With a Little Luck: A Novel

by Caprice Crane

  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.

  “I’m Kyle,” he says.

  “I’m Berry,” I say.

  “Like the fruit?”

  “One and the same.”

  “That’s cute,” he says, and I in
stantly deduct five points. We know how I feel about the word “cute.”

  “Are you traveling for work or …” I ask.

  “Nah, just gonna see a buddy of mine for the weekend.”

  A little girl who looks to be about five years old walks past us with her mother. She stops and looks at me purposefully. “I go potty by myself,” she says.

  I stifle a laugh and sneak a look at Kyle. His eyes have gone big, but he’s managing not to laugh. “That is wonderful,” I say. “I go to the potty by myself, too.”

  “I go poop on the potty,” she adds, and then marches off to the bathroom.

  Kyle and I both start to laugh once she’s out of earshot.

  “I love how kids make grand declarations to complete strangers,” I say.

  “You mean you don’t do that?” he asks.

  “Are you asking if I poop on the potty or if I make grand declarations to strangers? Because I can assure you I do neither.”

  The next five hours and thirty-four minutes fly by, so to speak, faster than I could imagine. We’re practically shouting across the aisle to speak to each other the whole time, annoying the other passengers, just guessing (from the nasty looks and raised middle fingers people are giving us two rows up), but not really caring because we’re having too much fun talking, laughing, and cultivating a stable of inside jokes about everyone in our eye-line or anyone who passes us to use the restroom. People always talk about how much fun people-watching is, especially with a friend. Not true. The watching is only the first half. It’s the people-critiquing that brings it all home.

  There’s the couple who try not once but three times to join the “mile-high” club by secreting away into the bathroom together. Each time they’re foiled by either a flight attendant, an impatient parent and child knocking to see “if everything’s okay,” or just too many eyes on them at the crucial slipping-in moment. Slipping into the bathroom, I mean.

  Then there’s the couple who share a headset to watch the inflight movie and then end up fighting over it, neither of them enjoying the movie, but really—what were you thinking sharing a headset?

  There’s the guy who stands in the back, pretending to want another soda while unsuccessfully trying to chat up the flight attendant—and failing to the point that he gets asked to “please return to your seat.” That’s gotta sting.

  A whole cast of characters for us to mock, empathize with, or create backstories for, all of which are probably wildly more interesting than their actual existence.

  “Cats or dogs?” I ask.

  “I have a cat,” he answers. This is of greater concern than one might think. No disrespect to cats, but … I’m a dog person. And dudes with cats have always struck me as somewhat effeminate. I just don’t trust them completely. Of course, this could also be my secret fear that I will one day end up a cat lady. God forbid I start dating a “cat guy,” and then we move in together … and then we break up and for some reason he leaves the cat behind … that’s Cat Number One. It’s all downhill from there.

  Cat thing aside, by the time we land we’ve covered all kinds of territory. I feel like I’ve known Kyle my whole life. There’s a certain ease to it—talking to him, laughing with him. I wasn’t ready to part ways as strangers who would never see each other again. Thankfully, neither was he.

  We stand together at the baggage claim for twenty minutes, waiting for our bags, continuing to talk about everything from airport Muzak to parents who keep their kids on a leash to how there’s always that one ridiculous bag that comes down the carousel held together by an excessive amount of duct tape. What kind of person travels like that?

  Then I see my bag tumbling down the slide.

  “That’s mine,” I say. The excitement you feel when you see your bag is something I think we can all relate to, not just because you’re being reunited with your belongings but really because the odds of your bag getting lost are so good that it’s almost a miracle if it doesn’t.

  “Which one?” he asks.

  “The gray one. Swiss Army.”

  He grabs it like a perfect gentleman.

  Then we stand, looking at each other for the quintessential awkward moment. I have my bag. I don’t want to say goodbye. But I have nothing else to wait for. There’s no real reason for me to stay … but I don’t want to leave. Finally I speak up, looking away from him, back at the carousel, because I feel like I might be turning a bright shade of tomato.

  “How many bags do you have?” I ask.

  He looks down and away now, and if I’m not mistaken he’s turning a bit tomato himself.

  “I don’t have any bags,” he admits. “I was just keeping you company.”

  What’s that I feel? My heart skipping a beat, perhaps? Is that not the most charming thing ever?

  “I’m kind of embarrassed,” he says. “I didn’t know how this was gonna pan out. I thought maybe your bag might get lost and I could pretend mine was, too.”

