With a Little Luck: A Novel

by Caprice Crane

  “You know what?” the caller says. “I’ll bet you’re so frigid you haven’t even done it yet. And it sounds like you seriously need to get laid, so maybe you should get on that.”

  Is this really happening live on the radio? All I can manage to do is toss it to Ryan, hoping he’ll tell this guy where he can shove it.

  “Ryan?”

  “Bro, that’s not cool,” Ryan says. “And if you’re this concerned with our love life, it sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid. Good luck with that. You’ll need it.”

  This was what I’d been worried about all along, this inherent invasion of privacy. I know you give up a certain quantity of rights when you put yourself in the public eye, even at the radio level. Tabloid journalism is so popular these days, it’s just something you have to accept. But when you’re just a radio DJ with a modest following, should strangers be able to grill you on how many dates it took for you to get between the sheets?

  Apparently, yes. I discover this later that night. Ryan and I are at Swingers, a restaurant that’s open late for second-shift people like me and late-night eaters who must have really good metabolisms.

  “You might need to lighten up a little,” Ryan says, with a knowing, almost obnoxious shrug.

  “You might need to consider that I don’t want to broadcast when we first had sex on the radio.”

  “That’s part of the deal,” Ryan says.

  “Not the part I signed up for! Ryan, we’ve talked about this. I know I have to be open about some things. But there are limits. I signed up to host a morning show, not to be your sidekick in Ryan’s Sexy-Time Show Part Deux.”

  I can tell he’s stung. We sit in silence for much longer than is comfortable. I don’t want to take it back, because it’s true. But I just belittled his other show, something that I’d find infuriating and a little heartbreaking if Ryan had done it to me.

  And the beat goes on. And by “beat,” I mean Ryan tapping his foot aggressively, either trying to think of a comeback or trying not to say the one that’s on the tip of his tongue.

  Finally I speak, because the tapping is unbearable.

  “Look, I don’t want to fight with you—” I start.

  “Ryan’s Sexy-Time Show?” he interrupts.

  “I’m sorry. I know it sounded demeaning. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Okay, then what did you mean?”

  “I meant to … I just meant … I just wanted to make it clear that I didn’t want our show to be about sex and relationships … like your show is. I mean, isn’t our show a morning show? Would you classify that as ‘morning fodder’?” At this point, I can’t stop my mouth from moving. “Is Regis asking Kelly about the last time Mark gave it to her good?”

  “Slow down,” Ryan says. “That’s where we’re having a disconnect here. I didn’t ask you about your sex life. That was a caller. A caller I defended you from, by the way. Honestly, though, Berry, I shouldn’t have had to do that. You punted to me, and I knew you were upset, but people can ask what they want. That’s kind of how a morning show works. Occasionally you take calls, and occasionally the callers are assholes, but we can’t censor them.”

  “We censor them all the time. That’s what the screeners are for. And I really don’t think they should be allowed to ask about our sex life!”

  And again we sit in silence. Finally, Ryan opens his mouth, and I’m hoping he’s going to say something that guides us to the making-up part of this argument, because I hate this, hate this, hate this.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” he says. He leaves without even looking at me.

  I sit there, shaking, waiting for him to return, wondering whether we’ll find a way to agree on this when he returns. I don’t know. Maybe this type of show just isn’t for me. Maybe I just said yes to make Ryan happy. Sure, it’s great exposure, but I’m not even sure I want exposure. I love music. I got into this business because I live and breathe music, and I thought, how cool would it be to be a DJ—to introduce people to new bands and sounds and to be the first person to say, “Here’s the new unreleased song by so-and-so …”? Granted, I’m working at a classic-rock station, so there’s not too much introduction happening, but that’s why I got into radio. To turn people on to great music and to be a part of a sadly dying business but at least to be a part of it in some capacity while I still could. I wanted to expose people to music … not to me.

