With a Little Luck: A Novel (10 page)

“I’m Kyle,” he says.

“I’m Berry,” I say.

“Like the fruit?”

“One and the same.”

“That’s cute,” he says, and I instantly deduct five points. We know how I feel about the word “cute.”

“Are you traveling for work or …” I ask.

“Nah, just gonna see a buddy of mine for the weekend.”

A little girl who looks to be about five years old walks past us
with her mother. She stops and looks at me purposefully. “I go potty by myself,” she says.

I stifle a laugh and sneak a look at Kyle. His eyes have gone big, but he’s managing not to laugh. “That is wonderful,” I say. “I go to the potty by myself, too.”

“I go poop on the potty,” she adds, and then marches off to the bathroom.

Kyle and I both start to laugh once she’s out of earshot.

“I love how kids make grand declarations to complete strangers,” I say.

“You mean you don’t do that?” he asks.

“Are you asking if I poop on the potty or if I make grand declarations to strangers? Because I can assure you I do neither.”

The next five hours and thirty-four minutes fly by, so to speak, faster than I could imagine. We’re practically shouting across the aisle to speak to each other the whole time, annoying the other passengers, just guessing (from the nasty looks and raised middle fingers people are giving us two rows up), but not really caring because we’re having too much fun talking, laughing, and cultivating a stable of inside jokes about everyone in our eye-line or anyone who passes us to use the restroom. People always talk about how much fun people-watching is, especially with a friend. Not true. The watching is only the first half. It’s the people-critiquing that brings it all home.

There’s the couple who try not once but three times to join the “mile-high” club by secreting away into the bathroom together. Each time they’re foiled by either a flight attendant, an impatient parent and child knocking to see “if everything’s okay,” or just too many eyes on them at the crucial slipping-in moment. Slipping into the bathroom, I mean.

Then there’s the couple who share a headset to watch the inflight
movie and then end up fighting over it, neither of them enjoying the movie, but really—what were you thinking sharing a headset?

There’s the guy who stands in the back, pretending to want another soda while unsuccessfully trying to chat up the flight attendant—and failing to the point that he gets asked to “please return to your seat.” That’s gotta sting.

A whole cast of characters for us to mock, empathize with, or create backstories for, all of which are probably wildly more interesting than their actual existence.

“Cats or dogs?” I ask.

“I have a cat,” he answers. This is of greater concern than one might think. No disrespect to cats, but … I’m a dog person. And dudes with cats have always struck me as somewhat effeminate. I just don’t trust them completely. Of course, this could also be my secret fear that I will one day end up a cat lady. God forbid I start dating a “cat guy,” and then we move in together … and then we break up and for some reason he leaves the cat behind … that’s Cat Number One. It’s all downhill from there.

Cat thing aside, by the time we land we’ve covered all kinds of territory. I feel like I’ve known Kyle my whole life. There’s a certain ease to it—talking to him, laughing with him. I wasn’t ready to part ways as strangers who would never see each other again. Thankfully, neither was he.

We stand together at the baggage claim for twenty minutes, waiting for our bags, continuing to talk about everything from airport Muzak to parents who keep their kids on a leash to how there’s always that one ridiculous bag that comes down the carousel held together by an excessive amount of duct tape. What kind of person travels like that?

Then I see my bag tumbling down the slide.

“That’s mine,” I say. The excitement you feel when you see your bag is something I think we can all relate to, not just because you’re being reunited with your belongings but really because the odds of your bag getting lost are so good that it’s almost a miracle if it doesn’t.

“Which one?” he asks.

“The gray one. Swiss Army.”

He grabs it like a perfect gentleman.

Then we stand, looking at each other for the quintessential awkward moment. I have my bag. I don’t want to say goodbye. But I have nothing else to wait for. There’s no real reason for me to stay … but I don’t want to leave. Finally I speak up, looking away from him, back at the carousel, because I feel like I might be turning a bright shade of tomato.

“How many bags do you have?” I ask.

He looks down and away now, and if I’m not mistaken he’s turning a bit tomato himself.

“I don’t have any bags,” he admits. “I was just keeping you company.”

What’s that I feel? My heart skipping a beat, perhaps? Is that not the most charming thing ever?

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” he says. “I didn’t know how this was gonna pan out. I thought maybe your bag might get lost and I could pretend mine was, too.”

“That’s really cute,” I say, breaking my own rule.

“Cute, like George Clooney? Or cute like a pathetic puppy trying to jump up on a couch, but his legs are too tiny so he misses every time?”

“Are you suggesting that you want to jump on me?”

“Depends which way you answer,” he says, and we hold each other’s gaze.

I look away first. I’m never great with extended eye contact. There’s always a bit of a creepy factor, even if it is someone you like. When is enough? When does it become a staring contest?

“Well, your legs aren’t tiny,” I say, trying to subtly tell him I meant “cute like Clooney” but somehow managing to make it clumsy.

“I’d ask if you want to share a ride into the city, but I don’t want to seem too forward,” he says. “But can I get your phone number? Or your email? So we can stay in touch?”

“Absolutely,” I say, wishing we were actually sharing the ride but not wanting to come across as desperate, so I leave it alone. I dig through my things to find a pen and write down both my cell number and my email, and together we walk to the taxi stand and then make our ways into separate cabs.

I’m not five minutes into my journey when my cellphone rings. “Hello?”

“Is it too soon to call?” he says.

I laugh. He took the initiative. He stood at the baggage claim with me for no other reason than to keep me company. He asked for my number, and he called within the hour. Practically within the minute. I decide that it’s okay if I invite him to the concert. I mean, why not? Who wouldn’t want to go to a Rolling Stones show? Even if he didn’t like me. But I hope he likes me.

