With a Little Luck

by Caprice Crane

“You ran a red,” he says.

  “It was yellow,” I counter. “I mean, it was really yellow. It was the fourth one I’ve passed in five minutes, so I think I know what yellow looks like.”

  “If you think that was a yellow light, you’ve just admitted to running four red lights in a row.”

  “Yellow,” I say. “They were all yellow.”

  I’m starting to miss Officer Ma’am. At least he doesn’t give me tickets. Now this guy’s gone back to his car to run my license or call his mom or eat a doughnut—whatever the hell they do when they walk away with your stuff.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll let me off with a warning?” I call out to him, but he ignores me.

  Damn it.

  I pull out my cellphone and listen to the rest of my missed messages. There are two from Bill; both say it’s urgent that I call him. At first, I think he knows about Ryan’s mom and he’s gonna use this as an angle to make me feel sorry for him and do the morning show again, but that ship has sailed, and when I think a little more clearheadedly I realize that of course Bill doesn’t know about Ryan’s mom. Nobody knows about Ryan’s mom except for Ryan. And me.

  I think about Ryan and text him:

  Just got pulled over for running a red light. It was YELLOW, I swear. Anyway, since you yelled at me for running them last night, I thought you’d enjoy my karmic ass-biting.

  A minute later he texts back:

  Please drive safely! What did I tell you about making me worry?

  I text him immediately:

  A little pity here? I’m getting a ticket!

  He responds:

  Sorry. No pity here. Drive safely and I’ll pity you for other reasons. Already do. HA!

  Well, at least he’s obviously feeling better. A little Berry boning works wonders on the emotionally fragile, I guess. I respond:

  Glad to see you have your sense of humor this morning. I’ll just be here GETTING THIS TICKET! SOB!

  When Officer Red Light Liar returns, we share very little small talk. He hands me the ticket and tells me that unless it is unsafe to stop, I should probably slow down and try to stop whenever I see yellow lights.

  “Mainly because it would appear that you’re color-blind,” he says.

  Oh, he’s a joker now? Fulfilling his ticket quota puts him in a good mood?

  “The light was yellow,” I say.

  “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  Just when I thought I was at least getting away without a “ma’am,” he hits me. There needs to be an equivalent comeback to “ma’am.” But what would it be? All that comes to mind is “saggy balls,” and that’s hardly appropriate, since “ma’am,” for all of its faults, is a pseudo-attempt toward politeness. Even though to me it’s just the equivalent of a Southerner saying “Bless your heart” when what they really mean is “Fuck you.”

  After a quick shower I change to go to the station—I don’t really have to be there for a few more hours to prep for my show, but the truth is I want to be there just in case Ryan gets upset while he’s on the air or after and he needs me. When I pull into my parking spot, it’s oddly missing my nameplate.

  Okay, that’s very strange. And very worrisome. Bill can’t be that upset about my quitting the show. Could he?

  There’s a sinking feeling settling in my stomach, and it doesn’t improve when I walk up to the elevator. Jed and Daryl are carrying packed crates out of the building. Oh my God, I think to myself. They finally crossed a line and got fired.

  “This is bullshit,” Daryl says.

  “Guys, what happened?”

  They look at each other. Jed responds, “What do you care? You never liked us. The way you just up and quit things … You don’t even like your job.”

  “Hold it,” I say. “I quit the talk job. And I understand you’re emotional right now, so I won’t take that personally, but I do care about my job. That’s why I worked my ass off to get this job, and that is the job I still care about.”

  “Yeah, you seem all broken up,” Daryl says, and pushes past me.

  “Is that a breakup pun?” I ask Jed.

  “Whatever,” Jed says. “I’m sure you’ll be back on your morning show in no time.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Well, good luck. Whatever you do.”

  “Thanks,” I say, mildly confused. “But seriously, what happened?”

  Daryl looks at me with what almost seems like a touch of actual empathy and shakes his head.

  “You’ll see, Berry.”

  I don’t recognize anything when the elevator door opens. Shit. I’m so frazzled I got off on the wrong floor.

  Wait. I am on the right floor. What the hell’s going on?

  It’s like I left for college and returned home to find my childhood bedroom was rented out to Jeff Foxworthy. The hall posters that once featured the Doors and the Stones and Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin have been replaced with Toby Keith and Tim McGraw and Kenny Chesney and Brad Paisley. This can’t be good. The sinking feeling in my stomach has turned into the Titanic.

  There are people I don’t recognize and cowboy hats everywhere. It’s like a nightmare in which I wake up and tell people, “I had the weirdest dream! I walked into work Monday morning and our station had turned into a country music station!” It’s baffling. Are we having a party? And who are these people scurrying about like they work here?

  “There you are.” I turn to see where the voice is coming from and find Bill … wearing a cowboy hat. Sadly, he’s one of the few people whose looks are markedly improved by one. “Uh,” I say, trying to sound calm, but I am so not calm. “Bill, I didn’t get the memo. Is it dress-up day? Are we having a hoedown? What’s going on?”

  “I called you twice, Berry,” he says. “Most people didn’t even get the courtesy call.”

