I, of course, end up paying off his tab, we leave his car in the lot, and I drive him home, him waking up only every so often to reminisce about how he was up for that one golden hour. And how if we’d stayed just a little longer he’d have won it back.
Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it.
—BILL COSBY
Chapter Fourteen
Days of the week may not be odd or even per se, but in my estimation they are. Monday is odd, Tuesday is even—while odd sounding it is the second day of the week, which is an even number—therefore Wednesday is odd, but I feel the same way about Wednesday as I do the number five. It’s so “in the middle” it feels borderline, but it’s not. And Thursday feels odd … but it’s not. And so on. Sunday and Monday are both odd in my estimation. So, much like I don’t like even numbers, I also don’t like even days. They tend to be the least lucky. But today is Wednesday, and that makes it a toss-up.
I know, I’m bizarre. Even I can see that.
Ryan calls. “You ready for breakfast?” he asks.
“Almost,” I say. “I’m washing the balcony.” Holding the phone to my ear, I lean into a rag sliding across the railing, almost doing a header off the ledge onto my neighbor’s patio below.
“Washing—what? Why?”
“A dragonfly landed on the hibachi.” I splash the sponge into the bucket, washing dirty, soapy water over the edge and onto the decking, where it drips down.
“Hey!” my neighbor shouts. I realize I should have checked more carefully before launching into my routine, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“I thought dragonflies were supposed to be good luck.”
“Not on the hibachi.”
Nothing. Then maybe a long sigh on the other end of the line.
“It’s not something I’m prepared to talk about at this moment,” I say, like a scandal-plagued politician. Not the image a person wants to send.
“Look,” I say, “the patio needed cleaning, anyway. It was just an inspiration. I’m not being OCD about it. It’s more like … like a religious exercise. A cleansing.”
“Hallelujah, Berry is losing it,” he says.
That stings a little. Not enough to make me stop cleaning, and not enough to make me call him on it. Something about that smacks of bad luck, like sawing three-quarters of the way through a tree and then having a picnic lunch under it. It’s better to leave that sort of thing alone. In the Book of Berry.
While I may not be a morning person, I am absolutely a breakfast person. I love breakfast with all of my being. I love breakfast so profoundly that if love of breakfast could be measured, I could quite possibly win some sort of Guinness World Record.
So when Ryan suggests the Griddle, he quickly puts us on the road to recovery. I couldn’t be happier. The Griddle is one of those places that serve way too much food but it’s so delicious you’ll practically kill yourself trying to finish it.
We make small talk in the car, and I can tell Ryan is itching to ask me if I’ve made a decision, and I have, but I’m enjoying watching him fidget and awkwardly try not to just come right out and ask me.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Like a baby,” I say. “And by that I mean I got up every few hours and cried for my mommy.”
“As long as you didn’t wet the bed.”
“No,” I say. “I stopped doing that in college.”
Driving.
Driving.
Looking out the window.
Ryan taps his hands on the steering wheel.
I smile at him and look away.
“You’re really milking this one, aren’t you?” he finally says, when he can’t take it any longer.
“What do you mean?”
Ryan widens his eyes and bats his eyelashes as he mimics me, “What do you mean?”
I can’t help but laugh. We pull up to the Griddle and park in the lot behind it. He takes my hand as we walk up the ramp to enter through the back. I give his hand a squeeze, and he whips me around to face him.
“Whatever you choose,” he says, “you’re still the prettiest girl I know.”
I can tell I’m blushing, and I hate when I blush, so I rush forward to give him a big kiss, because I love kissing him, of course, but also so he can’t see me blush.
We sit and peruse the menu and decide on two equally ridiculous pancake orders. Ryan wants the coconut-chocolate pancakes topped with whipped cream, but the dish is called Mounds of Pleasure, and he refuses to order it by name. He points to the menu, amusing me and our waiter. “You want the …?” our waiter asks, as he winks at me, helping me egg him on.
“No, the one above it,” Ryan says.
“Which one, Ryan?” I tease. “The pumpkin?”
“That one,” Ryan says, pointing again to Mounds of Pleasure.
“Sorry, guy,” the waiter says, grinning widely. “I didn’t put in my contacts this morning. Which one are you pointing at?”
Ryan looks back and forth between the two of us. “Fuck you both,” he says.
“That’s not on the menu,” our waiter replies.
“I’m not sayin’ it.” Ryan shakes his head.
“I can’t wait to tell everyone about this on the radio,” I say. “I am gonna tease the shit outta you.”
“Does that mean yes?” Ryan says, sitting up at attention. “Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes,” I confirm, with a huge grin that I can’t contain as much as I’d like to.
Ryan jumps up and grabs me. He yanks me out of my seat and twirls me around.
“She said yes!” he says, and a few people at nearby tables start to clap.
“Did I just witness something momentous?” Clever Waiter asks.
“Not the kind of momentous you’re probably thinking,” I try to clarify, but news seems to spread like wildfire, and now everyone in the restaurant thinks we’ve just gotten engaged. There’s clapping and cheering and well-wishing, and it almost seems cruel to disappoint these people by shouting, “It’s not what it looks like!” and holding up my ring finger. “See? No ring!”