  “That’s heads up,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see a guy I don’t know, pointing down toward my right foot. I look down and see a penny, heads up. “Heads up means it’s lucky. You should pick it up.”

  He’s telling me? I look back up at the guy—who, if we’re being honest, happens to be pretty good-looking, not that I’m looking—and I notice he has a four-leaf clover tattooed on his wrist. Are you kidding me?

  “I know it’s good luck,” I say. “I’m like a beacon of superstitious knowledge.”

  “Then you better get on that,” he says, and nods to the penny. I pick it up, wincing when my fingers touch Swingers’ potentially not very sanitary floor.

  “Are you Irish?” I ask, motioning at his tattoo, hoping he’ll say yes, and that’s why he has the clover tattoo, because the last thing I need right now is a sign that I’m with the wrong guy, so maybe if this extremely good-looking person with deep brown eyes I could get lost in for three weeks is just Irish and not a proponent of luck or superstitions or anything I can relate to, he’ll just go on his merry way and I can get back to fighting with my boyfriend—the one who is technically unlucky Guy Number Three in a string of Bad News Boys.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Plus, in college I somehow earned the nickname Lucky, and it stuck.…”

  Fantastic. “Oh,” I say. It’s all I can muster.

  Ryan saves me from having to say anything more. He returns to the table, his head cocked to the side, on his face a genuine look that says “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

  “I know you’re not used to this,” he blurts. “I know your radio and my radio are two entirely different animals … and you’re not used to the kinds of animals who call into my show.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I know you’re not used to this,” he starts, repeating what he said, riffing off my “you can say that again,” and it breaks the tension. We’re back on track. I look up to see if Lucky Penny Guy has caught this moment of mature relationship conversation, but he’s gone, so I focus back on Ryan and on making up.

  Our show’s third month is our best ever, ratings-wise, and I have to say, I’ve learned to lighten up … for the most part. I feel I’m growing comfortable with my private life being quasi-public as long as I’m in control of it. As long as the things we share are about the movie we saw last night or the restaurant we went to or how I nailed “Fergalicious” at karaoke. That’s all fine.

  Until Ryan, during a show, casually mentions my undergarments being strewn around my apartment.

  “Now, I do think lingerie is important,” he says to a caller, who is complaining that his girlfriend wears “ugly granny panties” and he wishes she would try a little harder. “But you should be talking to Berry here. She thinks lingerie is so important that it should be seen at all times, hence she leaves her bras and panties on the dresser, the bed, or the bathroom floor whenever she’s done wearing them.”

  I’m stunned. I’m speechless. But only momentarily. I find my mouth moving before I can even stop it.

  “Funny you mention that, Ryan,” I say. “Mission accomplished.”

  He looks confused but rolls with it—he’s got his “Dr. Love” face on. “I didn’t know there was a mission. Want to enlighten us?”

  “Well, folks,” I say, “Ryan here is always in such a hurry to get to the ‘good part’ that he wouldn’t know if I was wearing silk and lace or an ex-boyfriend’s boxers. So, yes, occasionally I’ll leave them on the dresser just so maybe he’ll take a hint … like, oh, she wears sexy things under her clothes
… perhaps I should take a moment when undressing her to actually notice.”

  He must hear the bite in my voice, because he pauses. And Ryan never pauses.

  “I … I had no idea you felt so strongly about whether I noticed your underwear,” he says, sounding genuinely uncomfortable.

  A normal person would have ended it right there. But oh, no, not me. I’m out for blood. Ryan’s pushed it too far. “Yeah, that’s pretty clear,” I say and everyone in the control booth laughs, egging me on … so I deliver. “There’s a word for it.… What is it again? Oh, right, ‘foreplay.’ ” On “fore-,” I slam one hand down on the desk and use the other to shoot Ryan a nasty thumbs-up.

  “Ouch,” Ryan says under his breath. I notice him turning a little red, something I’ve never seen before. I immediately feel awful.

