“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really flattered, and you’re very cute, and you have the whole clover-tattoo thing that bodes well for you, I’ll give you that, but I literally just broke up with my boyfriend like thirty seconds ago. I can’t even think about dating someone else.”
“Just so we’re clear, you did say I’m very cute just now, right?”
I can’t help but smile at his persistence, and it feels good to take my mind off my reality for a minute. “Yes, I did say you were cute.”
“Very cute, I believe it was.”
“Your point?”
“Just making sure we both have all the facts,” he says. He is charming, I’ll give him that.
“I think we’re clear,” I say.
“What are you doing here, by the way?” he asks.
“Oh … I work here.”
“Really? That’s awesome. What do you do?”
“I’m a DJ,” I say. Then add, “And a talk-show host as of late, but that’s not really my thing.”
“No?”
“The DJ part, yes. The music part is why I do what I do. But then my … now ex-boyfriend coerced me into doing a morning show with him, which I never should have done, and now I’m stuck, or maybe I’m not.… I don’t know. He really wants the show. I really … might not. I don’t know. Anyway, blah, blah, blah, that’s what I do.”
“I love that you’re into music,” he says. “You should definitely see my band one of these days. I know that sounds lame, but we’re actually pretty good.”
“What are you called?”
“Magically Delicious.”
“Really?”
He holds out his wrist to show me his clover tattoo. “You know,” he says. “The Lucky Charms commercials. It’s their tagline.”
“Oh, I know,” I say. “It was the only cereal I’d eat as a kid. Partially because I liked those little marshmallows, but also because it was all my dad would buy. We have a thing with luck … and superstitions. Me personally—I could do without the leprechaun on the front, but the fact that ‘lucky’ was in the brand name made it tolerable. I’m very superstitious. In fact, since you’re so gung-ho about going on a date with me, you should know that I’m crazy. Apparently. I have too many superstitious … beliefs. I’m extremely superstitious—that’s my thing. And I have about eleventy billion crazy little things that I believe or do or don’t do, and that’s me.”
“You done?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But I reserve the right to an addendum. Where I can further disparage myself. Oh, and even though I just told you all about my superstitious nature and I barely know you, you may not give me shit about it.… Well, maybe just a tiny bit. Within reason.”
“Noted.”
“Now I’m done.”
“Good,” he says. “I … the person you are looking at—who already thinks you’re great—also happen to be extremely superstitious. I have a freakin’ four-leaf clover tattooed on my wrist, for Christ’s sake. So not only do I think that anyone who would fault you for that is a gigantic idiot, I think that what you just disclosed does not only make you adorable … it may very well make you my soul mate.”
“Wow, we just went from a maybe first date sometime in the future to being soul mates? You move fast.”
“What can I say? I believe in fate. Do you?”
I must say it was a nice momentary distraction, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. Yes, he’s cute, and, yes, he’s got that tattoo, and, yes, he just said those things that sounded kind of incredible … but he’s just some random cute guy with a clover tattoo who may or may not be my twin. Emphasis on random. They say timing is everything. Unfortunately, his timing stinks.
I’m ten minutes late meeting Natalie because of my Clover Boy interlude, and she’s tapping her foot and looking at her watch when I walk in.
“Late much?” she asks.
“Sorry, I was being wooed.”
“He wooed you? Did he grovel? Was he on his knees? And if he was, I don’t need the gory details of your sex life, so keep them to yourself.”
“No, no, no, and wrong guy. It wasn’t Ryan.”
“Wow. You move fast.”
“He moves fast, and I didn’t agree to anything, even though he could potentially be my soul mate.”
“Hold the wedding toast,” she says. “Some other guy who I haven’t heard of is potentially your soul mate.”
“So he says.”
“And you and Ryan are broken up.”
“Correct.”
“And you have a show in a few hours, so you probably don’t want to get drunk right now.”
“Also correct.” I nod.
“But you’ll watch me down a couple, because Victor is totally stealing from me and I have to fire him if when I get back that pumpernickel bread is gone.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’ll need to hear all about the Ryan fiasco—in full detail—and apparently about your new soul mate, whom I’ve somehow never heard of. But Ryan first.”
I order a latte, and Nat orders a vodka gimlet, her new “signature drink.” I don’t question it. I download all the pertinent information to Natalie, and as soon as I finish she pulls out a penny, a piece of paper, and a pen. She rips the paper in half and writes “Ryan” on one piece and “Clover” on the other. She places the penny down on the table and makes me pick a hand.
“Pick a hand for heads,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Ryan is in one and Clover is in the other. I know you won’t willingly assign tails to someone, so pick a hand.”
“First of all,” I say, “Clover has a name—it’s Brendan.”
“Too bad. You never told me his name, and I already wrote Clover.”
“Second of all, Ryan is out. He’s done. We’re over.”
“Humor me,” she says.
“Fine,” I say, with a roll of the eyes so big I think I just saw my ear. “The right one.”
“That’s deep,” she says. “Works on many levels.”
