With a Little Luck: A Novel (14 page)

He swallows and giggles like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Another family’s cookie jar.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We never have anything good on our floor.”

“So you just thought you’d help yourself to my cake,” I say.

“Well … I didn’t know it was yours.”

“Would that have made a difference?”

“Probably,” he says. “I’ve seen how many pretzels you eat at a time.”

Really? He’s going there? The cake isn’t even mine, but now I’m gonna pour it on thick.

“It’s good cake, right?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, somewhat guiltily.

“It’s from my favorite bakery. In San Francisco. Where it was flown in for me by my mom, who was just visiting and wanted to bring me a special treat: my favorite cheesecake.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Oh, no, it gets better,” I go on. “I’m on a diet. And that cake? Was my one treat for the entire week.”

“Um …” he says. “Then I was doing you a favor?”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“As a gender, we have no response to that. Except ‘No. Oh, no, not at all. Not you. God, no. Of course not.’ ”

“You’ve been trained well.”

“Yes, well … that’s why they pay me the not-so-big bucks to pretend I’m a relationship expert.”

“How did you get that title, might I ask?”

“I have no idea,” he says, looking sideways to make sure nobody is listening. “I suggested ‘King of the Meerkats.’ Didn’t play with
the bosses, though. So relationship expert it is. Though I’m unmeasurably unqualified. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I say.

“And your diet is safe with me,” he says. “Because I will apparently eat all of your food. I’m really sorry about that. Seriously.”

He seems genuine at this point, and I can’t take it any longer. Yes, I like to mess with people, but I can never keep it up. I always end up having to tell the truth.

“It wasn’t my cake,” I say as I breeze past him and open the fridge, slicing off a piece for myself and shoving it into my mouth. “I was just messing with you.”

And with that I walk out of the kitchen and back toward my office.

The Red Line rings just as I settle into the studio and start one of my all-time favorite songs, “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith. If you could equate songs to comfort food, this is my mac ’n’ cheese. But the Red Line is ruining the moment. There’s always a feeling of panic when you see your red line light up. It could mean that there’s an emergency; it could mean that when you thought your mic was muted, it wasn’t and you said something on-air that wasn’t meant to be heard; or it could mean that you said something that was meant to be heard but your boss didn’t appreciate it at all and you may be fired momentarily.

I watch it ring in a state of panic before I answer. Finally, I do.

“This is Berry,” I say, tentatively.

“It is so on,” says the voice on the other end of the call.

“Huh?” I say, confused.

“It’s Ryan,” he says, clarifying.

“Oh!” I say, relieved that I didn’t inadvertently let a cussword fly.

“You got me good in that kitchen,” he says. “I felt terrible.”

“Good,” I say. “Because someone is going to be upset that their cheesecake was molested.”

“You did it, too!” he says.

“I’m not saying I didn’t.”

“Well, you should know that you’ve started something here.”

“Have I?”

“And two can play at that game,” he warns.

“Bring it,” I taunt.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he says. “Listen to my show tomorrow.”

“Why?” I ask.

“This is Ryan Riley … signing off. But remember … all you need is love.”

Click.

“Here’s the thing about Prince Charming: He doesn’t exist. The truth is, ‘Happily Ever After’ is ruined in the space between ‘Someday, my prince will come’ and ‘Damn it, my prince came too soon.’ You make your own happily ever after simply by choosing to be happy. Nobody’s gonna be perfect, folks. Pick someone who doesn’t drive you completely crazy and love them.”

That would be Ryan on the radio. I’m listening to his show, as ordered. I’m a little pissed he can get away with a “came too soon” joke when I get warnings from the FCC simply for the occasional reference to Nickelback being the perfect arena rock band for the
Shithead Generation. I’m still not sure what I’m listening for, but I have to admit he can be amusing.

“That means they’re allowed to drive you crazy part of the time. Because you’ll drive them crazy, too—trust me. I try to go by the eighty-twenty rule. If your partner makes you want to scratch your own eyes out (or theirs) only twenty percent of the time? You’re golden.”

Interesting. I guess those are pretty good odds. From my past dating experience—Dead and Married excepted—I think they’re actually pretty optimistic. The phonetic similarity between Dead and Buried and Dead and Married is actually quite interesting. Something to ponder if you have too much free time or are sitting in your car, listening to the radio, waiting for your parakeet’s next missive.

“Okay, listeners. In the spirit of proving that ‘Yes, anyone can find love,’ I’m having a special contest tonight … and the winner gets a date with KKCR’s classic-rock DJ, Berry Lambert.”

Oh.

No.

He.

Didn’t.

“Look her up if you don’t know what she looks like. She’s pretty cute.”

And he called me “cute.”

“Now, Berry loves cake. She’s very protective of her cake. She’ll bring cake in to work and leave it in the fridge and then guard it with her life, checking on it throughout the day to make sure nobody’s stolen it.”

Am I really hearing this? Have I nodded off into a narcoleptic lapse of consciousness while traversing the hallways? I pray not, because Lord knows what Daryl and Jed would do if they happened upon me. I’m never surprised by how low those two will go. Did
they even watch that video human resources told us was required viewing?