  “You heard it here first,” Ryan says into the mic, taking it on the chin. “Your trusted Dr. Love apparently has no idea what he’s doing in the sack.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I say, but the damage is done. Ryan’s not letting me off the hook.

  “Oh, don’t backpedal now, Ber.”

  “I said nothing about your … lovemaking.” I pause for a second, because I just said “lovemaking” on the radio, and I’m now actually actively participating in a discussion about my sex life, and this is spiraling into something really stupid. We’re in this uncomfortable area between doing a bit and really digging into each other, and I’m not sure where this is going. I was genuinely pissed about the underwear comment, but this is taking on a life of its own. I try to make amends. “I was just teasing you because … some lingerie is just meant to be seen. Women spend ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculously tiny items that more often than not go completely unnoticed.”

  “Then why don’t we put a photo collage of your regretfully unnoticed lingerie up on our website? Then everyone can see it.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think so. And, hey, wonder of wonders, it’s time for a commercial break. Stay tuned, folks. We’ll be right back.” My phone rings. Mom. Great. I have to take this one. I can practically see the disappointment on the caller ID.

  I pick up the phone and walk out of the sound booth, glancing once back at Ryan to give him a dirty look. I’ve barely flipped the thing open before Mom starts.

  “You’re not exactly setting a good example here,” she says. “You’re kind of a role model now, Berry.”

  “Well, Mom,” I say, “that may be. But good example versus bad example really depends on the role you want to play.”

  Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.

  —DR. SEUSS

  Chapter Sixteen

  You don’t know humiliation until your minor on-air tiff with your boyfriend is reduced to a minute-and-forty-five-second MP3 that’s been shared, embedded, podcasted, and otherwise made viral by D-list gossip sites and is spreading around the Internet like wildfire. One minute you’re Ryan and Berry, co-hosts of Morning Mayhem, and the next you’re “the girl who leaves her underwear all over the apartment and her ‘sexpert’ boyfriend who thinks ‘foreplay’ is a rock group from the eighties.”

  Mayhem indeed, especially when your sexpert hasn’t said more than six off-air words to you in three days.

  My dad calls, which immediately snaps me out of my self-loathing, at least for the moment, when I see his name on my caller ID.

  “My friend just forwarded me something on the email,” he says. He calls it “the email,” which is cute and anachronistic and incorrect. My dad may have his issues—many and varied—but at least he’s too computer illiterate (and hopefully even if he wasn’t, he would still not be compelled) to look at Asian-teen porn. I think he’s going to tell me some stupid lawyer joke for a brief three seconds before he adds, “My little girl’s all grown up … and wearing lingerie, apparently.”

  Never before now have I wished that I was on a bad cell that drops calls every three seconds until you’re so frustrated you figure you’ll just see that person within the next few months, anyway. But wish as I might that I could un-hear my father telling me that my underwear is a hot topic among his friends, this is what’s become my life.

  “I will say, Ber, that whether this guy appreciates it or not—and if he doesn’t, good riddance to the louse—it’s always a nice gesture to wear something sexy.”

  “Dad!” I shout. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”

  “What, we’re not friends? I’m your pal, Berry. If you can’t talk about this stuff with me, then who can you talk about it with?”

  “Wow, um, pretty much anyone else?” I reply. “This is not appropriate discussion for a father and a daughter.”

  “Appropriate, shmappropriate” is his comeback. “Your mother used to wear very sexy nighties.”

  “La, la, la,” I interject. “I can’t hear you, and when I stop talking, I want you to never say anything like that again and immediately change the subject or just hang up if you can’t manage, because this is unbearable. One, two, three, new subject—”

  “Can I stay at your place for a few days?” he says suddenly, definitely changing the subject.

  “What—um, yeah, of course, but what’s wrong with your place?”

  “Nothing …” he says, much like a child who’s just been caught doing something wrong but lies when you ask what’s going on.

