you guys ten thousand dollars worth of recording time, you'd sign with me?"

"Absolutely," Sam says, and they all nod to back him.

"Really?" I ask.

"Totally," they all say. I think about it. I think about it long and hard-for at least thirty-seven seconds.

"I'll match it," I say. "I'll put ten grand into recording your demos, too. And I can even pull some favors and get enough studio time to record your whole album."

"Cool," Sam says. "Then we're in."

"Yeah?" I say, so happy that I want to cry. Finally something is going right. So what if I just promised ten grand that I don't have.

"Yeah," Sam says. "We were hoping you'd say that. It wasn't at all about you. It was just that we needed to make sure we could have the same opportunities in the studio."

"I'll do you guys proud," I say. "I promise." And when I say "I promise," I think about the fact that those were the last words Heaven said to me before she got out of the car. She promised me it would work out with the band, and she was right. I don't know how she had so much faith, because I was barely hanging on by my fingernails, but I can't wait to tell her.

I start wondering if she's even in the hotel room. The last time I left her she wound up in bed with Darren Rosenthal. My heart starts racing at the thought of it. It's fucking nuts. I'm either keeping an eye on Heaven so she doesn't end up with Darren or keeping an eye on the band so they don't end up with Darren. This dude is a serious pain in my ass.

But Superhero just agreed to sign with me, so at least I know I can relax about that. Fuck. It's like I can finally exhale on that one.

"And, dude . . ." Sam says. "You're driving around Los Angeles buying up all the Funyons and shit. We could just have my mom send you a box of them once a month, so you don't have to be like this crazy guy with all these groceries in his car."

"That would be awesome. I'll just take a few for the road then."

"Whatever you need, bro," Sam says.

And then I say something before it even occurs to me that I'm thinking about Heaven. "Hey-this is kind of random, but-do you happen to know if it's possible to get Tab out here?"

"Yeah, my mom drinks that," Justin says.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I might even have some in the house. You want a can?"

"It can't be that easy," I say aloud, though it was really to myself.

"You want it?" he asks again.

"Could I?"

"I don't drink the shit. Sure." Justin takes off and shows up moments later with a pink/maroon can with the white Tab logo on it. That logo really is one of the coolest logos ever created. But it's even sweeter to look at, knowing how excited Heaven is going to be when she sees it. That is, if she's not having sex with Darren right now.

When I drive away from the band there's about seven seconds where I'm totally elated. I got the deal. They're signing with me. They are my band. Life is good.

And then it sinks in a little more clearly. I just promised ten thousand dollars that I do not have. But there's got to be some way. Think, Brady . . . think. A loan . . . but how? What do I have of value? Aside from things banks don't have any way of appreciating . . . like my signed Johnny Cash train whistle or my original-issue Land of the Lost lunch box.

I'm starting to get that clammy, sick feeling again. So I try to think of things that make me happy. Puppies? Paychecks? Heaven? Bacon. Bacon is a safer bet. I love bacon. I love bacon so much that I could write a poem about it. I'm also a big fan of cheese. A world without cheese . . . that's a world I just wouldn't want to live in.

This isn't working. I'm sweating, and I have the AC on full blast. Of course the AC doesn't work. It's just a massive gust of air pouring in my direction, and it's not helping. Everything is fine, I just need to breathe. And calm myself down. I know this business. You can talk about deal points, publishing, advancing gigs, and booking tours until you're blue in the face, but it all means nothing without a good relationship with the artist. There needs to be respect, open communication, and an overall good vibe between you and your band. To me, this is the only way it can work. And so far, I think I have that with Superhero. Minus, of course, the whole thing about me lying about being in a band back in the day. And having ten thousand dollars.

It's like back in school when the teacher would say, "You're all starting with an A. Now all you have to do is keep it." We all have an A right now. The band has an A. I have an A. Everything is cool.

Until I'm up at all hours of the night listening to why their girlfriends don't want them to go on tour. Or when right before the start of a tour they all of a sudden want a tour bus as opposed to an Econoline van . . .

So they get the freakin' bus. And then they bitch about the hotel room . . .

Now enter alcoholism and drug addiction . . .

And how the fuck am I going to come up with ten thousand dollars?

Heaven.

I read somewhere, maybe in that DSM-III-R, that an average person is someone who is ordinary and represents most people. Meaning that if an average person eats two chocolate bars a week, then some people will eat more, and some will eat less-but most will eat about two bars a week.

I really don't eat chocolate bars at all. So by this reasoning, I am not normal. Or not average, at least. And as American Beauty taught us, there is nothing worse than being average. Well, they said there was nothing worse than being ordinary, which is essentially the same thing.

Now, celebrating is something average people do when they've accomplished something. The average person will cook a nice dinner or take someone out for a nice dinner. That would be expected. Typical. I-being not average-decide that I want to do something different to celebrate Brady getting the band, because I know in my heart of hearts that he will return with good news.

But we're leaving in the morning, and we don't have much time. My first thought is to take Brady's favorite things and make him a cake. But I don't have an oven. So I think . . . maybe a drink. Maybe I'll take some Munchos and Funyons and mash them into a glass of Jolt and make this his celebratory beverage. I could call it Munyon Cola. Munyon. It's even fun to say. See? I'll bet the average person wouldn't have the inspiration to concoct this delicacy. I'll bet the average person wouldn't want to drink it either. I'm going to include Brady and me in that one too, as it may be the most disgusting thing I've ever thought of. So on second thought, I'm not going to make it. Munyon Cola will never be, and I'll just leave the drink inventions to Brady.

But I want to do something to celebrate. Brady's been so stressed out, and we need to do something fun. Not just because he's stressed out, but because, let's face it . . . I'm on a vacation from life right now. When I get back, I have no job, no way of making rent without dipping into the rainy-day fund, no man, and no obvious means of securing any of the above. When it comes to worrying, usually I don't have my priorities straight. Maybe this is what worrying should feel like. Normally, I'd just worry about the fact that my hairdresser is going on maternity leave this week, so God only knows how long it'll be before I get a decent haircut-which is true.

We need to have a party. Too bad we don't know anyone in L.A. You know what? A party is a party. Most of the time you don't know people at a party, anyway. That's what parties are for-mingling. Making new friends. This is an excellent idea. I'm going to invite all the cool people at this hotel to our room. To celebrate.

Brady walks in and our room is wall-to-wall people. He actually walks out and checks the door to make sure it's the right room. And when he walks back in he spots me in the corner. The music is blaring, and everyone is drinking and having a good time. I wave Brady over, and he squeezes through the crowd to get to me.

"What is going on?" he asks.

"Surprise!" I scream. And I blow the party blower thing that the people in Room 801 were kind enough to bring.

"What is this?"