With a Little Luck

by Caprice Crane

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Yes, I’m ready. I thought there was perhaps something else. My bad.” I hate the phrase “my bad,” and I hate that I said it, but the situation is already awkward enough and I just need a transition to get me out of his office.

  We’ve done contests before. I’ve picked winners before. I suppose on the off chance that every caller, one after the next, got the answers wrong there could possibly be a problem, but I doubt that’s ever happened in the history of call-in radio contests. I’m not sure why he needed me there twenty minutes early just to ask me if I’m ready, but I need to let it go or it will ruin my day.

  I pass Jed and Daryl, who are in the studio, taping an on-air segment for their cable show.

  “Hey, Berry,” Daryl shouts, and I pretend not to hear him, but Jed taps on the glass to get my attention.

  “Hey, guys,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  I don’t want to be part of whatever they have going on. Usually it’s some sort of offensive stunt they’re pulling in an effort to grab the audience Howard Stern lost when he went to satellite radio, with the attendant “What size are those?” and “How many times have you taken it in the butt?” sprinkled here and there.

  “Berry, come on in here. This is Jasmine, and that’s Desiree.”

  Of course they are “Jasmine” and “Desiree.” From the bad dye-jobs, the barely there clothing, and the copious amounts of lip gloss, I’d be disappointed if their names were anything but “Jasmine” and “Desiree.” Their boobs look like if you got too close with a sharp object they’d burst, causing the gals to go whizzing around the room like deflating balloons.

  “Hello,” I say, and keep my head down. I don’t want to give them anything that can be reworked into a sound bite.

  “Berry’s going to New York City to introduce a lucky winning fan to the Rolling Stones,” Jed says. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “Awesome,” one of the Barbie Twins says.

  “Oh my God,” the other chimes in. “I would totally do Mick Jagger, even though he’s like a hundred years old.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to pass along the message,” I say, and try to duck back out of the room.

  “What would you be willing to do to be that lucky winner?” Daryl asks the girls.

  “Anything,” they say simultaneously. As if we didn’t expect that.

  “Would you make out with each other?” Daryl asks.

  They look at each other and giggle, start running their fingers through each other’s overly processed hair.

  “They probably do that all the time,” Jed interjects. “What about Berry here? Do you think she’s hot?”

  “That’s okay,” I interrupt. “You don’t need to answer. I was just leaving.”

  “She’s cute,” one of them says. I don’t see which one, because I’m trying to leave. I also hate the word “cute,” so I’m glad I didn’t see who said it. Not that I expected a “She’s gorgeous” or “breathtaking” or “She’s too beautiful! Don’t look directly at her—it’s like staring at the sun, you’ll go blind.” But “cute” just feels like such a consolation prize. Particularly for women who never describe other women as less than “cute.” Men hear a woman describe another woman as “cute” and they hear “cyclops.”

  “Would you want to make out with her?” Jed asks.

  “I would,” Tweedle Dumb says. Then she adds, “Especially if I get to meet Mick Jagger.”

  “I’d do it just because,” Tweedle Dumber says, and while my ego appreciates the vote of confidence, my soul feels like it’s being sucked farther out of my body every second that I remain in Daryl and Jed’s lair.

  “I’d pay for her plane ticket myself if—” Jed starts, but I cut him off.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say, a bit too loudly. “And gals,” I add to the strippers. “I’m flattered. So we’re clear that for money or concert tickets these lovely ladies would make out with me. But what America really wants to know is whether there’s enough money in the world to get one of them to make out with either of you. Now I really have to go prepare for my show, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Oh! Snap!” Daryl says. “Thanks for stopping by, Berry.” He sneers up at me from the mic. “Remember, folks, if you want all classic rock and a chick who really needs some bleep, tune in to Berry’s nighttime show from seven p.m. to midnight. Maybe call in and see if she’ll change her mind.…”

  I can still hear him blathering as I walk down the hallway. There’s only one Howard Stern. Just because there are two of these guys doesn’t mean they’re twice as potent. Just makes them twice as pathetic for biting someone else’s style. One upside to my hostile work environment? Absolutely zero chance of stumbling into an awkward sexual relationship with a co-worker.

  As soon as I start the second-to-last Stones song, the phones start ringing. No, dummies. That’s only nine.

  “KKCR,” I say, as I answer the phone.

  “Am I it? Did I win? Is this Berry?” says the caller.

  “No, no, and yes,” I say.

  “But—”

  “This is the ninth song. I’m sorry, but we have one more to go.”

  “And what are the odds of me getting through again when it’s the tenth,” he asks.

  I’m stumped. I’m not sure how to answer him. I know the odds can’t be that good, but then again, how many people are so committed that they’ve listened to the station for twenty-four hours straight?

  “Well …” I start.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I know I won’t get through.”

  He sounds so defeated.

  “You never know,” I say. “I hope you do.”

  “My mom is sick, and she really loves the Stones so much. I was hoping to win so I could take her. She has cancer.”

  “Oh, gosh,” I say, genuinely feeling like crap. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “How about a date to make it up to me?” he asks, changing the subject rather quickly.