She pulls out her right hand and unfolds the piece of paper. “Ryan.” I make her show me what’s in the left hand to make sure she wasn’t double-Ryan-ing out of some misguided loyalty to the familiar vs. the unknown. Sure enough, it says “Clover.” She was being fair.
“So Ryan is heads, Clover is tails.”
“Brendan,” I say.
“Whatever. You wanna flip, or you want me to?”
“I’ll do it,” I say, and I swipe the penny from the table.
I shake my head to reiterate that I don’t even know the point of all this, and then I toss the penny in the air.
Blues is easy to play but hard to feel.
—JIMI HENDRIX
Chapter Eighteen
Nobody who ever wanted to get into talk radio was a good person. I mean, think about it: When’s the last time someone who wasn’t a completely narcissistic egomaniac decided to get into talk? I’ll tell you when: never. Sure, there are varying degrees, but aren’t all of these people more or less blowhards who are basically just in love with the sound of their own voices?
You’ve got Howard Stern and his legion of wannabes. Howard may be a nice guy underneath his shock-jock exterior, and Private Parts was surprisingly moving, but he’s more than earned his shock-jock title, and while, yes, I admit he can be funny, and, yes, I may be genuinely curious if Lay Down Sally is actually going to have sex with five hundred men, I wouldn’t say he’s doing anything to further our society. And he’s certainly not doing the world a favor by celebrating his minions every time they manage to crash some unsuspecting event, spew nonsense, and then make sure it’s known that they did it in the name of The Howard Stern Show by saying that one magical phrase: “Baba Booey.” Never have four syllables summed up idiocy so perfectly.
There are the pompous Rush Limbaughs of the world who are so caught up in their own self-importance that they forget they’re there only to comment on political issues and i
nstead spew rhetoric as if they are actually elected government officials.
Dr. Laura? That woman has single-handedly set the women’s movement back about fifty years. Thank God she went away.
And the list goes on. All of these people have one thing in common: They are their own biggest fans. So why did I not think about this when I got involved with Ryan?
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. Because not only did I not listen to my gut … I ignored simple common sense.
When I get back to the station for my night shift, I completely disregard the scheduled playlist and instead opt for a wide selection of songs about heartache and betrayal.
I punctuate each song with commentary that, were it to be scrutinized—and I’m pretending it’s not—would be deemed bitter, angry, and teetering on the fence of bunny boiling.
I’ve had no time to cry between getting hit on by Lucky McBandmember, meeting Nat, and doing my show, so as soon as I take my headphones off at the end of the night, I make up for lost time. I’m sobbing by the time I get to the parking lot, and I have no idea how I even make it back to my apartment. My head feels like a dingy smoke-filled dive bar full of miserable people who drink during the day. When I get home, I don’t even wash my face or brush my teeth—I just get into my pajamas, and I cry on my way to bed. A soon as I’m about to turn back the covers, I think better of the teeth-brushing thing and go into the bathroom. I floss like the good girl I am, brush my teeth, and then look at myself in the mirror to see how sad I look on a scale of one to pathetic.
I don’t need to wash the makeup off because my tears have done it for me, leaving an artistic streak of mascara down my right cheek. So artistic, in fact, that I grab my iPhone and take pictures of myself in the mirror so I’ll have a record of my misery. I take one of my whole face—no smile, obviously. One of just the right side. One close-up of the eye … which comes out blurry, so I then take a series of miserable, right-eye close-ups to get the angle just right and the despondency properly captured. When I’m pleased with my selection, I start firing them off to Nat, not even to say “I’m so sad,” but more because I’m quite proud of my work. I could do an exhibit of My Sad Self and call it just that.
Seconds later my iPhone chimes with an email from Natalie.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Go to bed.
Seriously. Get out of your bathroom and go to bed.
—Nat
p.s. I fired Victor.
p.p.s. I rehired him because I felt guilty. I left $5s, $10s, and $20s around the kitchen and he didn’t take a dime. I even left a dime. He didn’t touch it. I can’t fire him if he’s literally stealing food because he’s hungry. Don’t tell anyone I have a heart.
p.p.p.s. I told him if he ever steals so much as a shallot again I will mince his balls, sauté them in a white wine and garlic reduction, and force-feed them to him.
I walk into work wearing dark Jackie O sunglasses, and it looks like I’m trying to be fashionable and aloof, but the truth is I got a total of about eleven minutes of sleep, my eyes are bloodshot, and I look like crap. My first post-breakup show with Ryan. How are we going to deal with this? Do we pretend everything’s fine? Do we make some big announcement?
I’m self-conscious as I walk down the halls. I wonder if people know, if they’ll act differently. I feel like I’m in high school all over again … and I used to be half of “the most popular couple” but now we broke up and everyone’s going to be whispering about it.
Then I see him. He’s standing over the coffee machine, talking to Brad Stevens, our sports guy. Big Brad Stevens, who moonlights as a traffic guy, the secret I know only because Ryan told me. How would Ryan feel if I told Brad I know he does traffic? My ears start to ring a little, and then a lot, and things get a little fuzzy and I feel like I might faint, so I steady myself against the wall and try to take a few breaths.