“Congratulations, you two,” our waiter says, though he’s probably thinking, If this guy proposed to her at a pancake joint, I give this marriage six months at best.
“Thank you,” Ryan answers.
As far as this restaurant is concerned, we’re engaged. A couple of Japanese tourists sheepishly walk to our table and ask if they can take our photo.
Ryan, of course, says yes, and hams it up for the camera.
“This is bad luck,” I say. “Or at the very least, bad karma.”
“Smile for the camera?” Ryan says, pretending he misheard me. “You bet.” And he puts his arm around me and smiles big. I’m pretty sure I’m rolling my eyes in the picture, but luckily I’ll never know.
“Now, where were we, sir,” our waiter asks. “Oh, yes. You were ordering the …”
“Say it, Ryan,” I tease.
“Who names something that on a menu? Do they not want people to order it?”
“Look at the rest of the names!” I say. “They’re all a bit … quirky.”
“I would have no problem ordering any other item on this menu.”
“Yet you draw the line at Mounds of Pleasure.”
“It’s important that we stand up for what really matters. Racial equality. Equal pay for equal work … five-dollar footlongs, sneaking our own candy into the movies, choosing white rice over brown rice even if it’s bad for you, the right to brutally make fun of guys who are into magic … and breakfast dishes that don’t sound like they should be served at Ta-Ta’s House of Hoo-Has.”
I turn to our waiter. “He will have the Mounds of Pleasure.”
“He’s no fun,” the waiter says.
“He’s plenty of fun!” Ryan counters.
“He is,” I say, backing him up. “And I will have the ’Tis the Season and a very large cup of coffee.”
“ ’Tis the season?” R
yan asks.
“Pumpkin-pie pancakes,” our waiter says. “They’re really good. Both are great celebratory dishes.” With that, he walks off.
“You really should have gotten me a ring,” I tease.
“Seriously,” he says. “Without the spectacle and the fake engagement of it all … I am really, really psyched that we’re gonna do this. It’s gonna be great.”
“Why do I feel like those are going to be famous last words?”
“They’re too boring to be famous last words.”
“They’re foreboding. They’re exactly what famous last words are made of. Some casually tossed-out declaration that will turn around and manifest the exact opposite.”
“So this is a superstition,” he says. “Just to be clear. This is one of your nine million gazillion superstitions.”
“No,” I correct. “It’s Murphy’s Law.”
“Fuck Murphy,” Ryan says. “And fuck his law. Here’s Ryan’s Law: We are gonna be great. Our show is gonna be so much fun. You’ll see. Trust.”
Funny he should say “trust.” That’s the one thing I seem to be having trouble with lately. And I was never that person. I was never the guilty-until-proven-innocent type. But I want to trust this. I want to trust him. So I tell him I will.
“Oh, believe me. I’m trusting. I just hope you realize that the only reason I’m—”
“I know,” he cuts me off. “You don’t even have to say it. I know this isn’t your thing. I know you’re doing it for me. And I hope you know I appreciate it. Because I do.”
“You’ll make it up to me.”
“I’m sure you’ll find creative ways to task me,” he says, flashing a sly smile.
Before I can get creative with my retort, our waiter returns with our ridiculously gluttonous pancakes. Ryan holds up his fork to clink. I knock my fork against his, and we dig in.
When we ask for our check, we are informed that not only is breakfast on the house, the Griddle wishes us a long and happy life together.
“No,” I practically shout. “That’s so sweet, but we can’t accept that.”
“How generous of you,” Ryan tells the waiter, ignoring my protest.
“Ryan,” I say, eyes wide, trying to send him a telepathic message. A message that says: It would be really bad luck to accept an engagement gift for a fake engagement. “We really can’t accept that generous offer.”
“It would be rude not to, Berry,” he says pointedly. “They’re trying to celebrate our momentous occasion.”
We stare at each other for a long beat. It becomes a bit of a contest. Neither of us looks away. Neither of us blinks. This is how it’s gonna go down? I don’t care if my eyes dry up and fall out of their sockets. I’m not losing this one.
Or so I think. Our waiter shakes Ryan’s hand and moves on to a table where the customers aren’t at a telepathic stalemate.
“That’s so wrong,” I say.
“I’ll leave him a good tip,” Ryan says as he tosses a twenty onto the table. “Look—we are celebrating. We did have a momentous occasion. We just made a big decision. Together. So what if it’s a different decision than he thinks? It is a big deal, and it is worthy of celebrating.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You disagree?”
“It just wasn’t what he thought,” I say.
“Nothing ever is,” Ryan says, and there’s a hint of something sharp behind it that if I thought too hard about would probably send me into a downward spiral, so instead I stop being such a pessimist and shake it off.
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever. I’m over it.”
“Good,” Ryan says. “What should we do next?”
“Go to Seven-Eleven and steal a candy bar?”
“You said you were over it!” Ryan laughs. “We did nothing wrong. We were and are celebrating.”
