With a Little Luck: A Novel (8 page)

My theory: Bill picked me instead of our morning radio personalities because they’re trying to reclaim the “youth” factor even though we play classic rock, which “youths” don’t really tend to listen to—at least not the youth demographic our owners are after. I
knew that Jed and Daryl, our on-air morning team, were pissed off from the looks I was getting when I’d pass them in the hallway. Anyone who thinks that we’re one big happy family at the station should spend five minutes with us at shift change. If only I had a nickel for every time I picked up my headphones to find the volume cranked to maximum and a piece of tape over the mute button …

Almost nobody is friends with anyone else, inside or outside the station. Take that general animosity and then couple it with the fact that our building houses five other stations under the same media conglomerate and you have a human demolition derby of petty competition. Our morning drive team hates the rush-hour DJ, the rush-hour DJ hates the competing rush-hour DJ on KDAY, they all hate the “Dr. Love” DJ who’s on KKRL because they’re secretly jealous that he’s younger, better-looking, and probably smarter than them. Every intern wants the assistant’s job. Every assistant wants to be a board operator, and every board operator wants to be the star of the show. If you mix that all together, you’ve got one giant bowl of bitter batter.

I suppose it’s no different from any other workplace. You’ll always have climbers and backstabbers, but I guess because we have it times six, it just seems to make my everyday working environment that much more of an adventure in screeching feedback.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Yes, I’m ready. I thought there was perhaps something else. My bad.” I hate the phrase “my bad,” and I hate that I said it, but the situation is already awkward enough and I just need a transition to get me out of his office.

We’ve done contests before. I’ve picked winners before. I suppose on the off chance that every caller, one after the next, got the answers wrong there could possibly be a problem, but I doubt that’s ever happened in the history of call-in radio contests. I’m not sure
why he needed me there twenty minutes early just to ask me if I’m ready, but I need to let it go or it will ruin my day.

I pass Jed and Daryl, who are in the studio, taping an on-air segment for their cable show.

“Hey, Berry,” Daryl shouts, and I pretend not to hear him, but Jed taps on the glass to get my attention.

“Hey, guys,” I say. “How’s it going?”

I don’t want to be part of whatever they have going on. Usually it’s some sort of offensive stunt they’re pulling in an effort to grab the audience Howard Stern lost when he went to satellite radio, with the attendant “What size are those?” and “How many times have you taken it in the butt?” sprinkled here and there.

“Berry, come on in here. This is Jasmine, and that’s Desiree.”

Of course they are “Jasmine” and “Desiree.” From the bad dye-jobs, the barely there clothing, and the copious amounts of lip gloss, I’d be disappointed if their names were anything but “Jasmine” and “Desiree.” Their boobs look like if you got too close with a sharp object they’d burst, causing the gals to go whizzing around the room like deflating balloons.

“Hello,” I say, and keep my head down. I don’t want to give them anything that can be reworked into a sound bite.

“Berry’s going to New York City to introduce a lucky winning fan to the Rolling Stones,” Jed says. “Isn’t that cool?”

“Awesome,” one of the Barbie Twins says.

“Oh my God,” the other chimes in. “I would totally do Mick Jagger, even though he’s like a hundred years old.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to pass along the message,” I say, and try to duck back out of the room.

“What would you be willing to do to be that lucky winner?” Daryl asks the girls.

“Anything,” they say simultaneously. As if we didn’t expect that.

“Would you make out with each other?” Daryl asks.

They look at each other and giggle, start running their fingers through each other’s overly processed hair.

“They probably do that all the time,” Jed interjects. “What about Berry here? Do you think she’s hot?”

“That’s okay,” I interrupt. “You don’t need to answer. I was just leaving.”

