With a Little Luck Page 8

  “Are you ready?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

  “It’ll be over before you know it. And if you pass out from nerves, we have paramedics here.”

  “Comforting, thanks.”

  I walk up the steps, and the spotlight follows me. Wow, that’s a lot of people out there. I speed up a bit as I make my way over to the mic and hope it doesn’t blast feedback when I speak into it. The crowd gets quiet as I approach the mic stand, and I’m aware of my every movement. Each step, each breath, hyper-realized. I take my place, and I look out into the crowd. Oh my God, that really is a shit-load of people, I think. And my next thought is, I wonder if I know any of them, like, say, Jason Goldstein, whom I had a giant crush on throughout high school even though he gave me dirty looks every single time he saw me. How do you like me now, Jason? And then I look at the crowd again and think, I might very well faint.

  I try taking deep breaths. In. Out. I do a quick mental check-in. Tell myself reassuring things. You’re fine. This will be over in a heartbeat. Don’t think about the quadrillion people who are looking at you right now. Don’t pee in your pants. What? Where’d that come from? Suddenly I’m panicking, thinking I’m going to pee in my pants or faint or pee in my pants and then faint and be unconscious with wet pee pants.

  Breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  I grab ahold of the mic, as much to steady myself as to appear like I know what I’m doing.

  “Hello, New York City,” I say, and the quiet disappears again as thousands of people cheer. One sentence down. “I’m Berry Lambert from KKCR, and I’m so excited for the opportunity to be here tonight and bring this legendary rock royalty to the stage.”

  The audience cheers, and surprisingly I’m feeling a little more steady and fairly certain that I won’t be urinating or passing out. Yay me. I’ve done my bit by mentioning the station and now I should probably get off the stage as quickly as I possibly can, so I pose a question I know will garner some cheers and get me the hell out of Dodge.

  “I wanna know one thing, people: Are you guys ready to see the Rolling Stones?” Louder cheering. “Then let’s start it up!”

  The lights go down, and I hear Keith Richards’s first three strums of the iconic power chords in “Start Me Up.” I practically run off the stage as the silk curtain that’s hiding the band falls to the ground, revealing the Rolling Stones.

  Midway through the first song, Kyle appears at my side again. No drink, no hot dog.

  “Hey, Houdini,” I say.

  “Sorry about that!” he says. “I got a phone call and I couldn’t hear, so I had to go where it wasn’t so loud.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just my buddy wanting to let me know he left the keys for me in case he’s not home before I get back there. And telling me how jealous he is that he lives here and couldn’t get tickets but I snagged them on my plane trip.”

  At least that’s what it sounds like he says. I only get every third word or so, because he’s shouting over the music.

  “I missed your intro!” he yells. “I’m sorry!”

  “No worries,” I say. “I introduce the Rolling Stones at Madison Square Garden every day. You’ll catch it another time.” I wink and smile to let him know I’m completely teasing, and we settle into the concert.

  Throughout the show we sneak glances at each other, perfectly timed with innuendo-laden lyrics. When during “Beast of Burden” we lock eyes as Mick sings, “All I want is for you to make love to me,” there’s no turning back. He leans in to kiss me, and it’s almost downright cheesy when you think about it. Or even if you don’t think about it. Imagine the eye-rolling that would ensue if we ever told our future teenage kids that our first kiss was at a Rolling Stones concert, perfectly timed with sexy lyrics. Still, I manage to get lost in the kiss and the promise that it holds.

  Unlike the song, there will be no “making love” tonight. I just met this guy with the chiseled jawline and perfect eyebrows and sexy arms twenty-four hours ago, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was a total slut. No, I am clear on this much: There will be no sex. Absolutely. Positively. None. This is the part where if it were a movie, you’d cut to Kyle and me midway through a clumsy, steamy sex scene. But this is not a movie.

  It’s on our way to the Club at the Garden, where we’re holding the meet and greet for contest winners, when Kyle disappears again. We get to the entrance and pass a sign that reads, “By entering these premises you agree to be filmed on camera.” I pull out my credentials and am about to walk us in when Kyle points behind us.

  “You know we passed a bathroom a few steps back. I’m gonna hit that, so why don’t I catch up with you two in there?”

  “There’s a bathroom in the club,” I say.

  “I need a remote location,” he says.

  I take this in, and it dawns on me that maybe Kyle’s having stomach issues. Maybe his friend didn’t even call before when he disappeared for so long. Maybe he has crippling diarrhea, the poor thing. Which, actually, might explain how he ended up near the bathroom on the plane?

  “Okay,” I say, trying to play it off like I have no idea what he’s talking about. I point to Kyle and get the security guard’s attention. “He’s with me, KKCR. Can you please let him in when he comes back?”

  The security guard grunts a yes, so I tell Kyle to text me if he has any problems getting in.

  Twenty minutes later, Katie is on cloud nine, but even she realizes that Kyle’s been gone a long time. I walk over to the entrance and find the security guard.

  “That guy didn’t come back, did he?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he says.

  “You remember what he looked like, right?”

  “Yup,” he says, and looks away. A man of few words.

  After forty-five minutes I start to worry about him. I don’t want to barge into the bathroom, but if he’s in pain or something I’d feel terrible—him being stuck in there alone. I tell Katie I’m going to go check on him when we hit the hour mark, because really—who spends an hour in the bathroom when something’s not seriously wrong?