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“But I will say this.” He cocks his head sideways and studies me for a moment. “For all your superstitions and what-have-yous—”
“My what-have-yous?” I interrupt. “What exactly are my what-have-yous?”
“I’m trying to say something nice here. May I finish?”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“I was going to say, you’re a really good person. An honest person. With good, strong morals. It’s sweet. Very endearing.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Does that make me less exciting?” I ask. “Should I be out tripping old ladies and running Ponzi schemes on unwitting investors? Would that be hotter?”
“That’s where the what-have-yous come in. You could never be classified as boring. Are you kidding? It could be an odd day during an even hour and we could step on a crack and your uncle in Tallahassee would lose an eye.”
“Very funny.”
“I think you’re incredible,” he says, suddenly much more serious. “And I’m really excited to do this show with you. And I didn’t think it was possible, but you might even be eleven percent prettier than you were five minutes ago.”
On stage, I make love to twenty-five thousand people, then I go home alone.
—JANIS JOPLIN
Chapter Fifteen
Working with the person you’re falling in love with is not something I recommend. Not that Ryan or I have actually said the L word. We still haven’t. He’s called me a loser, lunatic, and lesbian in jest a few times—although there may have been an implicit wish behind that third one—but he hasn’t dropped the other L word. Not even close. But he does do this thing where sometimes he’ll be looking at me in a way that seems to mean … something. And I’ll get self-conscious and ask, “What?” And he’ll say, “Didn’t I tell you?” But he never tells me what he didn’t tell me. He just leaves it at that, with that devilish smile that makes me melt. And even if I can resist his kryptonite enough to press and say, “No, you didn’t tell me,” it never goes beyond that. And I never push.
Logistically, Morning Mayhem with Riley and Lambert is no sweat. We get into a routine that involves spending the night at each other’s apartment, taking turns every other night. We drive to the station in separate cars because his second show is earlier than mine and I can leave for a bit before my seven-to-twelve shift. I still meet Nat after work, but what was once every night and then waned to most nights has turned in to several nights a week, if that. She’s been a good sport about not complaining. (We had the obligatory awkward lunch where the best friend meets the new boyfriend and they became fast friends in record time.)
In our fourth week on-air we get our first ratings announcement and the station is beyond excited. We’re fourth overall, second in the desirable eighteen-to-thirty-five demographic, which tells you something about the fickle finger of most radio listeners in this area. I always default to the cautious—Nat would say the negative—but hitting our stride so quickly seems almost lucky. And speaking as one who knows, it’s not lucky being that lucky.
The station immediately slaps a curse on us by committing to an even more sizable ad campaign than they’d originally promised. Billboards, bus benches, buildings—we’re everywhere. The photo shoot is a study in the tired and true, and, no, I didn’t mean “tried and true.” Poses and concepts that were not used:
Me balancing a pail on my head and Ryan dumping sand into it with a plastic shovel. “Fill your mornings with Riley and Lambert. Mornings on KKCR.”
Ryan and me standing in front of two cars that have collided at an intersection, obviously exasperated but preciously so, which made it somehow more irritating for the L.A. drivers condemned to stare at it in rush-hour traffic. “Run into Riley and Lambert.”
Ryan with fingers poised above my nipples. Yes, you read that right. Me looking surprised. “Tune in to Riley and Lambert.” (As a side note on this one: The reactions did not include the words “juvenile,” “inappropriate,” “sexist,” or “disgusting.” The station manager’s question was, “Do you think they’ll get what he’s
doing?”)
This one was odd—and maybe I’m paranoid (strike that: I’m definitely paranoid)—but at one point Ryan said, “How about the two of us dressed as clowns, with a headline like, ‘Put some fun in your morning’?” Sarcastically. And the account executive’s face went a little ashen, and she moved on, but the meeting wrapped up pretty quickly after that, and I could tell she’d skipped over one of the concepts on her agenda.
And our winner: Ryan and me, standing back-to-back, arms folded. Headline: “Morning Mayhem. It’s So On. Riley and Lambert, Mornings.” Eh. What it lacked in originality it more than made up for in predictability.
In week seven the ads started showing up on billboards and bus stops, and by our eighth week I had officially been defaced, defiled, and dick-ified. By that I mean someone had drawn a penis, inches from my mouth, on our poster at Sunset and La Brea. Mom would be so proud.
If it sounds like navigating the new show has been relatively problem-free, it has been. Until one morning when a particular caller gets under my skin, and for whatever reason, I don’t laugh it off.
“So how many dates before you got down and dirty?” the caller asks.
“Okay, a) nobody said we slept together, and b) that’s none of your business,” I say, leaning into the mic, practically biting it off.
“What she means,” Ryan jumps in, “is that she doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“No … What I meant is that it’s none of your business.”
“Sounds like you’re a little uptight there, Berry,” says the asshat. “Maybe you’re not getting enough.”
“Oh, you’re ‘that guy.’ ” I lean in again. “That friend that every guy has who every girlfriend hates. Your name is probably Steve or Mike or—”
With a Little Luck Page 16
