With a Little Luck: A Novel (27 page)

“I get it, I do.… It’s just … you could be a little sensitive about this in a way that he doesn’t understand. Did you explain it to him?”

“I shouldn’t have to. And you’re supposed to be on my side, so just be on my side.”

“Okay.” She exhales. “I’m on your side.”

“Can you meet me now?” I ask.

“I’m already at the restaurant. I got here early, but I can meet you and still be back before dinner. I just had to be here when nobody else was here. I’m laying a crap out for Victor.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Victor!” she says, in the same hushed tone she just, I think, told me she’s doing something involving feces that I don’t quite understand. “The one who’s been stealing.”

“Is it fake?” I ask. I’m hoping it is, because if she’s just dropping trou and taking a dump in her kitchen to show that guy who’s boss, there’s a good chance they’ll shut her restaurant down.

“Is what fake?”

“I mean, is it like fake dog poo that you can buy on the Internet or something?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Berry?”

“I was going to ask you the same question!” I shout. “Did you not just say you’re laying a crap?”

“A trap,” she says. “Trap.
T-R-A-P
. I’m leaving out food to see if he … You know.” She’s still talking out the side of her mouth from what it sounds like, but at least now I get it. And I’m relieved.

“Got it,” I say. “It was hard to understand you in your top secret, probably-very-obvious-to-everyone-around-you voice.”

“Nobody’s here,” she says.

“Oh, then you talking in that crazed, hushed, incoherent mumble makes even more sense.”

“See you in fifteen,” she says, and I hang up and stare at the wall for a good ten of those fifteen minutes. Finally I get up, grab my things, and get in the elevator.

When the doors open, I’m face-to-face once again with Clover Boy. Maybe I was wrong about things happening for a reason.

“Look who it is again,” he says. “Twice in a matter of hours. Must really be my lucky day. So I gotta ask how’s that penny working out for you?”

“Awful,” I say. “Are you sure it wasn’t tails-up when you saw it and you accidentally kicked it to turn heads-up or something?”

“Why would I do that?” he says with a smile. “You think I don’t know that a tails-up penny is bad news?”

“Well,” I say, looking down and kicking at the floor. “It’s nice that someone understands. What are you doing here?”

He spins around to show me the guitar strapped to his back.

“We’re doing a session,” he says. “I … play guitar.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I say. “You didn’t say before.”

“Yeah, you were in a hurry. And how could you know? I’m just the random maybe dangerous guy who flips pennies under pretty girls’ tables to have an excuse to talk to them.”

He said I was pretty. In any other circumstance this might lift my mood, but I’m too angry right now to even take in the compliment.

“Sorry I couldn’t save the elevator for you this morning.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “It was pretty much an indicator of how my day was about to go.”

“Well, it was cool to bump into you. And even better this time. Third time’s the charm, they say. I’m Brendan.”

“Berry,” I say. “What’s your band called? And forgive me for not knowing. Should I know you guys?”

“Well, my band and who I’m here playing with are two completely different animals. I’m here today as a session guy. I’m a hired gun for a certain teen sensation who’s playing today to commemorate her new album dropping tonight at midnight.”

“Nice,” I say.

“It’s a gig. I’d rather be playing to commemorate my album dropping.”

“I’m sure you will someday,” I say.

“Well, you should come,” he says. “Studio twenty-two.”

“I would,” I say, “but I’m fifteen minutes post-breakup, and late to meet my best friend to have an anger powwow.”

“You just broke up with your dude?” he asks.

“I think I did, yup.”

“That’s awful,” he says with a wide grin.

“Yes,” I say. “You look crushed.”

“I’m crushed if you’re crushed,” he says. “But if my crush isn’t crushed by her breakup … then I see me bumping into you right now as a very good omen.”

“I’m crushed,” I admit.