“She’s cute,” one of them says. I don’t see which one, because I’m trying to leave. I also hate the word “cute,” so I’m glad I didn’t see who said it. Not that I expected a “She’s gorgeous” or “breathtaking” or “She’s too beautiful! Don’t look directly at her—it’s like staring at the sun, you’ll go blind.” But “cute” just feels like such a consolation prize. Particularly for women who never describe other women as less than “cute.” Men hear a woman describe another woman as “cute” and they hear “cyclops.”

“Would you want to make out with her?” Jed asks.

“I would,” Tweedle Dumb says. Then she adds, “Especially if I get to meet Mick Jagger.”

“I’d do it just because,” Tweedle Dumber says, and while my ego appreciates the vote of confidence, my soul feels like it’s being sucked farther out of my body every second that I remain in Daryl and Jed’s lair.

“I’d pay for her plane ticket myself if—” Jed starts, but I cut him off.

“Thanks, guys,” I say, a bit too loudly. “And gals,” I add to the strippers. “I’m flattered. So we’re clear that for money or concert tickets these lovely ladies would make out with me. But what America really wants to know is whether there’s enough money in the world to get one of them to make out with either of you. Now I really have to go prepare for my show, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh! Snap!” Daryl says. “Thanks for stopping by, Berry.” He
sneers up at me from the mic. “Remember, folks, if you want all classic rock and a chick who really needs some bleep, tune in to Berry’s nighttime show from seven p.m. to midnight. Maybe call in and see if she’ll change her mind.…”

I can still hear him blathering as I walk down the hallway. There’s only one Howard Stern. Just because there are two of these guys doesn’t mean they’re twice as potent. Just makes them twice as pathetic for biting someone else’s style. One upside to my hostile work environment? Absolutely zero chance of stumbling into an awkward sexual relationship with a co-worker.

As soon as I start the second-to-last Stones song, the phones start ringing.
No, dummies. That’s only nine
.

“KKCR,” I say, as I answer the phone.

“Am I it? Did I win? Is this Berry?” says the caller.

“No, no, and yes,” I say.

“But—”

“This is the ninth song. I’m sorry, but we have one more to go.”

“And what are the odds of me getting through again when it’s the tenth,” he asks.

I’m stumped. I’m not sure how to answer him. I know the odds can’t be that good, but then again, how many people are so committed that they’ve listened to the station for twenty-four hours straight?

“Well …” I start.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I know I won’t get through.”

He sounds so defeated.

“You never know,” I say. “I hope you do.”

“My mom is sick, and she really loves the Stones so much. I was hoping to win so I could take her. She has cancer.”

“Oh, gosh,” I say, genuinely feeling like crap. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“How about a date to make it up to me?” he asks, changing the subject rather quickly.

“I don’t date callers,” I say. “It sets a bad precedent.”

“Pretend I didn’t call,” he says. “I’ll forfeit my chances of winning and not call back when you play the next song if you will have dinner with me.”

Something’s definitely off. “I’m very flattered,” I answer, “but I really can’t say yes. Plus, there’s still a chance you can win and then take your mom to the concert.”

Then I hear a giggle, which confirms it. Someone’s messing with me. This is the trouble with radio. And phones. And people.

“Please!” he says now, in a loud, aggressive wail. Clearly mocking me. “Please!”

“I’m going to do what you asked and pretend you didn’t call.” I hang up and take a few breaths. I wish I could say this was the first or fifth of fiftieth time I’ve had a prank caller, but I couldn’t even begin to count the number of prank calls I’ve had if my life depended on it.

The thing is, everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, even if they get there by being a complete jerk. What the majority of these people don’t realize is that just because someone at the station answers their call, it does not mean that they will be heard live on the radio. We have screening processes for that exact reason. The screeners haven’t failed me in a long time, and it takes me a second to recover—who lies about their mother having cancer? I wait until I’ve successfully started the next song and then get up to take a short walk to shake it off. I know we’re going into a commercial break after the song, so I have at least six minutes to regroup, long enough for a little trip to the vending machines.

