With a Little Luck: A Novel (9 page)

With the Beatles, you have a group that strived to push new boundaries with production and songwriting. You’d hear extreme growth from them, in every way, on each record. They stopped touring at a very early stage in their career, which permitted them
to be without creative limitation in their record making. No worries regarding how to reproduce something live, because they never played live.

In the case of the Rolling Stones, you have a band that basically limited themselves to rock and blues but remained exciting and after forty-five-plus years are still kicking ass. And they have written not one but lots of the greatest rock-and-roll songs of all time. Not bad. Not to mention they were once a kick-ass blues band. If you haven’t heard
Exile on Main Street
—get it.

Personally, I’m Switzerland in that debate. I can see both sides. There will also always be a soft spot in my heart for the Kinks, who were Oasis years before Oasis. Their fights were real and born out of creativity. And who else had the balls to write an arena anthem based on the humiliation of making out with a dude?

You’ll also hear arguments for the Clash, and I would absolutely be the first in line to rally for them, but a) longevity matters, and b) being declared “best band of all time” makes you part of the “establishment,” which would just about kill the remaining living members of the Clash.

My mom, in any event, is Team Stones, which I’m reminded of over breakfast the morning before my flight to New York.

“Are you ready for your trip?” she asks. Ever the mother. She’s far more concerned with the contents of my suitcase than I am.

“Define ‘ready,’ ” I say.

“Why do you always wait until the last minute to pack?”

“Because I do. I don’t know why. Because I like to have everything I need until I don’t need it. Because I don’t know until the last minute what I’m going to wear or bring.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Not really. It’s a pretty standard trip—in and out.”

“Says the girl seeing the band that her mom stayed up all night,
outside in line in the pouring rain, to get concert tickets for before she was even born.”

“I can’t decide if that makes you or the Stones older, but it’s kind of profound.”

“It’s me,” she says. “I’m ancient.”

“Yet unlike Keith Richards, you don’t get full-body blood transfusions every few years to keep your corpse alive.”

“Does he really do that?”

“Supposedly,” I say, tentatively poking at that last, less-than-perfect strawberry on my plate. “Although he denies this in his book.”

How would I know for sure? That’s the rumor. But then there are so many rumors about the bands that make up our playlist, it’s actually quite fascinating. Take Stevie Nicks. Supposedly Stevie’s assistant had to blow coke up her ass because she’d completely destroyed her nasal passages from snorting. Is that true? I doubt it somehow. Something kept alive by bitter Christine McVie fans, maybe. But the rumor lives on.

Then there’s the rumor that Mama Cass died choking on a ham sandwich. That one is absolutely not true. But people will swear it is. Rod Stewart supposedly got his stomach pumped after swallowing a gallon of semen. Let’s pause there for a minute. Do you know how much a gallon is? Think of putting down a full gallon jug of milk. I mean, who comes up with this stuff?

“Have you seen your father?”

I wait a beat before I answer. She still loves him. I know she does. She’d never admit it, and maybe she can’t even see past her disappointment to find the love, but I know it’s there. “Yeah, I saw him a couple days ago.”

“Did you give him money?” she asks. Straight to the point, as always.

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“Yes.”

“Why, baby?” she asks, not angry but sad. “Why do you let him guilt you like that? He’s supposed to be the parent.”

“He does the best he can,” I say.

“His best is pretty pathetic.”

“I know, Mom. Just let it go. We know he’s not the Prince Charming you signed up for, and he’s not breaking any records for excellence in parenting. But he’s still my dad. He’s the only one I have. And you’re not ancient.”

“Tell that to my smooth neck skin if you run into it somewhere.”

My mom is really beautiful. Far more beautiful than she thinks she is. I guess when your husband is more interested in playing with a deck of cards than playing with you, it does wonders for your self-esteem. But he’s an addict in the truest sense, and she knows that, so I wish she wouldn’t take it personally. Gauge your self-worth by the opinions of people whose opinions aren’t worth a rat’s rear end and pretty soon you’re going to be living in a cave.

My mom is my rock. She’s calm and cool; she’s rational and levelheaded; she’s the complete opposite of me. She’s not the type of person who walks through a casino in her lilac-and-butterflies nightgown. And then yells at her husband. Hysterically. For all to see. She’s refined. She doesn’t lose control like that. That night was the first time I ever saw her cry. And the last time. Sometimes I wish she would let go a little more, throw caution to the wind, drink regular milk instead of nonfat. But then she wouldn’t be the person I count on, I guess. Or the person here at this restaurant who will not send back her runny eggs even though she asked for them to be well done.

“It’s fine, honey,” she says.

“It’s not fine, Mom,” I counter. “You ordered them well done. You should have what you asked for. And also not get salmonella.”

“I’d rather not bother them,” she says. “It’s fine.”

With her, everything’s “fine.” I once heard that “fine” is an acronym for “fucked up, insecure, neurotic, emotional.” It’s what people say they are when they’re trying not to be what they really are—one or all of those descriptors. I love that she’s considerate of other people—even the kitchen staff, whom she’ll never meet—and that she doesn’t want to put anyone out, but sometimes I think she puts everyone’s happiness before her own. The only time she will ever raise her voice even a little is when she’s concerned about me.

I give up on the eggs, because she’s already dug in.

“I brought you this,” she says as she pulls something out of her pocket.

“What is it?” I ask, because all I can see is that it’s a small item wrapped in white tissue paper.

“Open it,” she says. “It’s nothing. Just a little something.” My mom has always given me little keepsakes to carry with me, and I always do it. It’s a nice way to take her with me wherever I go.