  “That’s really cute,” I say, breaking my own rule.

  “Cute, like George Clooney? Or cute like a pathetic puppy trying to jump up on a couch, but his legs are too tiny so he misses every time?”

  “Are you suggesting that you want to jump on me?”

  “Depends which way you answer,” he says, and we hold each other’s gaze.

  I look away first. I’m never great with extended eye contact. There’s always a bit of a creepy factor, even if it is someone you like. When is enough? When does it become a staring contest?

  “Well, your legs aren’t tiny,” I say, trying to subtly tell him I meant “cute like Clooney” but somehow managing to make it clumsy.

  “I’d ask if you want to share a ride into the city, but I don’t want to seem too forward,” he says. “But can I get your phone number? Or your email? So we can stay in touch?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, wishing we were actually sharing the ride but not wanting to come across as desperate, so I leave it alone. I dig through my things to find a pen and write down both my cell number and my email, and together we walk to the taxi stand and then make our ways into separate cabs.

  I’m not five minutes into my journey when my cellphone rings. “Hello?”

  “Is it too soon to call?” he says.

  I laugh. He took the initiative. He stood at the baggage claim with me for no other reason than to keep me company. He asked for my number, and he called within the hour. Practically within the minute. I decide that it’s okay if I invite him to the concert. I mean, why not? Who wouldn’t want to go to a Rolling Stones show? Even if he didn’t like me. But I hope he likes me.

  “Not at all.”

  “This is Kyle.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “What are you wearing?” he asks.

  “Something lacy,” I answer.

  “Man, I wish we didn’t take separate cabs. I knew you were gonna change into something lacy the minute you took off.”

  “You know me so well,” I say. “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night?” I say, not giving him a chance to respond in case he has plans but he will tell me he doesn’t once he hears what I’m offering. “I’m going to see the Rolling Stones … for work. It’s part of my job, so I’ll have to do a little bit of work stuff, but mostly I’ll be able to hang out and enjoy it. And if you want to come …”

  “Awesome,” Kyle says. “I’d love to.”

  “Okay, then,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  We end up talking for almost three hours. Through the cab ride, through my checking in to the hotel and unpacking, through him showing up at his friend’s house. Pretty ridiculous.

  “Is your jaw tired?” I ask him.

  “Depends why you’re asking,” he says. I get where he’s going, but I’m not ready to wander down that path. Yet.

  “I’m asking because we’ve now talked for six hours in person and three hours over the phone. I feel like I’m in junior high.”

  “I’m not gonna hang up till you hang up firs
t.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Okay, I can take a hint,” he says.

  “No, no,” I say, but it probably is time to hang up.

  “No, you’re right. Plus, I don’t want you to get sick of me.”

  “Too soon for that,” I say.

  When I spot Kyle outside Madison Square Garden, he lights up—his face, not a cigarette; I don’t do smokers, and thankfully, he isn’t one—and we wave hello and embrace in an awkward first-time hug.

  Once we navigate our way through the Garden to our seats, Kyle sits to my left. I must say that after staring at the left side of his face for six hours yesterday, the right side is equally riveting.

  On my right is Katie Contest Winner, and she couldn’t be more excited to be here. She’s in her late thirties; what you’d call “pleasantly plump,” I’d say; and is practically bouncing in her seat with glee. It’s nice to see our winner be so appreciative. The camera crew that’s shooting coverage for the local radio station and our website shows up to interview Katie, and as I toss her questions about how she stayed up drinking Mountain Dew for twenty-four hours in order to win the contest, I try to sneak a glance at Kyle, to let him know I know he’s still there—just so he doesn’t feel left out—but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  We wrap the interview, and there’s still no sign of Kyle. It’s getting dangerously close to the time I have to introduce the band, so I tell Katie I think he’s gone to the concession stand and ask her to keep an eye out for him as I make my way down toward the stage.

  Even with my credentials, it’s hard to get backstage. There’s a wall of burly security guys in yellow jackets that say “Event Staff” in big block letters on the backs. Finally someone from another radio station recognizes me and tells one of the guys in the yellow jackets to let me through.

  Everyone’s rushing around, pushing people out of the way, tripping over cables. It’s pure chaos. Rock and roll has no calm before the storm. I look for Sam, the Stones’ tour manager, who I’m supposed to report to, and when I finally spot what I think is him, he guides me to the side of stage left and then leans down so we’re face-to-face. A little too close for my liking, actually.