“So I think a fair way to earn her love is to sing an emotional rendition of ‘MacArthur Park.’ ”

Donna Summer’s version of the tune is suddenly booming through my speakers: “Someone left the cake out in the rain.…”

“Callers, now’s your chance to sing for her love and win a date with Berry Lambert. Compliments of the station, you will get dinner for two and …”

I don’t even stay to hear what the “and” is. I race to his floor and charge in and out of offices until I see his studio and
bang
on the glass window. He looks up and smiles, giving me a thumbs-up.

I violently and repeatedly thrust my two thumbs down, which just makes him laugh. As soon as he takes a commercial break, he removes his headphones and steps out into the hall to join me.

“Are you kidding me?” I shriek.

“Well … kind of,” he says. “I’d call it more of a ‘getting you back’ than a ‘kidding’ since, well, I did promise a date.”

“I didn’t agree to that. What makes you think I need a date? Or want a date? How do you know I’m not married?”

“I asked.”

“Asked who?”

“You’re single,” he says.

“I don’t even know you. You’re a cake-stealing, fake-contest-making menace. And I’m not going on your date.”

“Yeah, you will,” he says, confidently.

“Uh—no, I won’t.”

“Sure you will,” he says. “Because you’re a good sport.”

“This has nothing to do with being a good sport,” I practically shout.

“I gotta go back in,” he says, grinning like a schoolboy fresh
from a prank in progress. And as he walks away, my cellphone rings. It’s Bill. My boss.

“Hello?”

“Berry!” he screams, and I’m certain that not only has that idiot Ryan just procured me an unwanted date, he’s also gotten me fired. “I love it! I just heard. Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this, and why didn’t you do it on KKCR?”

“Wait—what?” I ask. He’s happy about this?

“We’re gonna promote the hell out of it.”

“Okay, there’s nothing to promote. Ryan was kidding. And it was done without my knowledge or consent.”

“Do you have any idea what the phone lines did when he announced that date with you?”

“Uh …” I stumble. “No?”

“They went nuts! Guys … girls … everybody wants a date with Berry Lambert!”

“Berry Lambert never agreed to this, Bill,” I say sternly.

“Berry Lambert wants to keep her job, right?”

“Berry Lambert doesn’t think you can possibly be serious. And Berry Lambert is extremely upset that you have caused Berry Lambert to resort to referring to herself in the third person.”

“Berry, it’s all in good fun. What’s one night of your life? I’m talking to Wendell, the station manager at KKRL, and we’re both going in on the money for the date. We’re thinking a helicopter ride around the city after dinner. He’s calling me back in five.”

“I’m not getting into a helicopter, Bill!”

“It’ll be great!” he says, ignoring me. “Call you later. I love this, Berry. Good stuff! Way to think outside the box!”

He hangs up. “Good stuff,” I mimic, and then notice an intern standing about three feet to my left.

“Yes, occasionally I talk to myself,” I say.

“Hey,” she says. “We all need a pep talk every now and then.”

I smile politely and walk to the elevator. I can’t believe Ryan is doing this.

A helicopter? No. Bad enough that I’m now being forced on a date with some random stranger, but I will draw the line at the helicopter. How about my safety? Is that not something I have a right to? Fine, my time … can be sold. A dinner? To keep my job … whatever—I can deal. Helicopter? Hell, no. I call my dad to see if there’s anything legitimately unlucky about helicopters. If there are any related superstitions, he’ll know.

“Luck be a lady, tonight,”
my dad sings into the phone when he answers, channeling a not-too-bad Frank Sinatra. If he had a very bad cold. And was tone-deaf.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” He can hear it in my voice.

“Are helicopters safe?” I ask. “And do you have a cold?”

“Sure they are,” he says. Adding, “Except when they’re not. They’re like anything. Cars. Airplanes. Roller coasters. Why do you ask? Are you planning to ride in one?”

“Trying to avoid it, but, yes, there is a possibility that I will have to. I have a little situation brewing at work.”

“As long as you don’t step onto the helicopter with your left foot when boarding, you’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well,” he says. “That, and if there isn’t some engine malfunction or something gets stuck in the propeller.”

“You are not helping!” I shout.

“Aaaa … choo!” He sneezes. “Berry, it’s fine. It sounds exciting! Can I come?”

“Yes, Dad. That’s what the contest winner will want. A date with me and my dad.”

“Sounds like a new reality show,” he says. “I like it!”

“While I have no doubt that somewhere, someone would pitch and probably sell that … I’m still going with ‘no.’ ”

My call-waiting clicks, and I look to see it’s Nat.

“Daddy, I gotta call you back.”

“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all I’m good for? Helicopter-safety inquiries?”

“No, I can hear that you’re sick, so I’m gonna come by, but I gotta call you back,” I say, and click over to take Nat’s call. “Hey.”

“Oh my Christ, you’re auctioning yourself off for charity and there isn’t even a charity?”

“Thanks for making me feel even worse,” I say.

“It’s what I’m here for,” she says.

“You have no idea. This jerk DJ—”

“I know who Ryan Riley is, Berry,” she cuts me off. “He’s hot.”

“He’s a jackass,” I say. “And he made that contest up to get me back for pretending cake was my cake when it wasn’t.”

“Can you say that in English?” she says. “ ‘Pretending cake was my cake when it wasn’t’? What does that even mean?”

“There was a piece of cake in the refrigerator—on our floor, mind you, not his—and he was stealing it, and I pretended that it was mine to make him feel bad, but I was kidding.”