  “Huh?” is all I can muster. I still don’t know for certain, but I’m suddenly getting quick flashes of my recent past, like in the Lost finale. Daryl and Jed walking out with their things, people staring at me ominously as I pushed the button for the elevator, the sawdust, the new framed posters, swapped out like the old ones were never there.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  It’s not a joke.

  We’ve gone country.

  The station format has changed. We’re now …

  “L.A.’s new home for new country, baby!” Bill says as he tips his hat for effect. “Yeehaw!”

  I swallow back my panic.

  “What does this mean?” I ask as calmly as I can muster. “I mean … I know what it means, but … is there still a rock show on weeknights from seven to midnight, or am I out of a job?”

  “There’s no rock show, Berry.”

  “No rock show,” I repeat. “So I have no job.”

  Bill switches his “yeehaw” face to an “I guess I need to actually show some sensitivity now” face.

  “I’m sorry, Berry.”

  “But you’re staying? You still have a job?”

  “I love country.”

  “Since when?”

  Bill looks at his watch. “Since about five hours ago.”

  I can’t help but smile a little, even as I feel the weight of unemployment pressing on my shoulders. “Right,” I say. “Well. I guess … I guess I’ll go clean out my office.”

  “Berry, hold on,” he says. “Actually, there is one thing I can offer you.” He’s looking sideways, upward, around, behind, and pretty much anywhere that’s not my eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “You might consider it a lateral move.…”

  “Lateral?”

  “You can take overnights,” he says.

  “Graveyard,” I say as I try to wrap my head around the notion that he is suggesting this with a straight face.

  “Yes,” he answers. He’s serious.

  “Bill, lateral, by definition, means sideways: one way or the other. But overnights? That’s not lateral. That’s a definitive step backward. You do graveyard wh
en you’re starting out … paying your dues … desperate for anything.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I’m not starting out,” I say. “And I’ve paid my dues.”

  “So I guess the question becomes: Are you desperate for anything? Because I’m offering you this time slot to be nice. But there are about fifty eager DJs who would jump at that offer.”

  “I’m sure there are,” I say knowingly.

  “You have until eleven p.m. tonight,” he says. “If you take the job, you start now. But you’ll be limited to a specific playlist that features only two kinds of music: country and western. Think about it.”

  “Okay,” I say, but the word gets caught in my throat and I choke on my own saliva. I start to cough, but I wave him away to say “I’m fine. Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good luck, Berry,” he says. I don’t say anything back. Good luck? A confusing night with my ex. A ticket on my way to work—where, as it turns out, I no longer work. No, this is not what I’d call “good luck.”

  Don’t worry about the world coming to an end today. It is already tomorrow in Australia.

  —CHARLES M. SCHULZ

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When things go wrong, you tend to think, What have I done to deserve this? At least you do if you’re me. You’ll track back your every move, retrace every last step to find the wrong turn. Surely I can’t be being punished by the universe for being there for Ryan—even if he was a boyfriend, and even if he was the last in my bad-luck trio, and even if I lied to my current beau in an effort not to hurt his feelings. It was nothing. I know that Ryan and I aren’t right for each other. Even if we did accidentally hook up.

  Right?

  Is Ryan such bad luck that my minor backslide changed the format of the entire radio station? If I come clean to Brendan, will that make things go back to normal? If the luck I’ve created by being with Ryan is X (or R) and I do Y (tell Brendan the truth), then Z (Will I negate the bad luck and reverse the negative effects of it?). Maybe? If nothing else, it will make me feel like less of a liar, so I decide that’s what I’ll do.

  I call Brendan and ask if he’ll meet me.

  “Absofuckinlutely,” he says. “Are you at the station getting ready for your show?”

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s been a … disaster,” I say.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Well, I’m physically fine.”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’m driving,” I say. “And I need to be careful, because I got a ticket this morning. So can you meet me?”

  “Um …”

  “Um …?” I question. “What happened to absofuckinlutely?”

  He sighs. I’m starting to wonder if he somehow already knows I spent the night with Ryan.

  “Fine. I’ll meet you wherever. Just say where.”

  “Coffee Bean?” I suggest.

  “See you there.”

  He hangs up without saying goodbye, which is odd, but I convince myself it’s my own guilty conscience that’s making me question every breath he takes.

  I pull up to The Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, and he’s there when I arrive.

  “Hey,” he says, and puts one arm around me to give me a half-hug.

  “Hey,” I say, overthinking the half-hug. But as weird as he was on the phone …

  Once we get our iced, whipped, caffeinated calorie injections, we sit together at a table outside. I look around us, and everything I see looks like a flashing neon bad sign. The girl sitting across from me is wearing a football jersey with the number twenty-two on it. I hate the number twenty-two. Always a bad sign. Three guys to the left of us are smoking cigars. There’s a girl with a small poodle with dyed pink hair. Really, lady? You need to be punched in the babymaker.

  “So is everything okay?” I ask, mostly because I just need reassurance.

  “No,” he says. “Not according to you. There’s been a disaster. So what happened?”

