The guy doesn't even look at Heaven. He just stares down at his shoes.

It takes the cops twelve hours to confirm our story and do the paperwork, but they finally let us go. Turns out the guy that Heaven charmed into helping with her groceries robbed the Bank of America next to the convenience store about ten minutes prior and decided to ditch his gun in our trunk. All of which was caught on the surveillance camera. They let me slide on the trespassing charges because one of the cops actually went to high school with the David Spade clone (whose name is actually David-you just can't make this stuff up), and he promises he'll "talk the dweeb down out of his tree." The cop refers to David as a "band fag," and informs me that David once passed out onstage while playing his bassoon at a recital. When I was losing my virginity David was praying to a shrine of Captain Kirk. This almost explains his loathsome existence. Almost. But geekism aside, I still want to crush the guy. Or at the very least give him a wedgie.

They take us to Strummer, who is hanging out in a detective's office with a black Lab. He's apparently been having a grand old time, having a play date with this cop's dog, and he's not ready to leave yet.

We drag him outside and stand on Fifth Avenue, where once it's all officially said and done, we look at each other as if to say, "What the fuck was that?"

When we get our car out of the impound both of us are starving, so Heaven busts out the couple months' worth of Pringles she bought. But she won't let me have any unless I agree to race her and eat a whole can. This is what I have to deal with. After suffering in jail because of this woman. I can't even have a single Pringle.

"Haven't you done enough for one day?" I ask. "Must I condemn myself to a potato fist that will lodge itself in my solar plexus for a week?"

"Maybe your colon, not your solar plexus," she says. "C'mon. It'll be fun."

"Having food races is not fun. I like to actually chew my food."

"'Once you pop . . . you can't stop,'" she sings. This is the Pringles jingle.

"Yeah, but I'm not looking to pop . . . an artery."

"Lame."

"Pringles aren't meant to be shoveled into your mouth twelve at a time," I say, trying to sway her. "They're special. They're meant to be savored, one chip at a time. The ultra-thin texture . . . the crunch. And then the melt-in-your-mouth sensation . . . not too greasy . . . not too salty . . ." Finally I've worked myself up into such a Pringles frenzy that I can't take it anymore. "Give me that," I say as I grab a tube, pop the top, and dig in. Fuck it. "I'm done playing nice with you," I say, mouth full of chips. "I just suffered in jail because of you. I think I deserve a chip."

"Hey, you had your own woes in there, mister."

"Did I?"

"Does trespassing and stalking ring a bell?" she says.

"But they wouldn't have sent the entire Seattle police force looking for me. I got dragged into your mess."

"Potato . . . po-tah-to," she says. "And by the way, you should thank me. At least now, because of me, Schultz will know who you are." And she reaches into the tube, takes about seventeen Pringles, and shoves them all into her mouth.

"I'll bet you're gonna be awfully thirsty in about thirty seconds."

"And?" she says, mouth full of chips.

"And . . . you shouldn't speak with your mouth full." Which, naturally, makes her open wide to show me her chewed-up chips. When did I become her brother? "And . . . before you started acting like a bratty eight-year-old, I was going to offer you a beverage."

"I really am thirsty," she says.

"Well, it just so happens that I have a certain cola you might enjoy." I pull out the Tab that I've had in my bag since we were in L.A. and hand it to her.

"Oh my God! Where'd you get this?" she squeals.

"I traded my cellmate for it. I'll have you know, that cost me three packs of smokes and a hand job."

"Shut up, where'd you get it?"

"I got it in L.A.-I meant to give it to you before, but it just kept slipping my mind. Between Schultz's security throwing me out and doing hard time-"

"Thank you," she says and yanks the pull tab off the soda can. She takes a big sip and aaahs. Then she takes the pull tab and puts it on her ring finger like a wedding band. She holds her hand out and looks at it. "Someday," she says wistfully.

"Wow, a soda pop pull-tab ring. You're easy. Most girls want their ring from Tiffany's."

"Well, I'm not most girls." She's telling me?

Our flight home is at seven tonight, and at this point I've done all I can do for Cinnamilk, so we have one last day to enjoy all that is Seattle. If we actually make it out of here in one piece, I'll be amazed.

We take a disco nap so we're not totally useless, and then Heaven wants to go to the Experience Music Project, which is Seattle's newest tourist attraction. It's a participatory museum of music, designed by Frank Gehry. I actually wanted to check it out, too, so we head over there. And I'm kind of amazed. Frank Gehry is someone that I really admire. Usually his architecture is so unique and fluid and graceful, but this thing is a fucking eyesore. It looks like he just threw up a bunch of steel and sheet metal.

We go inside and check out these electronic kiosks that are basically VH1's Behind the Music, minus the commercials.

Jimi Hendrix collectibles were sort of the beginning of this place. Supposedly it started with the guitar Hendrix played at Woodstock and his famous black-felt bolero hat. Now they have guitars belonging to Bo Diddley, Bob Dylan, and of course Nirvana.

They have technology that lets people who have no idea how to play music suddenly jam with their heroes. Heaven rushes off to the Onstage space, a light- and smoke-filled room, which allows people to experience what it's like to play live before an audience of thousands of screaming fans.

She sings an over-the-top rendition of "Wild Thing" to the simulated crowd-apparently fans from a Yes concert in Los Angeles back in the day-and when she finishes, she stands there bowing repeatedly. Just when I think she's done, she takes another bow. I have to physically remove her from the stage.

"Do you mind?" she says.

"Do you?" I say back.

"I was having a moment," she says.