  “I don’t date callers,” I say. “It sets a bad precedent.”

  “Pretend I didn’t call,” he says. “I’ll forfeit my chances of winning and not call back when you play the next song if you will have dinner with me.”

  Something’s definitely off. “I’m very flattered,” I answer, “but I really can’t say yes. Plus, there’s still a chance you can win and then take your mom to the concert.”

  Then I hear a giggle, which confirms it. Someone’s messing with me. This is the trouble with radio. And phones. And people.

  “Please!” he says now, in a loud, aggressive wail. Clearly mocking me. “Please!”

  “I’m going to do what you asked and pretend you didn’t call.” I hang up and take a few breaths. I wish I could say this was the first or fifth of fiftieth time I’ve had a prank caller, but I couldn’t even begin to count the number of prank calls I’ve had if my life depended on it.

  The thing is, everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, even if they get there by being a complete jerk. What the majority of these people don’t realize is that just because someone at the station answers their call, it does not mean that they will be heard live on the radio. We have screening processes for that exact reason. The screeners haven’t failed me in a long time, and it takes me a second to recover—who lies about their mother having cancer? I wait until I’ve successfully started the next song and then get up to take a short walk to shake it off. I know we’re going into a commercial break after the song, so I have at least six minutes to regroup, long enough for a little trip to the vending machines.

  No highfalutin cafeteria for us here at the station. Nope, we’ve got two vending machines and a pseudo-Starbucks coffeemaker. I put my dollar in and opt for the seventy-five-cent bag of pretzels. Deciding that the bag is not large enough, I put another dollar in and buy another bag. Now I have two quarters, and it will cost only one more to get a third bag, and I’m pretty sure I have one in my pocket.… Yup, there it is, so I insert the three quart
ers into the machine and get my third bag. Of course, I’ll feel required to eat them all, and I’m moments from being a walking ball of bad carbohydrates and refined flour and sodium, but it was really the only move that made sense. Fiscally, I mean. It was just one more quarter. And two bags would have been an even number, and we all know I don’t like even things.

  I spin around with enough pretzels to feed Haitian refugees for a decade and suddenly I’m face-to-face with none other than Ryan Riley, aka Dr. Love on KKRL. We’ve somehow never met, but I see him on billboards, and his show has gotten so popular recently that it’s impossible not to know who he is. He’s shorter than I would have imagined. He’s still tall. Taller than me for sure. He’s just not a billboard.

  “Hungry?” he asks, motioning to the three bags of pretzels in my hands.

  “Just how many pretzels can one consume before their innards turn to cement?” I reply. “I aim to find out.”

  And with that, I rush off to get in the elevator and back to my booth to play the final Stones song. I’ve already decided on “Tumbling Dice,” a gambling song. Maybe my father will be the tenth caller?

  Once I’m settled back into my chair, headphones on, half a bag of pretzels consumed, I already feel better. The most amusing part of telling a caller that they are the winner is the scream of elation when I let them know. And by “amusing,” I mean “makes my ears bleed.”

  The board lights up, and I answer the first call.

  “This is Berry, but you’re the first caller. Try back!” I disconnect and do more or less the same thing for the next eight callers. Then I answer the winning call.

  “Hello, caller number ten!” I say.

  “Really?” says the woman on the line. “I won?”

  “Well, you’re the tenth caller,” I answer. “Provided you get all ten songs right, yes, you will win.”

  “Oh my God!” she screeches.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Katie Preston.”

  “Hi, Katie Preston. Are you a big Stones fan?”

  “Huge. Like … huge! I haven’t slept in thirty-two hours. I listened nonstop.”

  “Well, all right then, my sleep-deprived friend … Let ’er rip!”

  “Okay, okay … um … ‘Start Me Up’ … ‘Brown Sugar’ … um … ‘Angie’ … ‘Satisfaction’ … ‘Monkey Man’ … ‘Gimme Shelter’ … I said ‘Satisfaction,’ right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You’re doing great. Four more …”

  “ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ ”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I find myself saying out loud.

  “ ‘Beast of Burden.’ ”

  “Right, two more, almost there …” I say.

  “ ‘Ruby Tuesday’ and ‘Tumbling Dice’!”

  I pause for effect. You always have to pause for dramatic effect in moments like this. But not too long, because it’s radio and you never want dead air.

  “Congratulations, Katie,” I say. “You’re going to New York City to meet the Rolling Stones!”

  There’s more screeching, and then I place her on hold so she can give our station manager her contact information and they can work out all the details. It definitely feels good to make this girl’s dream come true. I’ve gotten used to some of the perks and maybe even a little jaded—but it’s moments like these when I’m reminded that not everybody gets to do this for a living. I take a second to breathe that in and remember that I am so fortunate to share in that moment of unadulterated joy with a fellow human being. So blessed. You could almost say … lucky.

  But that would be jinxing it. So I tap the strip of wood trim that rims the booth at about waist level.

  There are only two reasons to sit in the back row of an airplane: either you have diarrhea, or you’re anxious to meet people who do.