  “The station’s gone country,” I say. “Country!”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your show?”

  “My show is no longer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” I say. “So you can see why I’m freaking out.”

  “So you have no show at all?”

  “Well …” I get confused and frustrated just thinking about it. “I don’t know. I mean, my show, my rock show … doesn’t exist.”

  “How come?” he asks, still not getting it.

  “Because despite the fact that my ex-boss is likely blaring the Osmonds’ creepy anthem at this very moment, there is not even a little bit of rock and roll in this now-country station.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yes, it does. So if I still want a job, I can have overnights. Playing country.”

  “That really sucks.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  We know it sucks. It obviously sucks. But where’s my hug? Where’s my “it’ll be okay”? This is awkward and not in the least bit comforting. Everything just feels off. And I didn’t think it could feel any worse, yet here we are.

  “So country, huh?”

  “Can you believe it?” I say. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like some of the old stuff. Johnny Cash? Patsy Cline? Love it. But day in, day out country? Who can take all that whining?”

  “I hear ya,” he says as he takes a sip of his drink and looks around. “Will you try to get another job at another station?”

  “I don’t know.” I find myself tapping my foot nervously, trying to psych myself up for my confession. “Also, I wanted to tell you that I went to Ryan’s last night.”

  “Ryan’s? Thought you two were at odds.”

  “We were. But he was having a crisis. And he needed a friend. And I lied to you when I said I was going to Natalie’s. And I’m sorry.”

  “You’re allowed to have friends,” he says.

  “I know. But I’m sorry for lying. And I can’t help but think that maybe that was the first thing that caused this … this awful chain reaction. Do you think that’s possible?” Telling him I saw Ryan is one thing. Telling him we slept together is another. I’m not going there. And honestly, it doesn’t even seem like he’d care all that much. Maybe he’s having a bad day, but this is not the sweet, supportive “boyfriend” one needs in times like this. Granted, I may not karmically deserve that boyfriend today, but he’s not even a semi-reasonable facsimile.

  “No.”

  “No?” I prod. “Just no?”

  Brendan stretches and stares up at the sun. When he turns back to me, his expression is unreadable. “Honestly, Berry, I don’t buy into all of your superstitious stuff as much as I might have led you to believe.”

  “Oh,” I say, a bit taken aback. “Well … what does that mean exactly?”

  “It means I thought it was cute that you had all those quirks at first, but I really didn’t think you believed all of it. I know I humor you, but the truth is that I can’t take that stuff seriously. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that someone as together as you puts so much faith in that garbage.”

  “You were the one who pointed out the lucky penny,” I say, shocked, embarrassed, and pretty much mortified. But it just gets worse.

  “I didn’t know I was poking the bear, though. It was just innocent flirting with the cute DJ I recognized. I was taking the opportunity to talk to you while your man went to the bathroom.”

  “Wait—you already knew who I was?” This is getting worse by the minute.

  “Dude, you’re on billboards.”

  “Sorry, dude. I didn’t think you’d pretend not to know me.”

  “No harm no foul, right?”

  No harm no foul? Yes, harm! Yes, foul, in fact! I find it hard to believe this is happening. Can he be that much of an asshole? I may have put a little extra faith
in making him what I needed to believe he was, but I didn’t make up all of it. He is here, sitting before me, clover tattoo mocking me from his wrist.

  “You have a lucky-clover tattoo.”

  “I’m Irish,” he says. “Not stupid.”

  “I have no comeback to that,” I say. “Except ouch.”

  I let this settle for a second. Wow, did he run a game on me. This is not the quasi-perfect, tailor-made-for-me guy I thought I knew. This is a world-class lying, using asshole.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Look, if nobody in your life cares enough about you to tell you, then at least let me be the one. All your superstitions, it’s all a load of crap. You liked me because I wasn’t the ‘third guy’ in some made-up string of bad-luck dudes when you clearly weren’t even looking hard enough to see that I was really just trying to have a good time and maybe get my band on the radio in the deal.”

  “If you’re finished,” I say, getting up, “I’m just gonna go.”

  “I know it must feel bad,” he says.

  “How does being a smug jackass feel?”

  “Liberating,” he says.

  Tears form in my eyes as soon as I’m back in the car and dialing my dad’s number. Funny how when you know you’re calling someone safe you get even more emotional.

  “There’s my lucky girl,” he says. “Just the one I wanted to talk to. You must be psychic.”

  “Psychotic,” I correct. “That would be the term. Stupidly psychotic and superstitious.”

  “Never,” he says. “Listen, baby. Can I borrow four hundred bucks? Just for the next week …”

  “Really, Dad?” I say, defeated. And then I just start crying.

  “Aw, come on, cookie?” he says. “I’ll pay it back. Really. I promise.”

  “Man, am I ever stupid,” I say. “Why did I think turning to you was the way to go? Because I’m stupid, apparently.”

  “Whoa, hang on, sweetie,” my dad says. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just feel stupid. The guy I was dating is a complete asshole who was only using me, and I was so blinded by wanting him to be the one—simply by virtue of the fact that he wasn’t Ryan—that I didn’t see it.”