"Indeed you were. But then again, when aren't you?" She makes a face at me, and we walk through the rest of the museum. They have a coffee shop in there called The Turntable, and there's a gift shop where they sell CDs and other music-related items. They have what they've deemed the one hundred most essential CDs in rock and roll, and there's some stuff in there that I didn't even know they had on CD. This is actually my favorite part of the whole museum.

We leave the joint feeling satisfied that we-at least-did something you're supposed to do when in Seattle. And Heaven wants me to see Pike's Market, which she saw a bit of yesterday.

We head over there and find a bar called Powell's upstairs at the market. It's this awesome, smoky, old-man bar with an amazing view. The type of place where people drink in the daytime and everyone's on a first-name basis.

Heaven and I decide to get smashed before our flight home, but no matter how drunk I get, I will not forget that we made a pact when we landed here. She is taking the window seat on the way back.

"What are you going to do when we get back?" I ask her. And it makes me ask myself the same question. What the hell am I going to do about the ten grand I promised the band? I felt bad enough about lying to them about it . . . but now I feel even worse because when I get back . . . I've actually got to come up with the money.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Well . . . not to bring up a sore subject, but you kinda lost your job recently."

"Yeah, I know," she says, obviously overjoyed that I've reminded her. "I can tell you what I'm not going to do."

"What's that?"

"Get another job waiting tables."

"Good. You shouldn't," I say. "Somebody's gotta need a great PR mind."

She looks at me, and it becomes a stare. I'm tempted to shake it off, to ask whether I have something on my face.

"Yeah . . . I know a certain band that's going to need a big push in a couple months," she says. "And they'll need a boutique firm, not one of those ones with the same old tricks. Somebody who thinks outside the box. Somebody who's newer. Gonna work harder."

"Hmm . . ." I say as I think about this. For maybe the first time in as long as I've known her, I see Heaven without irony. Straight up.

"I'm serious," she says. "What have you got to lose?"

"You definitely have a big mouth."

"If I did Superhero's PR, then you'd be working with me. Could you deal with me on a regular basis?"

"Like you're going anywhere?" I say with a smile. "It doesn't seem like I have a choice in the matter. I may as well put you to good use at least."

"What would I call my firm?"

"Good question," I say, pondering.

"Dead at 27 PR?"

"Not the most uplifting . . ."

"Cool firms have cool names . . ." she says. "Nasty Little Man . . . Girly Action . . . Big Hassle . . ."

"Okay . . . it can be a working title."

"I like it," she says confidently.

"Fine," I say, knowing full well that this will be the name of her company. And I raise my glass. "To you, and Dead at 27 . . . may you have more success than you ever dreamed of . . . and may you make Superhero famous as fuck and make both of us very, very rich!"

"Hear! Hear!" she says, and we clink.

We get to the airport and check Strummer in. It's always hard to say good-bye to that little dude, but I know we'll see him on the other end of the flight.

Heaven.

When we land back in New York, reality quickly sets in. The good thing is, the weather is nice, but I don't want to go back to my apartment. What with the mold and everything. I'd forgotten about the mold. Brady and I retrieve Strummer, and Brady takes off with him for a run around the airport. Two little boys, wreaking havoc in JFK. I find them, both panting, at the baggage claim. My bag comes out first, and Brady's takes six weeks. When we finally get it all together, we grab a taxi and head back to our humble abode.

Our apartment building is the same as when we left it, only our relationship isn't. I mean, nothing happened, but it's been five nights sleeping in the same room with Brady, so it's gonna be weird to split up. When we get upstairs we each walk to our separate doors and look at each other. I know he's thinking the same thing.

Brady.

Finally, some peace. It will be nice to not be responsible for Hurricane Heaven. God, my front door looks good. Brady needs some peace. Brady needs some alone time. Brady knows he needs alone time when he is talking about himself in third person. And I'm not talking hand-lotion-and-a-towel alone time-I just need to decompress. Plus, she still has that Victoria's Secret catalog, anyway.

Heaven.

I put my key in the lock and turn.

"Well," I say, "guess you'll be glad to have your place to yourself."

"Yeah," he says. "Not that you haven't been good company . . . but it will be good to have some personal space."

"Yeah," I say. "Well . . . good night. See ya around."

"I'm sure you will," he says. "Good night." And we both walk into our separate spaces.

I stand in my apartment and look around. Everything looks the same. I walk over to my bed and lie down. Brady was right. It's good to have private time . . . personal space. I take all of my clothes off and run a bath. And as I immerse myself in my tub of banana coconut bubbles, Strummer walks over and rests his chin on the side of the tub. I pat his head and think to myself, This ain't too bad at all.

Brady.

This sucks. How is it possible that I finally have Heaven out of my hair, and all I'm doing is wondering what she's doing? This can't be normal. I must just be overtired.

I wonder what Strummer is thinking. I'll bet he misses me. Crazy mongrel with his love that goes on and on.

I need ten thousand dollars.

Wait a second. On and on . . . like the love that the compilation keeps bringing to Phil and me and Sleestak records. That's it. Or anyway, it's worth a shot. I'll call Phil right now, and we'll go all in. We'll stake the revenue stream from the compilation as collateral for a loan and bet our whole future on an unknown Superhero.

Heaven.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. So much so, that this morning when I get up I decide that I will eat breakfast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I even make a small bowl of oatmeal for Strummer because his nose is twitching while I'm eating mine, and I take that to mean he wants some too. Oatmeal and dogs are not a very good fit. His face ends up covered in dried oatmeal. But he's happy. And isn't that what it's all about?