With a Little Luck: A Novel (5 page)

And I don’t have time to be somebody’s “genie.” The hours I put in at the radio station are kind of chaotic. When I first started at the station, I took overnights because they told me everyone works their way up. Knowing that I’d have to start somewhere, I was happy to have any slot that was actually on-air. Five years in, I’m now on the night shift, which is seven p.m. to midnight. The truth is, aside from talk radio, there really aren’t any overnight shifts anymore. Radio can’t afford to pay people to stay awake. And if we’re being really honest, I can go in and tape my shows when need be, and it takes just three hours of tape to fill five hours of programming. But I like being there. I like doing it live. The thought of everything being automated depresses me.

I also work Saturday nights now, which you’d think would make dating hard—you’d be right—and is maybe the reason Jason felt the need to flash the “She’s single!” neon sign at Dustin. He was just trying to help. I wouldn’t know what “date night” was if it showed up with a dozen long-stemmed roses and made out with me for three hours on the couch while we completely ignored whatever movie we’d thrown on. Or something.

I don’t mind, though. Honestly, I don’t. Music has been such an epic part of my life. Not to sound like “Mike from the Valley” or anything—I’m not longing to hear the soundtrack to my lost virginity. (“Everything You Want” by Vertical Horizon, in case you’re wondering. And no, he did not turn out to be everything I wanted.) But like most people, I can hear a song and be taken back to an exact moment in my life, a certain experience that’s frozen in time with that song as its soundtrack, and it’s magical. The five senses aren’t specific enough. Hearing, sure. But how about hearing a song that changed your life? Either by virtue of the lyrics having a profound impact on you or the song simply playing in the background at some incredibly significant moment. That is absolutely a sense—at least one of mine. It’s the sense of connectedness. The words of a song expressing exactly how you’re feeling, so you somehow don’t feel so alone.

And I get to play music and be paid for it. How many people can say they get to do their dream job—speak into a mic and have their voices, their thoughts, their song selections, broadcast to millions of listeners? It’s pretty cool. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was in junior high and used to call the radio station to have them dedicate love songs to Greg Dinofrio. Just hearing them say “This one goes out from Berry to Greg” would give me hours of satisfaction. The next few days were dedicated to wondering whether Greg heard it. Most of June and July were consumed wondering why Greg didn’t ask me to the end-of-the-year dance. The satisfaction of seeing Greg, his husband, and their adopted Chinese babies on their Facebook page would almost erase the shame of me actually taking the time to look him up nine years later. But rejections die hard. I would know.

Which brings me back to Bad Luck Chuck. When you rarely hook up with guys as it is, and then the one time you think you
connect with someone you get slapped in the face/ego by reality, you tend to want to hibernate. Or eat pie. Or do whatever you do when you feel like crap.

In my case, I vent. Small problem? I’m on the radio. So my lack of a filter and occasional inability to keep my innermost thoughts “inner” sometimes leads to moments of regret.

“I mean, really,” I hiss into the mic. “Is this what it’s come to, fellas? Your lady doesn’t put out on the first date, so you never call again?”

The board lights up, and instead of going into a song, I open the lines.

“Maybe he just didn’t like you,” says the mean female voice on the other end. “I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. You sound like an Aries. Maybe he hates anyone who’s an Aries. He has good taste if he does. Filthy, filthy Aries—”

“You’re right,” I say, cutting her off mid-crazy. “He spent the night making out with me and staring into my eyes because he hated me.”

I hang up on her, but I have four more blinking lines to choose from. One caller is maternal: “You’re too good for him.” The next is a girl who’s recently experienced something similar, and once I’ve established that we’re not talking about the same guy, I move on to the third caller, who is a guy offering to take me home tonight and definitely call me tomorrow.

As I politely decline and hang up with him, I notice my cellphone ringing, so I start a song and answer. It’s Natalie.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asks.

“No more so than usual,” I answer.

“You’re complaining about this guy on the radio? Because that doesn’t seem desperate at all.”

“I’m not trying to woo him at this point, so I don’t care what it
seems like. I think it’s a valid point. It used to be women had to wait three dates before having sex or they’d look like sluts and the guy would never call again. Now if you don’t look like a slut the guy will never call again? Who can keep up?”

“It was one guy. One instance. Not statistically significant. Not a reason to shout it from the rooftops. Or the airwaves, as it were.”

“Oh, God.” I exhale. She’s right. “I got a little carried away, huh?”

“Little bit,” she says. “But I caught you in enough time to just put it behind you and move on. Play some more music. Breathe.”

“On it,” I say. I throw on “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones and take a few breaths.

These are the things that happen when you let your emotions take control of you. And I rarely do. Or I try not to. Having closely calculated moves at all times pretty much ensures that these lapses don’t happen too often, but when they do I can usually trace it back to an unfortunate event, and if I were to look back at the night I met Dustin, it’s so obvious. The freakin’ umbrella. Duh. If that wasn’t a sign of bad news to come, then I don’t know what is. One of the most famous superstitions of all. Yet I shrugged it off because he said it was “his” umbrella. “His” bad luck. So I chose to live in the fantasy. I took his word that just being in close proximity to such an event wouldn’t cause me any strife, but apparently I was wrong. Fine, he may get some bad luck coming his way, but it was a clear sign that I should have stayed away from him, and I didn’t pay attention. Not to mention he ruined my sweater! Anyway … you live, you learn, you stay away from people with unwieldy umbrellas and lame emo T-shirts.

