"What's up, man?" I ask as I try to break away from our embrace.

"We just need a hug."

"We do?"

"I love you, man," he says. I start looking around and wondering what he wants, because this is frighteningly reminiscent of a beer commercial.

"Okay, bro. I love you, too. It's cool," I say as I pry myself out of his clutches.

"Is it?" he asks. And now I realize that this is about Sarah. He genuinely feels bad, and I'm touched. It still sucks, but at least now I know that he really feels bad about it.

"Yeah, man. It's cool. If you're happy, that's all I care about. But be warned . . . she is the Antichrist."

"She just needs love, man."

"Is that what she needs? Funny . . . I thought she needed a lobotomy and a one-way ticket back to hell." And Jesus Christ, is she pregnant with my baby?

Phil eyes me cautiously. "I went to the bank," he says, "and I met with-"

"Wait-you actually did something I asked you to do?"

"Absolutely," he says. "I've got the forms, and I had a good chat with my main man Lawrence at the Prince Street branch." Phil detects his opening. We're back on solid ground. "I'm psyched to get to know the band better, too."

"You'll hit it off," I say. "They're awesome."

The good thing about Phil and me is that there's never a power struggle. I know he'll do what's best for us, and he knows I will, too. We both have ears, and when it comes down to mastering and picking the single, we'll probably lean toward the same shit anyway. Having ears means having the ability to pick hits. A lot of people can have good taste or are able to listen to something on the radio and respond to it. But few people can pick out what will work as a first single or as the all-important follow-up. You can really make or break a band by picking the right or wrong single, or by introducing the band the wrong way.

Take a band like Jellyfish. I picked them out to be rising stars first time I heard them. Easily one of the greatest bands ever, and one of the least appreciated. You can say they were too ahead of their time, and they were. Years before their time. Bands like Radiohead and Beck also pushed the musical envelope at the same time, and went on to have great careers. And sure, Jon Brion from Jellyfish went on to become a brilliant producer, and Eric Dover sang for Slash's Snakepit (not that that's the biggest crowning achievement), but they could have been huge. Same with Fishbone. Had they been marketed by the Chili Peppers's team, things could have been a hell of a lot different. And even in pop music today . . . I have a friend who works with the bubble-gum pop stars. He swears that Nick Lachey is an amazing singer. I've heard the tracks and the kid can actually sing. But he picked the wrong single and got overshadowed by Jessica Simpson's boobs.

Happens all the time. Brilliance gets overlooked or marketed wrong, and one-hit wonders become megastars. You not only need to be able to recognize talent, but you have to know how to pick the hits. Phil and I both have had this ability since we were kids, so as soon as we get this band off the ground, I'm pretty sure the sky's the limit. And I hope the sky's the credit limit. Because otherwise . . . we're sunk.

I bump into Heaven when I'm heading out the next day. She's got a Starbucks cup in her hand.

"Is that to mock me?" I ask.

"Oh, am I supposed to stop drinking coffee now because of all this?"

"No . . . but the least you could have done is brought me some."

"Sorry," she says. She unlocks her door, and Strummer runs out into the hall and over to me. I pet him on his head, and he nestles his body against my knees.

"God, I've missed this little guy."

"Yeah, he's good company," she says.

"Maybe we can all hang out tonight?"

"Oh . . . that would be fun . . ." I can tell there's a but coming. "But I already have plans tonight."

"Oh . . . okay. That's cool," I say. "We'll do it another time."

"Definitely," she says. "Oh, I spoke to my friend Bart, and I told him I'm starting my own PR firm. And I told him about the band, and he said he'd do their Web site for us."

"Really? That's awesome!"

"Yeah, he's really cool, and he knows his shit. He's even designing my logo for me."

"Very cool," I say. "I can't wait to see it."

"Yeah, me too!" she says. "I just downloaded the forms to start my LLC. Anyway . . . I'm gonna take Strummer for a walk over to Staples to pick up some expanding file folders."

"Wow. Look at corporate you."

"Hey-I'm no slacker. You just met me at an off time. Believe me . . . you just got the best PR firm you could ever have hoped for."

"I have no doubt about that," I say.

"You know, you were so right. I've been going over it in my head-all the contacts I already have. This thing is really gonna work."

Heaven puts Strummer's leash on, and I watch them get onto the elevator.

What plans?

