“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.
The only sure thing about luck is that it will change.
—BRET HARTE
Chapter Three
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.
1) No two people at the same table can order the same dish. This encourages the trying of new things and the finding of new favorites.
2) No substitutions. She doesn’t care if you’re allergic—in that case, order something else.
3) Natalie reserves the right to kick anyone out at any time. This could be because of disagreements stemming from rules one and two, or it could be because she doesn’t like your hairstyle.
But it’s not all bad …
4) Tablecloths are made of paper, and each table is equipped with colored pencils. At least once a night, Natalie will stroll around to examine tablecloth artwork, and every night at least one dinner is on the house due to exemplary doodling.
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.
/> Nat doesn’t eat diner food—perish the thought—but she does drink coffee, and lots of it. How she’ll drink coffee from midnight to two a.m. and then lie down and go to sleep is beyond me, but she claims to have ADD and says that coffee has the opposite effect on her.
Tonight Nat walks in with a determined look on her face, her blond hair still tied back in restaurant mode, her normally gorgeous brown eyes (I know, most people hate brown eyes. Or maybe it’s just those of us who have them and wish we had something more exciting—but her blond hair/brown eyes combo is exceptionally pretty) oddly panicky—darting back and forth, and she looks around the restaurant as she makes her way toward me.
“It’s bad,” Natalie says, bracing me, as soon as she sits down.
I assume she’s going to tell me something bad happened to her—something along the lines of a customer ruining her poached salmon by asking for salt—because what could have happened in my life that she would know before me?
“Just tell me,” I say. I can handle it.
“So, Umbrella Guy?” she says, her face twisted to the side, like she’s not sure how to get the next part out.
“What?” I say. “He heard me on the radio? He came into the restaurant? He thinks I’m an even bigger loser than he apparently already thought I was, hence the never calling me? He was with a girl? A prettier and skinnier girl? What did she look like? I hate her already.”
“Berry, I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“She’s a supermodel? What?”
“He’s dead.”
I blink a few times as it registers. He’s dead? How? Why? When? (The “when” is key. The “when” is my ego wondering if he died on his way home and that’s why he never called. But, no, it’s five days later. That can’t be how it happened.)
“They had a memorial service for him tonight,” she says. “A bunch of musician-type people. They reserved the back room at the restaurant. It was packed. Celebs and everything. They had these great flowers—”
“Nat!” I interrupt. “How did he die? Did he die driving home from my apartment?” This would be worse than I even thought. Forget that bad “open an umbrella indoors” luck—I might have essentially killed him by sending him home! “Please tell me my decision to not be a slut didn’t kill him.”
“You didn’t kill him. He died the next day. I got the whole story.”
“Well, what? What happened? Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“It was stupid. He was being stupid. He was shooting a video with some friends. Some band. They were drunk and racing go-karts, and apparently he stood up in his go-kart to celebrate his victory as he crossed the finish line. I guess he took off his helmet as he stood up in his seat, not realizing that he was putting all his weight on the accelerator, and … he crashed into the concession stand.”
“That’s … unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“Awful,” I say, still trying to wrap my head around it.
“I know.”
My breath catches, and I look at Natalie with dread.
“Oh, Jesus, here it comes,” she says, falling back in her seat.
“It was the umbrella he opened indoors,” I say. “I knew it. I knew it!”
“Next thing you’ll tell me is you weren’t wearing your lucky bandana because you had a bout of too much head sweat.”
“I don’t have head sweat.”
“Everyone has head sweat at some point or another. I get it at the hairdresser when they highlight. I can’t help it—all that pawing over my scalp, blech. And by the way, I notice you’re not wearing your evil-warding bandana. So …”
“So what?” This is about to turn into an inquisition, but I’m trapped.
“So what is it? Lucky shirt? Belt you were wearing when you won five bucks in an instant lottery scratch-off game? Pants you wore to see the Dalai Lama at the Hollywood Bowl and got a group blessing? Or some hidden gem—like a lucky suppository?”
I look away. It’s a sore subject, meaning she’s right, but it irritates me to have it talked about, almost as though her mention of it is leaching away the power. I hold up my arm and rattle my wrist.
Nat nods, waits. She wants to hear it. She always wants to hear it.
“The bangles I was wearing when the cable company gave me free premium channels for a year to apologize for accidentally shutting off my service.”
“I was going to mock you, but that really is lucky. My cable company usually says they’re sorry for my inconvenience and to please stop calling. At least stop calling and breathing into the phone and hanging up. I guess everyone has caller ID these days.”