  “Dad,” I say, “let’s be real here. You are welcome to stay with me, but what is it? Are you in trouble? Is someone after you?”

  “Berry, come on. Do you think if I was in any kind of danger I would bring that danger straight to you?”

  “No,” I say, feeling guilty for even suggesting it. “Then what is it?”

  “Can’t a guy just want to spend time with his daughter?”

  “Dad …”

  “My electricity’s turned off.”

  “Oh, Dad,” I say, and sigh. “Give me your account number, I’ll pay the bill.”

  “It’s okay, honey. I got it. I just need a few days to get back on my feet.”

  “Dad, you’re welcome to stay with me, but I want to get your electricity back on. I’m sure you have food in the fridge.…” Once I think about that, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, but regardless, he needs to have electricity.

  “I don’t feel right asking you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking me. I’m offering. It’s fine. I have two jobs right now. Really, it’s no problem.”

  “My big girl. My big grown-up famous girl. My grown-up girl who wears lingerie—”

  “Dad!” I interrupt. “We covered that already. We’re not talking about that anymore, remember? Now, what’s your account number?”

  “That’s ridiculous. No. I’m not—no.”

  “Dad.”

  “Now, Beryl, I won’t hear of it.” And the “Beryl,” seldom heard, indicates serious business. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Dad, this is much easier. Really. What’s the account number?”

  And with barely a second’s delay, he’s spouting numbers at me. “Four eight seven, seven zero zero … Wait, there are three zeroes, and I don’t know if they need this hyphen.…”

  The number secure, I throw in casually, “And how much are you owing?”

  “Uh, let me … Hmm. I had it, maybe on this page here.” I hear shuffling. Too much shuffling. How many pages are in the average electric bill? “Okay, here it is. Five hundred eighty-nine sixty.”

  I gulp as quietly as I can manage. Sure, I could freak out, gasp in horror, repeat the number. But Dad and I are well beyond those histrionics. You can humiliate someone only so many times before it loses its charm. And at the same time, I’m guessing that this isn’t exactly an ideal teaching moment. He’s too far gone to be starting with Shame 101. Meanwhile, my doorbell rings.

  I let Natalie in, wave to show her I’m on the phone and will be with her in a second, and then walk back to my d
esk to finish taking down my dad’s information. Nat drops her bag on the floor and starts an über-competitive game of tug-of-war with Moose and his sock monkey. In case they don’t turn his electricity on immediately, I tell Dad where he can find my spare key, but he assures me that Southern California Edison has an excellent response time. I hang up and file the conversation in my mental hard drive alongside the dozens—maybe hundreds—of others I wish I could drag into the little trash can.

  “Would you like to permanently delete these umpty-million conversations?” Click “yes.” And you’re left with a pleasant emptiness—and no knowledge that you’d ever had a dad this helpless.

  I turn to Nat, who has an understanding look on her face and has mercifully brought coffee.

  “Dude,” she says, “I know you must be freaking right now, but it’s really not a huge deal.”

  “For me it kind of is,” I say.

  “I hear you,” she says. “I do … but this, too, shall pass.”

  She hands me a coffee.

  “Ryan asked me to have dinner with him tonight,” I tell her.

  “And that’s different from … any other night how?”

  “His asking felt weighty. Like maybe we’re breaking up or something.”

  “No.” Natalie waves my idea away like I just blew cigarette smoke in her face. “No way. He’s nuts about you.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He is Guy Number Three. Maybe this is all signs of worse to come. Maybe I should just trust my instincts.”

  “Those aren’t instincts. Instincts are when a guy you’re seeing fast-whispers ‘I gotta go’ into the phone every time you walk up to him and slams his phone shut, and you think, Abort mission. That’s instincts working for you. What you have is buggy-eyed crazies.”

  “Nat, I love you, but you can’t call me crazy.”

  “I didn’t. I called the rejection of this man crazy. You don’t want to break up with him,” she says. “Preemptively or not.”