As much as my name means “luck,” I sure haven’t seen much of it in my life. At least as far as matters of the heart are concerned. My longest relationship with a man has been with Moose, my seven-year-old Wheaten Terrier/Golden Lab/Tasmanian Devil mutt of a dog.

I got Moose when I was with Natalie, shopping for her fifty-two-year-old cat, Dudley. Okay, the cat’s not fifty-two, but she’s had him forever, and he was already old when she got him. He’s probably only fifty-one. The pet store had an adjunct rescue set up in front of the glass doors, daring all who entered to pass by the seven cages full of unwanted dogs without completely crumbling. I tried
to stare at the floor, but Moose’s enormous head caught my eye just as I walked into the store. Sadness … guilt for not stopping … a connection? I couldn’t stop thinking about him while we walked through the store, looking for a toy to add to the collection of sixteen thousand un-played-with cat toys Natalie already had. Her cat, mind you, doesn’t play with a toy for more than a nanosecond before Natalie gives him a new one. At most, he’ll sniff it. I think Nat once saw that bumper sticker that said “He who dies with the most toys wins” and took it to heart. She really wants Dudley to win. Sadly, she may never see him win, because it is practically guaranteed that that cat will outlive her.

I found myself drifting down to the dog aisle, drawn to a big rawhide bone. I thought,
That moose of a dog might like something to chew on while he sits in his cage and hopes that someone will take him home
.

So I bought the bone.

I explained to Natalie that I was just getting him a gift, but I think she knew better from the minute I walked up to the register.

“Do you think it would be okay if I gave one of those dogs this bone?” I asked the emotionless cashier as I motioned to the cages outside.

“Sure, I think it would be fine,” she replied in a monotone. “But we’re separate from them, so you’d have to ask the people running the rescue.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “If they say no, I’ll just chew on it myself. Probably good for the teeth.”

And … nothing. Not a smile to note that I was just making a joke. Not even a twitch. She just looked at me like I needed to move on and let the next person go ahead. Which I suppose I did. Seeking validation from pet-store cashiers wasn’t on my checklist for the day, but it would have been a nice bonus.

I stepped outside, and Moose’s tail started to wag like he was already my dog, happy to see me coming back outside to clear up this whole misunderstanding of him being in a cage. I felt a tug at my heart and willed myself to look away. As I walked to one of the two people running the show, I sneaked a glimpse back to see if he was still looking at me even though my back was turned. He was. And his tail was still wagging.
Perfect
.

“Hi,” said the woman with the clipboard. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed since 2004.

“Hello,” I said, and awkwardly held out my bone. “Would it be okay if I gave one of your dogs this rawhide?”

“You just bought that inside?”

“Sure did,” I said, resisting the urge for an I-just-happen-to-carry-chew-bones-around joke.

“I suppose it’s okay, then. Who’s the lucky dog?”

“That one,” I said, and pointed to Moose, who wasn’t named Moose. Yet.

“Would you like to play with him?”

Yes
. “No, that’s okay,” I said.

“You should. He’d love it.”

Twist my arm, then. I walked over to his cage, and the woman unhinged the latch and slid the door open. You know the rest without me having to say anything. We got into my car, and he lay down on the passenger seat. He craned his neck over to my side and rested his head on my leg. I truly believe I was meant to happen across Moose that day. It was fate or luck or whatever you want to call it, but Moose and I were meant to be.

That was seven years ago. Over that time, Moose has seen hairstyles, jobs, and boyfriends come and go. I’d like to say he’s a good gauge for who’s a good guy or not, but he pretty much likes everyone, which does me absolutely no good whatsoever.

Most nights, after my shift at the station ends, I meet Natalie at the diner. Admission: I eat dinner every night after midnight. I know it’s unhealthy, but the hours I keep don’t allow me to eat at a normal dinnertime. Plus, I love the cast of characters who have come to be my friends. Call me a creature of habit, but there’s something so comforting about a waitress who already knows my order. I like my short-order cook who winks and smiles at me when I come in; occasionally, the light hits his mouth so perfectly that his front left gold tooth sparkles like a diamond (and when it does, I know the next day is going to be stellar). I like sitting at the counter, always in the same seat, if possible. Natalie just tolerates it, which is fair enough—it’s hard to shell out cash at a diner when you own your own restaurant. Eat It is Nat’s culinary gem. Of course, there’s a command in the name. The customer is not always right when Nat is in the kitchen, and she’s not shy about letting them know. She’s been written up in every local paper and some nationals. She’s kind of famous for being a bit ornery, but people come to the restaurant expecting it. She has certain rules that customers have to adhere to.

Natalie works only dinners, so her hours are pretty similar to mine. The restaurant usually dies down around eleven or eleven-thirty, and by the time she finishes cashing out the waiters and planning the specials for the following night, we are walking out the door at almost the same moment. The diner is right down the street from the station and not too far from Nat’s apartment, so it’s a convenient place to meet most nights after work. Mostly she listens to me regale her with tales of random callers, and I listen to her restaurant stories, which are always equally if not more entertaining.