“How crushed?” he asks. “Like a crumpled-up piece of paper that can be straightened out and still resemble paper in a week or so, when some guy with impeccable timing calls you?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really flattered, and you’re very cute, and you have the whole clover-tattoo thing that bodes well for you, I’ll give you that, but I literally just broke up with my boyfriend like thirty seconds ago. I can’t even think about dating someone else.”

“Just so we’re clear, you did say I’m very cute just now, right?”

I can’t help but smile at his persistence, and it feels good to take my mind off my reality for a minute. “Yes, I did say you were cute.”

“Very cute, I believe it was.”

“Your point?”

“Just making sure we both have all the facts,” he says. He is charming, I’ll give him that.

“I think we’re clear,” I say.

“What are you doing here, by the way?” he asks.

“Oh … I work here.”

“Really? That’s awesome. What do you do?”

“I’m a DJ,” I say. Then add, “And a talk-show host as of late, but that’s not really my thing.”

“No?”

“The DJ part, yes. The music part is why I do what I do. But then my … now ex-boyfriend coerced me into doing a morning show with him, which I never should have done, and now I’m stuck, or maybe I’m not.… I don’t know. He really wants the show. I really … might not. I don’t know. Anyway, blah, blah, blah, that’s what I do.”

“I love that you’re into music,” he says. “You should definitely see my band one of these days. I know that sounds lame, but we’re actually pretty good.”

“What are you called?”

“Magically Delicious.”

“Really?”

He holds out his wrist to show me his clover tattoo. “You know,” he says. “The Lucky Charms commercials. It’s their tagline.”

“Oh, I know,” I say. “It was the only cereal I’d eat as a kid. Partially because I liked those little marshmallows, but also because it was all my dad would buy. We have a thing with luck … and superstitions. Me personally—I could do without the leprechaun on the front, but the fact that ‘lucky’ was in the brand name made it tolerable. I’m very superstitious. In fact, since you’re so gung-ho about going on a date with me, you should know that I’m crazy. Apparently. I have too many superstitious … beliefs. I’m extremely superstitious—that’s my thing. And I have about eleventy billion crazy little things that I believe or do or don’t do, and that’s me.”

“You done?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “But I reserve the right to an addendum. Where I can further disparage myself. Oh, and even though I just told you all about my superstitious nature and I barely know you, you may not give me shit about it.… Well, maybe just a tiny bit. Within reason.”

“Noted.”

“Now I’m done.”

“Good,” he says. “I … the person you are looking at—who already thinks you’re great—also happen to be extremely superstitious. I have a freakin’ four-leaf clover tattooed on my wrist, for Christ’s sake. So not only do I think that anyone who would fault you for that is a gigantic idiot, I think that what you just disclosed does not only make you adorable … it may very well make you my soul mate.”

“Wow, we just went from a maybe first date sometime in the future to being soul mates? You move fast.”

“What can I say? I believe in fate. Do you?”

I must say it was a nice momentary distraction, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. Yes, he’s cute, and, yes, he’s got that tattoo, and, yes, he just said those things that sounded kind of incredible … but he’s just some random cute guy with a clover tattoo who may or may not be my twin. Emphasis on random. They say timing is everything. Unfortunately, his timing stinks.

I’m ten minutes late meeting Natalie because of my Clover Boy interlude, and she’s tapping her foot and looking at her watch when I walk in.

“Late much?” she asks.

“Sorry, I was being wooed.”

“He wooed you? Did he grovel? Was he on his knees? And if he was, I don’t need the gory details of your sex life, so keep them to yourself.”

“No, no, no, and wrong guy. It wasn’t Ryan.”

“Wow. You move fast.”

“He moves fast, and I didn’t agree to anything, even though he could potentially be my soul mate.”

“Hold the wedding toast,” she says. “Some other guy who I haven’t heard of is potentially your soul mate.”

“So he says.”

“And you and Ryan are broken up.”

“Correct.”

“And you have a show in a few hours, so you probably don’t want to get drunk right now.”

“Also correct.” I nod.