She’s trying to lighten my mood, and it’s working. She motions for me to show her the wrist again, and traces the bangles.
“Still, this hardly qualifies as lucky clothing. I don’t think you’re holding true to your principles.”
“I can accessorize. Who says accessories can’t be lucky?”
“True,” she says. “My road bike came with a racing-seat accessory, and sometimes that makes me feel like I’m getting very lucky.”
“Stop it. You can’t tell me you don’t at least see the coincidence in this guy meeting me, opening the umbrella, and dying the next day. Not to mention the ‘Everybody Dies’ shirt!”
“You left out some critical details, like the fact that he was driving drunk, standing up in a go-kart with his foot on the accelerator. But, yes, I do see the coincidence. And it’s just that: coincidence. Accident. Fate sliding by. Oops—guy doing dumb thing dies. Stop the presses, we’ve got one for the ‘lighter side of the news’ section.”
Natalie, sensitive as usual. Meanwhile, I think I might cry. Not only because it’s very sad to hear of his death but because deep down, I can’t shake the notion that I had a hand in it, not only with the umbrella but with the post-umbrella chatter about him accepting all the unsolicited bad luck. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks.
“Oh, God, honey, don’t cry,” Nat says, waving the waitress over and getting a few more napkins for us. “This is why I was afraid to tell you. Berry, he was drunk and being stupid. It had nothing to do with you or the umbrella.”
“Right,” I say. Now, more than ever, I believe everything I’ve always believed.
“But hey—the good news is he probably would have called you.”
“Hooray.” Yeah. Not quite as satisfying as you’d think. Gallows humor doesn’t really go with my self-pity. Or my Cobb salad.
The rest of our meal is a bit of a downer. There’s no good way to come back from news like that, so I just eat fast while she drinks coffee and then we ask for the check.
“Uh-oh,” she says, as she glances down at it.
“What now?” I ask, though I already know it’s bad. It can’t be good. I mean, how many people open a piece of mail and say, “Uh-oh,” and then you ask, “What is it?” and they say, “I’ve just inherited eighty million dollars.” Doesn’t happen.
“Nat, what?” I persist.
“Well, it’s nothing,” she says, conveniently crumpling the little strip of paper in her right hand and reaching for her purse. “Probably. No, Berry. Really. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
By this time, I’m practically shaking with curiosity and dread. “Natalie, tell me. You know I need to know.”
She sighs and turns her head slightly away, then very purposefully turns back and locks eyes with me.
“What do you make of this?” she says, smoothing the wrinkled bill on the counter between us with both hands.
“Um, well, I had …” I struggle with the restaurant’s abbreviations. “I had the salad and the iced tea.…”
“No, no, no,” she says, and then points to the bottom. “Look at the number.”
And there it is, staring back at me like the very eyes of the devil. A total so unsettling I feel a literal chill spiriting through me. $17.17.
Seventeen seventeen! The split seven. Worse than a triple four or
a reverse nine descending. Not quite as bad as a quadruple duple (four twos) or a runzie—five zeroes in a row in the middle of a number. But pretty bad.
I know Nat doesn’t believe in any of it, and she’s just pointing it out because she knows how upset I am and she cares about me. But this $17.17 I simply cannot abide. Not now.
I call over Ashley, the waitress who tells me almost every time I come in about how the audition she had that day is gonna be the one and how she’s going to finally “tell these assholes where they can go.”
“I’m so sorry to bother, but I think there’s maybe a mistake somewhere.”
She takes up the bill with a barely suppressed sigh and ticks off the items.
“Ah, you didn’t charge for the fruit,” I say, relieved that I’d spotted the problem. No dread split seven after all!
“No, we don’t charge for your side. You had the fruit in place of the muffin we normally serve with our big salads. That came with it.”
“Right …” I say dubiously. Natalie and the waitress eye me expectantly for a moment. “I don’t suppose … I wonder if you could charge for the fruit. Just, you know, the normal fruit charge.”
Ashley assumes that expression of profoundest concern and sympathy that waitresses and waiters get when they’re about to go back to the kitchen and tell everyone on the shift what a dumbass you are.
“I can’t because of the way they have the system programmed. If I don’t actually request something from the kitchen, I can’t charge for it.”
I look up at her, pleading.
“So the only way I could charge you would be … if you actually ordered another fruit side.”
“No,” Natalie says. “You’re not going to buy something you’re not going to eat. I’m not going to watch you do that.”
I stare at Natalie, and she stares back. Ashley stands before us awkwardly.
With a Little Luck: A Novel Page 4