  —HENRY KISSINGER

  Chapter Five

  If you ask people to choose the “best rock-and-roll band of all time,” you’re frequently going to hear strong opinions from two camps: Team Beatles and Team Rolling Stones. I can see the arguments for both. The rivalry was never actually between the bands, as far as I know. They were clearly each their own thing. The Beatles wanted to “Hold Your Hand,” and the Stones suggested you make a dead man … well … come.

  With the Beatles, you have a group that strived to push new boundaries with production and songwriting. You’d hear extreme growth from them, in every way, on each record. They stopped touring at a very early stage in their career, which permitted them to be without creative limitation in their record making. No worries regarding how to reproduce something live, because they never played live.

  In the case of the Rolling Stones, you have a band that basically limited themselves to rock and blues but remained exciting and after forty-five-plus years are still kicking ass. And they have written not one but lots of the greatest rock-and-roll songs of all time. Not bad. Not to mention they were once a kick-ass blues band. If you haven’t heard Exile on Main Street—get it.

  Personally, I’m Switzerland in that debate. I can see both sides. There will also always be a soft spot in my heart for the Kinks, who were Oasis years before Oasis. Their fights were real and born out of creativity. And who else had the balls to write an arena anthem based on the humiliation of making out with a dude?

  You’ll also hear arguments for the Clash, and I would absolutely be the first in line to rally for them, but a) longevity matters, and b) being declared “best band of all time” makes you part of the “establishment,” which would just about kill the remaining living members of the Clash.

  My mom, in any event, is Team Stones, which I’m reminded of over breakfast the morning before my flight to New York.

  “Are you ready for your trip?” she asks. Ever the mother. She’s far more concerned with the contents of my suitcase than I am.

  “Define ‘ready,’ ” I say.

  “Why do you always wait until the last minute to pack?”

  “Because I do. I don’t know why. Because I like to have everything I need until I don’t need it. Because I don’t know until the last minute what I’m going to wear or bring.”

  “Aren’t you excited?”

  “Not really. It’s a pretty standard trip—in and out.”

  “Says the girl seeing the band that her mom stayed up all night, outside in line in the pouring rain, to get concert tickets for before she was even born.”

  “I can’t decide if that makes you or the Stones older, but it’s kind of profound.”

  “It’s me,” she says. “I’m ancient.”

  “Yet unlike Keith Richards, you don’t get full-body blood transfusions every few years to keep your corpse alive.”

  “Does he really do that?”

  “Supposedly,” I say, tentatively poking at that last, less-than-perfect strawberry on my plate. “Although he denies this in his book.”

  How would I know for sure? That’s the rumor. But then there are so many rumors about the bands that make up our playlist, it’s actually quite fascinating. Take Stevie Nicks. Supposedly Stevie’s assistant had to blow coke up her ass because she’d completely destroyed her nasal passages from snorting. Is that true? I doubt it somehow. Something kept alive by bitter Christine McVie fans, maybe. But the rumor lives on.

  Then there’s the rumor that Mama Cass died choking on a ham sandwich. That one is absolutely not true. But people will swear it is. Rod Stewart supposedly got his stomach pumped after swallowing a gallon of semen. Let’s pause there for a minute. Do you know how much a gallon is? Think of putting down a full gallon jug of milk. I mean, who comes up with this stuff?

  “Have you seen your father?”

  I wait a beat before I answer. She still loves him. I know she does. She’d never admit it, and maybe she can’t even see past her disappointment to find the love, but I know it’s there. “Yeah, I saw him a couple days ago.”

  “Did you give him money?” she asks. Straight to the point, as always.

 
; “No.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, baby?” she asks, not angry but sad. “Why do you let him guilt you like that? He’s supposed to be the parent.”

  “He does the best he can,” I say.

  “His best is pretty pathetic.”

  “I know, Mom. Just let it go. We know he’s not the Prince Charming you signed up for, and he’s not breaking any records for excellence in parenting. But he’s still my dad. He’s the only one I have. And you’re not ancient.”

  “Tell that to my smooth neck skin if you run into it somewhere.”

  My mom is really beautiful. Far more beautiful than she thinks she is. I guess when your husband is more interested in playing with a deck of cards than playing with you, it does wonders for your self-esteem. But he’s an addict in the truest sense, and she knows that, so I wish she wouldn’t take it personally. Gauge your self-worth by the opinions of people whose opinions aren’t worth a rat’s rear end and pretty soon you’re going to be living in a cave.

  My mom is my rock. She’s calm and cool; she’s rational and levelheaded; she’s the complete opposite of me. She’s not the type of person who walks through a casino in her lilac-and-butterflies nightgown. And then yells at her husband. Hysterically. For all to see. She’s refined. She doesn’t lose control like that. That night was the first time I ever saw her cry. And the last time. Sometimes I wish she would let go a little more, throw caution to the wind, drink regular milk instead of nonfat. But then she wouldn’t be the person I count on, I guess. Or the person here at this restaurant who will not send back her runny eggs even though she asked for them to be well done.

  “It’s fine, honey,” she says.

  “It’s not fine, Mom,” I counter. “You ordered them well done. You should have what you asked for. And also not get salmonella.”

  “I’d rather not bother them,” she says. “It’s fine.”

  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.