I unwrap the tissue and see that there’s a pink quartz inside. A touchstone. It warms my heart immediately, which I imagine is precisely what it’s supposed to do. And as someone who buys into things like superstitions, of course I’m inclined to believe that it will bring some of the good stuff my way.

“It’s rose quartz,” she explains. “For love.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

“I want you to do me a favor,” she says, now more serious than before.

“Okay …?” I say, one eyebrow cocked a teensy bit higher than the other.

“I want you to do two things, actually,” she says as she inhales. “First, your father—”

“Mom,” I interrupt.

“Just hear me out. You’re enabling him. Plus, you spend so much time worrying about him and taking care of him that you don’t do thing number two: Make yourself or perhaps some as-yet-unknown significant other your priority.”

“Exactly,” I say. “The as-yet-unknown factor being key. As in ‘he doesn’t exist.’ ”

“Oh, he exists, young lady,” she says, sounding stern, almost as if she was about to break out my first and middle name the way parents do when you’re in trouble. “He does exist. But your eyes aren’t open to him. And neither is your heart. So I want you to keep that quartz with you—always, as a reminder to keep your heart open. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, we have a deal. But I’m not sure a closed heart is my problem. You do know I work nights, right?”

“Don’t try to deflect. We have a deal. Now, shake,” my mom says, and I hold out my hand and shake hers, solidifying this new pact: Eyes open … heart open … but I’m keeping the night shift for now.

Last-minute packing is only one of my travel rituals. Another is to wear my Saint Christopher medal—Saint Christopher being the Patron Saint of Travelers—not because of any fervent religious beliefs (I haven’t been to church in God knows how long) but because it makes me feel good. A third is that I always need to sit in the back of the plane, as close to the last row as possible. If it’s a cross-country flight, the flight attendants will often commandeer the last
couple rows for their belongings and also for catnaps. (While we’re on the topic—really? You get to take a catnap during a five-hour flight? That’s a pretty short workday to be busting up with some shut-eye.) But not when Berry’s on board.

Some people say that there is no safest seat on the plane. They are wrong—but not for the reasons you’d think. They’ve done research and the truth is that passengers who are seated near the tail of a plane are forty percent more likely to survive a crash than those in the first few rows up front. But they’ve also done a study proving that research is a crock like thirty-two percent of the time. No, my reason is simpler and sounder: The back of the plane is the counterintuitively lucky spot. Think of it: How many people jump for joy when they find out they’ve just been assigned a forward seat? Everyone, right? But we know that luck is a precious commodity. There’s only so much to go around. And even if you do have a good-luck streak, some balancing bad luck is right around the corner. Just ask any honest gambler. If you can find one. So if all those people up front are competing for such a small supply of luck, odds are it’s going to be exhausted by the time I come around. Not in the rear. Almost everyone there feels he or she got hosed. Ergo ipso facto, there’s lots of luck left for the back of the plane. If I have to wait five extra minutes to deplane, I will gladly take it.

Of course, I’m not taking any chances. The last thing I always do is tap the body of the plane three times with my right hand as I’m boarding. People wonder why I set my bag down at that inauspicious moment, when we’re all rushing to board and panicking over a shortage of space in the overheads. I don’t let it bother me. No matter where you’re sitting, it always helps to take every possible safety precaution.

This time, though, there is a small problem: My Saint Christopher medal seems to be missing.

This.

Is.

Not.

Good.

I feel my heart start to pound, perspiration starting to bead on my temples, on the nape of my neck, on my chest—you know, all the usual beady places. I try to calm down, to get a grip. I’m sure there’s a small chance they would sell one at the airport, but that would probably be a very small chance, and it wouldn’t be the same medal I’ve worn since I was a child. I spend seventeen minutes looking everywhere for it, cutting it closer and closer, breaking into a full-on sweat and swearing pretty steadily before I give up and leave for the airport.

The Traffic Gods are smiling upon me, and I miraculously arrive on time, cruise through the airport, do my ritual fuselage taps, and take my seat in the third-to-last row of the plane. The window seat to my left is empty, and the seat to my right across the aisle is also empty. All other seats are taken. I’m about to take a moment to hope whoever was supposed to sit next to me doesn’t show when I see two more people walking down the aisle: an older businessman-type and a guy who looks roughly my age, give or take five years.

Businessman Bob takes the seat next to me and introduces himself without introducing himself. You know, that thing you do when you don’t exchange names but you acknowledge that there’s someone you’re about to spend the next five hours a mere few inches from.

“Hi there,” he says, as he props up the window shade to look out, practically blinding me in the process.

“Hi,” I say as I squint, probably giving away the fact that I’m annoyed because I had just pulled that shade down two minutes before he arrived.

“You flying home or away?” he asks.

“Away,” I say as I catch the eye of the my-age-ish guy across the aisle. He’s listening to Old Man River make small talk with me, and I think he can tell I’m not into it. He smiles at me, and for some reason I feel compelled to reach into my pocket and pull out the rose quartz my mom gave me and hold it in my hand.

“Are these seats not the worst?” My-age-ish asks. Thank God, I think he’s trying to save me from having to talk to my seatmate.

“The absolute worst,” I agree emphatically, because, as a general rule, you don’t want to let someone know just how neurotic you are within the first five minutes of meeting them.

“I missed the earlier flight, so I flew standby on this one. This was the only seat they had.”

“My company booked my ticket,” I embellish, “so I wasn’t given a choice.”

“Bummer,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, and sigh. Then add, “But they do say the tail of the plane is the safest place to be. So we’ve got that going for us.”

“Which is nice,” he says, and smiles. That was a tired
Caddyshack
reference, but he not only got it, he was gracious enough to leave it unacknowledged. I swear I feel the rose quartz heating up in my hand.