Not too long ago this girl was Satan. Now I can't get her out of my head. I'm so used to being around her that I find myself walking outside about ten minutes later (coincidentally close to Staples), and I bump into Heaven.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey back."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just enjoying the day. Taking a walk. Wanna get some ice cream? I saw that they have Oreo Cookie at Tasti D-Lite." I know this will get her.

"They do? Shit, yes, I want ice cream!" And we head over to Tasti D, which is just around the corner. They have this retarded plastic rim that they put around the cone, and it pisses me off. It's another reminder that I really need to talk to someone about my Catch-It Cone. It's hard when you have so many inventions swimming around your brain.

"See this thing?" I say to Heaven.

"Yeah?"

"I invented it," I tell her.

"You don't say."

"Well, not this, but my own variation of it. Move over here," I say because I don't want anyone to hear me. "It's called the Catch-It Cone."

"Okay?"

"When I invented it they didn't even have these plastic thingies. But mine is the whole cone!"

"I don't follow . . ." she says.

"Okay, my cone, the Catch-It Cone, has this plastic rim thing built into the cone. And not plastic. In cone . . . wafer . . . whatever the hell they make it out of. So, yes, it does the same job as this thing . . . but mine is edible! More cone. More sugary goodness. No ice cream drips on your brand-new summer tank top. It's a beautiful thing."

"Where do you come up with this stuff?" she asks.

"I have no idea. Or maybe I have every idea . . . I don't know. But then again, none of them ever seem to go anywhere-"

"Have you ever talked to anyone about it?"

"No, I was focusing on Cinnamilk. And we saw how well that worked out for me."

"Hey," she says. "Don't be negative. You don't know what will come of it."

"I think I do. A whole lotta nothing."

"Well, there are other investors," she says. "Plus, there's your MP3 Flush, and this cone thing. One of them is bound to hit."

"Speaking of hits . . . did they have the folders?"

"Yeah, right here." She holds up the Staples bag and looks down at her arm. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That," she says, pointing to something on her arm that I don't see.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"That red spot!" she says with alarm.

"That's a freckle!"

"It wasn't there before . . ." she says as she inspects her entire arm.

"It's cute."

"It's not cute."

"Then it's mine," I say. "If you don't like it, it's mine. I'll call it Brady."

"My freckle?"

"Yes."

"You're naming my freckle after yourself?" she says. "And you think I have issues?"

"It's like a star. People buy stars in the constellation and name them after people all the time. As gifts."

"So then are you buying my freckle? Because I don't know if you can afford my freckle. My freckles don't come cheap, you know."

"I've already claimed it," I declare. "It's not up for discussion anymore. Just eat your ice cream. And don't spill any on Brady."

"Well, I could guarantee that I wouldn't if I had a Catch-It Cone . . . but some lazy slob is too busy putzing around to bother inventing it."

I'm taking my trash out at 7:29 when I see Darren Fucking Rosenthal walking around our hallway looking at the different apartment doors like a simian. At first I'm thinking he's come to congratulate me on beating him out for the band, but the door he stops at . . . is Heaven's.

"Darren?" I say as I push my ice cream back down my throat. This is who she had plans with?

"Hey, man!" he says. Man? I'm not his man-or his boy or his bro.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Coming to fetch my girl," he says. My head is instantly on fire, and I want to knock his teeth out. Don't say "my girl." She is not your girl. She is not your anything. She may have once been your girl. But that time has come and gone.

"Your girl?" I say, still playing stupid.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, ignoring me. "Oh, right . . . you're neighbors." And suddenly I'm reduced to a neighbor. We are more than neighbors. Way more. Aren't we?

"Yeah, we're neighbors," I say. "Seriously . . . why are you here?"

"I just told you. I'm taking Heaven out."

"Why?" I say, suddenly sounding like a bitchy teenage girl whose parents have just told her that she can't spend the night at Becky's.

"Because I want to," he says. "Because she used to be my girlfriend. And who knows . . . she might be again-"

"I don't think that's a very good idea. I mean, there must have been a reason you guys broke up, right? Why move backwards in life? Never move backwards. You gotta move forward."

"I miss her," he says.

Fucker. "Well, you didn't miss her for the past few years. You were fine until you saw her in L.A."

"Okay . . . I see what's up. I get it."

"You do?" I say.

"Yeah, man, it's cool," he says. "I mean . . . she's awesome. How can you not dig her?" And for a minute I start to feel better. Until he says, "But seriously, dude . . . you didn't think you'd get the girl either, did you?"

Huh?

"I just don't think it's a good idea . . . you and her," I say.

"Well, I do."

"Give me one good reason."