No highfalutin cafeteria for us here at the station. Nope, we’ve got two vending machines and a pseudo-Starbucks coffeemaker. I put my dollar in and opt for the seventy-five-cent bag of pretzels. Deciding that the bag is not large enough, I put another dollar in and buy another bag. Now I have two quarters, and it will cost only one more to get a third bag, and I’m pretty sure I have one in my pocket.… Yup, there it is, so I insert the three quarters into the machine and get my third bag. Of course, I’ll feel required to eat them all, and I’m moments from being a walking ball of bad carbohydrates and refined flour and sodium, but it was really the only move that made sense. Fiscally, I mean. It was just one more quarter. And two bags would have been an even number, and we all know I don’t like even things.

I spin around with enough pretzels to feed Haitian refugees for a decade and suddenly I’m face-to-face with none other than Ryan Riley, aka Dr. Love on KKRL. We’ve somehow never met, but I see him on billboards, and his show has gotten so popular recently that it’s impossible not to know who he is. He’s shorter than I would have imagined. He’s still tall. Taller than me for sure. He’s just not a billboard.

“Hungry?” he asks, motioning to the three bags of pretzels in my hands.

“Just how many pretzels can one consume before their innards turn to cement?” I reply. “I aim to find out.”

And with that, I rush off to get in the elevator and back to my booth to play the final Stones song. I’ve already decided on “Tumbling Dice,” a gambling song. Maybe my father will be the tenth caller?

Once I’m settled back into my chair, headphones on, half a bag of pretzels consumed, I already feel better. The most amusing part of telling a caller that they are the winner is the scream of elation
when I let them know. And by “amusing,” I mean “makes my ears bleed.”

The board lights up, and I answer the first call.

“This is Berry, but you’re the first caller. Try back!” I disconnect and do more or less the same thing for the next eight callers. Then I answer the winning call.

“Hello, caller number ten!” I say.

“Really?” says the woman on the line. “I won?”

“Well, you’re the tenth caller,” I answer. “Provided you get all ten songs right, yes, you will win.”

“Oh my God!” she screeches.

“What’s your name?”

“Katie Preston.”

“Hi, Katie Preston. Are you a big Stones fan?”

“Huge. Like … huge! I haven’t slept in thirty-two hours. I listened nonstop.”

“Well, all right then, my sleep-deprived friend … Let ’er rip!”

“Okay, okay … um … ‘Start Me Up’ … ‘Brown Sugar’ … um … ‘Angie’ … ‘Satisfaction’ … ‘Monkey Man’ … ‘Gimme Shelter’ … I said ‘Satisfaction,’ right?”

“Yes,” I say. “You’re doing great. Four more …”

“ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ ”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I find myself saying out loud.

“ ‘Beast of Burden.’ ”

“Right, two more, almost there …” I say.

“ ‘Ruby Tuesday’ and ‘Tumbling Dice’!”

I pause for effect. You always have to pause for dramatic effect in moments like this. But not too long, because it’s radio and you never want dead air.

“Congratulations, Katie,” I say. “You’re going to New York City to meet the Rolling Stones!”

There’s more screeching, and then I place her on hold so she can give our station manager her contact information and they can work out all the details. It definitely feels good to make this girl’s dream come true. I’ve gotten used to some of the perks and maybe even a little jaded—but it’s moments like these when I’m reminded that not everybody gets to do this for a living. I take a second to breathe that in and remember that I am so fortunate to share in that moment of unadulterated joy with a fellow human being. So blessed. You could almost say … lucky.

But that would be jinxing it. So I tap the strip of wood trim that rims the booth at about waist level.

If you ask people to choose the “best rock-and-roll band of all time,” you’re frequently going to hear strong opinions from two camps: Team Beatles and Team Rolling Stones. I can see the arguments for both. The rivalry was never actually between the bands, as far as I know. They were clearly each their own thing. The Beatles wanted to “Hold Your Hand,” and the Stones suggested you make a dead man … well … come.