“But you’ll watch me down a couple, because Victor is totally stealing from me and I have to fire him if when I get back that pumpernickel bread is gone.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’ll need to hear all about the Ryan fiasco—in full detail—and apparently about your new soul mate, whom I’ve somehow never heard of. But Ryan first.”

I order a latte, and Nat orders a vodka gimlet, her new “signature drink.” I don’t question it. I download all the pertinent information to Natalie, and as soon as I finish she pulls out a penny, a piece of paper, and a pen. She rips the paper in half and writes “Ryan” on one piece and “Clover” on the other. She places the penny down on the table and makes me pick a hand.

“Pick a hand for heads,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Ryan is in one and Clover is in the other. I know you won’t willingly assign tails to someone, so pick a hand.”

“First of all,” I say, “Clover has a name—it’s Brendan.”

“Too bad. You never told me his name, and I already wrote Clover.”

“Second of all, Ryan is out. He’s done. We’re over.”

“Humor me,” she says.

“Fine,” I say, with a roll of the eyes so big I think I just saw my ear. “The right one.”

“That’s deep,” she says. “Works on many levels.”

She pulls out her right hand and unfolds the piece of paper. “Ryan.” I make her show me what’s in the left hand to make sure she wasn’t double-Ryan-ing out of some misguided loyalty to the familiar vs. the unknown. Sure enough, it says “Clover.” She was being fair.

“So Ryan is heads, Clover is tails.”

“Brendan,” I say.

“Whatever. You wanna flip, or you want me to?”

“I’ll do it,” I say, and I swipe the penny from the table.

I shake my head to reiterate that I don’t even know the point of all this, and then I toss the penny in the air.

Nobody who ever wanted to get into talk radio was a good person. I mean, think about it: When’s the last time someone who wasn’t a completely narcissistic egomaniac decided to get into talk? I’ll tell you when: never. Sure, there are varying degrees, but aren’t all of these people more or less blowhards who are basically just in love with the sound of their own voices?

You’ve got Howard Stern and his legion of wannabes. Howard may be a nice guy underneath his shock-jock exterior, and
Private Parts
was surprisingly moving, but he’s more than earned his shock-jock title, and while, yes, I admit he can be funny, and, yes, I may be genuinely curious if Lay Down Sally is actually going to have sex
with five hundred men, I wouldn’t say he’s doing anything to further our society. And he’s certainly not doing the world a favor by celebrating his minions every time they manage to crash some unsuspecting event, spew nonsense, and then make sure it’s known that they did it in the name of
The Howard Stern Show
by saying that one magical phrase: “Baba Booey.” Never have four syllables summed up idiocy so perfectly.

There are the pompous Rush Limbaughs of the world who are so caught up in their own self-importance that they forget they’re there only to comment on political issues and instead spew rhetoric as if they are actually elected government officials.

Dr. Laura? That woman has single-handedly set the women’s movement back about fifty years. Thank God she went away.

And the list goes on. All of these people have one thing in common: They are their own biggest fans. So why did I not think about this when I got involved with Ryan?

Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. Because not only did I not listen to my gut … I ignored simple common sense.

When I get back to the station for my night shift, I completely disregard the scheduled playlist and instead opt for a wide selection of songs about heartache and betrayal.

I punctuate each song with commentary that, were it to be scrutinized—and I’m pretending it’s not—would be deemed bitter, angry, and teetering on the fence of bunny boiling.

I’ve had no time to cry between getting hit on by Lucky McBandmember, meeting Nat, and doing my show, so as soon as I take my headphones off at the end of the night, I make up for lost time. I’m sobbing by the time I get to the parking lot, and I have no idea how I even make it back to my apartment. My head feels like a dingy smoke-filled dive bar full of miserable people who drink during the day. When I get home, I don’t even wash my face or
brush my teeth—I just get into my pajamas, and I cry on my way to bed. A soon as I’m about to turn back the covers, I think better of the teeth-brushing thing and go into the bathroom. I floss like the good girl I am, brush my teeth, and then look at myself in the mirror to see how sad I look on a scale of one to pathetic.