“Not at all.”

“This is Kyle.”

“I know,” I say.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

“Something lacy,” I answer.

“Man, I wish we didn’t take separate cabs. I knew you were gonna change into something lacy the minute you took off.”

“You know me so well,” I say. “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow
night?” I say, not giving him a chance to respond in case he has plans but he will tell me he doesn’t once he hears what I’m offering. “I’m going to see the Rolling Stones … for work. It’s part of my job, so I’ll have to do a little bit of work stuff, but mostly I’ll be able to hang out and enjoy it. And if you want to come …”

“Awesome,” Kyle says. “I’d love to.”

“Okay, then,” I say.

“Okay.”

We end up talking for almost three hours. Through the cab ride, through my checking in to the hotel and unpacking, through him showing up at his friend’s house. Pretty ridiculous.

“Is your jaw tired?” I ask him.

“Depends why you’re asking,” he says. I get where he’s going, but I’m not ready to wander down that path. Yet.

“I’m asking because we’ve now talked for six hours in person and three hours over the phone. I feel like I’m in junior high.”

“I’m not gonna hang up till you hang up first.”

“Exactly!”

“Okay, I can take a hint,” he says.

“No, no,” I say, but it probably is time to hang up.

“No, you’re right. Plus, I don’t want you to get sick of me.”

“Too soon for that,” I say.

When I spot Kyle outside Madison Square Garden, he lights up—his face, not a cigarette; I don’t do smokers, and thankfully, he isn’t one—and we wave hello and embrace in an awkward first-time hug.

Once we navigate our way through the Garden to our seats, Kyle sits to my left. I must say that after staring at the left side of his face for six hours yesterday, the right side is equally riveting.

On my right is Katie Contest Winner, and she couldn’t be more excited to be here. She’s in her late thirties; what you’d call “pleasantly plump,” I’d say; and is practically bouncing in her seat with glee. It’s nice to see our winner be so appreciative. The camera crew that’s shooting coverage for the local radio station and our website shows up to interview Katie, and as I toss her questions about how she stayed up drinking Mountain Dew for twenty-four hours in order to win the contest, I try to sneak a glance at Kyle, to let him know I know he’s still there—just so he doesn’t feel left out—but he’s nowhere to be seen.

We wrap the interview, and there’s still no sign of Kyle. It’s getting dangerously close to the time I have to introduce the band, so I tell Katie I think he’s gone to the concession stand and ask her to keep an eye out for him as I make my way down toward the stage.

Even with my credentials, it’s hard to get backstage. There’s a wall of burly security guys in yellow jackets that say “Event Staff” in big block letters on the backs. Finally someone from another radio station recognizes me and tells one of the guys in the yellow jackets to let me through.

Everyone’s rushing around, pushing people out of the way, tripping over cables. It’s pure chaos. Rock and roll has no calm before the storm. I look for Sam, the Stones’ tour manager, who I’m supposed to report to, and when I finally spot what I think is him, he guides me to the side of stage left and then leans down so we’re face-to-face. A little too close for my liking, actually.

“Are you ready?” he asks me.

“No,” I say. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

“It’ll be over before you know it. And if you pass out from nerves, we have paramedics here.”

“Comforting, thanks.”

I walk up the steps, and the spotlight follows me.
Wow, that’s a lot of people out there
. I speed up a bit as I make my way over to the mic and hope it doesn’t blast feedback when I speak into it. The crowd gets quiet as I approach the mic stand, and I’m aware of my every movement. Each step, each breath, hyper-realized. I take my place, and I look out into the crowd.
Oh my God, that really is a shit-load of people
, I think. And my next thought is,
I wonder if I know any of them, like, say, Jason Goldstein, whom I had a giant crush on throughout high school even though he gave me dirty looks every single time he saw me. How do you like me now, Jason?
And then I look at the crowd again and think,
I might very well faint
.

I try taking deep breaths. In. Out. I do a quick mental check-in. Tell myself reassuring things.
You’re fine. This will be over in a heartbeat. Don’t think about the quadrillion people who are looking at you right now. Don’t pee in your pants. What? Where’d that come from?
Suddenly I’m panicking, thinking I’m going to pee in my pants or faint or pee in my pants and then faint and be unconscious with wet pee pants.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

I grab ahold of the mic, as much to steady myself as to appear like I know what I’m doing.

“Hello, New York City,” I say, and the quiet disappears again as thousands of people cheer. One sentence down. “I’m Berry Lambert from KKCR, and I’m so excited for the opportunity to be here tonight and bring this legendary rock royalty to the stage.”

The audience cheers, and surprisingly I’m feeling a little more steady and fairly certain that I won’t be urinating or passing out. Yay me. I’ve done my bit by mentioning the station and now I
should probably get off the stage as quickly as I possibly can, so I pose a question I know will garner some cheers and get me the hell out of Dodge.

“I wanna know one thing, people: Are you guys ready to see the Rolling Stones?” Louder cheering. “Then let’s start it up!”

The lights go down, and I hear Keith Richards’s first three strums of the iconic power chords in “Start Me Up.” I practically run off the stage as the silk curtain that’s hiding the band falls to the ground, revealing the Rolling Stones.

Midway through the first song, Kyle appears at my side again. No drink, no hot dog.

“Hey, Houdini,” I say.

“Sorry about that!” he says. “I got a phone call and I couldn’t hear, so I had to go where it wasn’t so loud.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just my buddy wanting to let me know he left the keys for me in case he’s not home before I get back there. And telling me how jealous he is that he lives here and couldn’t get tickets but I snagged them on my plane trip.”

At least that’s what it sounds like he says. I only get every third word or so, because he’s shouting over the music.