This is all I need, I think. I’m going to pass out perfectly positioned in the direct sightline of Ryan and Moonlighting Brad. I’m going to faint right here, and they’ll think it’s because I’m so distraught over my breakup, and sure, partially it is, but they’re also not taking other factors into consideration: general anxiety; stress; zero sleep last night; Talouse, my fat mustachioed French rapist. These are all major factors.
But somehow I pull it together. I decide that it’s bad karma for me to even be thinking about telling Brad I was aware of his scheme. That’s just not who I am. Which is why it hurt so much when Ryan couldn’t respect those sacred boundaries.
When I’m certain that I’m not going to face-plant, I walk over to the coffee machine because I need coffee, too, and Ryan doesn’t own the coffee machine. We both need to caffeinate before our show—Lord knows I do.
When he sees me his mouth tightens, then forms into a polite smile but certainly not a warm one. I smile back and simultaneously feel like I’m going to throw up. He doesn’t say anything, so I don’t say anything. I’m not going to be the first one to say something. He owes me an apology, really, and at no point did he acknowledge that he did betray my trust. Plus, we’re broken up, and it’s not exactly like he was fighting for me, so to hell with him.
I punch the buttons on the machine to make me a below-average “Starbucks” cappuccino, and by the time it starts brewing, Ryan is long gone. Good. Fine by me. We can speak on the radio and only on the radio.
I decide I’m not going to announce to our listening audience that we are no longer a “we,” because what’s the point? If it comes out, it will happen organically. We can still bullshit with each other on-air and talk about hot topics and do what we do that for whatever reason people want to hear. I’m definitely not going to make a big deal out of the breakup. It’s nobody’s business.
“Ryan and I are no longer a couple,” I find myself saying as soon as our intro music finishes. “Might as well get it out there right up front. We broke up. So while the tagline for our show is ‘It’s so on,’ I’m somewhat sorry to report that our relationship is definitely off.”
So much for nobody’s business.
But at least I took the bull by the horns. What’s that they say in public relations about “shaping the conversation”? Well, I just shaped the conversation before Ryan could. I wonder how he’ll respond.
“I wondered how we were going to navigate this one,” Ryan says into his mic, “but thank you, Berry, for so succinctly taking the lead.”
Can’t read much from that. Wonder when the other shoe will drop.
Of course, the phone lines immediately light up. I look through the glass to see Bill’s reaction. Clearly Ryan hadn’t let the cat out of the bag around the office, either, because Bill’s turning red and maybe even slightly purple. He’s waving his arms and trying to mouth something, and I’m pretty sure I get the gist.
Ryan punches a line. “Caller, you’re on the air.”
“Who broke up with whom?” the girl asks.
“That’s none of your business,” I answer.
“Berry broke up with me,” Ryan says. Oh, so that’s how he’s gonna play it. I steel myself for an interesting show.
“Are you really broken up, or are you Eminem-and-Kim broken up?”
Ryan looks at me, and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment. I speak first. “We’re really broken up.”
“Why’d you break up with him?” the caller asks.
“We’re only taking one question at a time, and you already got yours answered,” I say, and then disconnect her.
I know I can’t deflect this forever. I knew this was coming. But damn it, I’m not giving in without a fight.
Ryan punches in another caller. “You’re live with Ryan and Berry.…”
“You can’t just leave us hanging,” a male voice says. “Was it the fact that foreplay wasn’t his forte?”
I don’t have the strength to be cute about this.
“You know, that was a misleading day,” I say.
“Things were misstated and blown out of proportion.” I wonder, Why am I protecting him? “I’m not going to bring our sex life into this. That’s what Ryan’s nighttime show is for. Let’s move on to the news.”
“You guys are the news,” says Patrick, our board operator, and the rest of the morning crew laugh.
“Caller, you’re on the air,” Ryan says.
“Can I talk to Berry?” a male voice asks.
“You are,” I chime in. “What none-of-your-business question would you like to ask me?”
“Well,” he says, “I was wondering if you reconsidered going out with me?”
“Brendan?” I ask.
“Who’s Brendan?” Ryan says, his head cocked backward like he’s truly perplexed.
“He’s nobody,” I say.
“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” Brendan says.
“This isn’t a good time,” I say. “Thanks for your call, Brendan.”
“Hold up,” Ryan says. “Hi, Brendan.” When he says Brendan’s name, he looks like he’s smelling a fart.
“Hey, man,” Brendan says. “Sorry about your breakup.”
“Yeah, you seem real sorry,” Ryan says. “Tell me, dear Brendan, what made you think now would be a good time to ask Berry out?”
“Well,” Patrick chimes in, “you asked her out live on the radio, too, Ryan.”
“Not helping, Patrick,” Ryan says.
“She’s single, isn’t she?” Brendan asks.
Ryan looks at me for a long beat. I’m not saying a thing. This is beyond awkward. Ryan can handle it.
“Yeah, bro. She’s single.”
Stay little Valentine stay
Each day is Valentine’s Day.
—LORENZ HART
With a Little Luck: A Novel Page 20