  I exit the club and walk to the men’s bathroom. I’m not sure what to do, so I stand outside the bathroom for an additional five minutes as about twelve people come and go. Finally I stop someone on his way in.

  “Hi. Could you do me a favor and just ask if there’s a Kyle in there, and if there is, tell him that Berry is outside if he needs anything?”

  The guy looks at me like I’m nuts. “Sure, I guess,” he says, and he walks in.

  A few moments later he walks out. “Nobody answered to Kyle.”

  “Did you speak loudly?” I ask.

  “Lady, I gotta get home,” he says as he brushes past me. That’s fine. We all have places to be, I’m sure, but clearly this is a sensitive situation. I think. And thanks for making me feel like the crazy lady stalking the men’s bathroom.

  I watch and wait, and when I’m pretty sure nobody else is in there, I tiptoe into the bathroom.

  “Hello?” I say, tentatively. And get no response. Then I try again, louder, making it clear that if anyone is in the bathroom I am looking for an answer. “Hello!”

  Nothing. I walk past each stall, peeking under for dangling legs, feeling creepier with every step—even more so when a man walks in.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, as he puts his hands up and backs away, almost as if I have a gun. “I thought this was the men’s room.”

  “No,” I say. “It is.”

  And rather than give any more explanation, I quickly walk past him and out of the bathroom. Once I’m in the main MSG corridor again, I pull out my cellphone to see if he’s tried to call. Nothing. So I text him: Where are you?

  And then I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Then I text him again: Kyle, are you okay? Are you sick? I tried to find you in the bathroom. Nobody was in there. Are you in
a different bathroom?

  Send.

  He writes back: So sorry. Friend texted me to say someone found the keys and broke into the apartment! Was kind of my fault so left to help him out. Tomorrow?

  The rest, as they say, is history. Except this is my life, so it’s not good history, like the end of apartheid or women’s suffrage. This is A-bomb history, Jonestown history.

  Much like Jim Jones offering up the Flavor Aid, I wake up to a text from Kyle, asking if he can take me to breakfast at Norma’s in the Parker Meridien hotel.

  The menu is obscene. Not just because of their beyond gluttonous menu items, which they have aplenty (Caramelized Chocolate Banana Waffle Napoleon, anyone?), but because they have a “Zillion-Dollar Lobster Frittata” that costs a hundred dollars, and in case that’s not enough, you also have the option to “supersize” the caviar portion for the totally reasonable price of a thousand dollars. Are. They. Kidding. Me. I’d like to meet the person who spends a grand on a plate of eggs. And then smack them.

  “So what happened with your friend’s place?” I ask. “Was he home? Did they catch the burglars? Did anything get stolen?”

  “It was awful,” Kyle answers. “A neighbor noticed something was up, and he called my buddy and my buddy called me to see if I was moving stuff out of his apartment, and I told him no and he said to get to his place as fast as I could and that he was calling the police.”

  “Oh my God. Weren’t you scared? I mean, what if the burglars were there when you got there? Were they?”

  “No … Well, yes, but the police got there first, so they already had them handcuffed.”

  “That is unbelievable,” I say. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice is suggesting to me, That really is unbelievable. But I dismiss it and move on.

  “I know, right?” He shakes his head and looks away. I’ve noticed he hasn’t made a lot of eye contact with me, and I’m wondering if he’s decided he doesn’t like me as much two days later or if the subject of the break-in is just making him uncomfortable.

  I decide to change the subject. “Anyway,” I say, in that oh-so-awkward way when you actually have nothing to say but you’re trying to signal a change of subject. I settle on, “This place is great.”

  “It’s awesome,” he says. “I try to come here whenever I’m in New York. I love to bring people who haven’t been here before.”

  “Virgins,” I say.

  “I hope not,” he says with a wink, and now he’s making eye contact again. Conversation becomes easy, and from Norma’s we walk to the MoMA. I’m typically not even a museum person but read about the Tim Burton exhibit a couple years ago and was so bummed to have missed it.

  Kyle pays for our entrance. “After you, m’lady.”

  We spend the rest of the day wandering aimlessly throughout the museum, making up stories behind the paintings, much like we did with the passengers on our flight. By four o’clock we’re back in the comfortable groove that made me think I could really like this guy.

  Somewhere along Fifth Avenue, Kyle abruptly stops walking and lets go of my hand. We’d skipped lunch because we were still stuffed from breakfast, but our stomachs are both starting to grumble so we’re discussing what we’d like for dinner when he just oh so casually reclaims his hand.

  “We don’t have to do Indian,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Be right back.”

  Kyle ducks around the corner, and I stand alone on Fifth Avenue, wondering if he’s having stomach issues again and if the mere mention of Indian food sent him over the edge, searching for a bathroom.

  Six minutes pass, and I’m still standing next to a NY1 reporter who’s doing a man-on-the-street piece about the resurgence of high-top sneakers. The door is open to the NY1 news van, and the tape operator sitting in the van amid all of the electronics smiles at me.

  “I’m waiting for my friend,” I self-consciously tell him. “Too bad he disappeared. Maybe he’d have something to say on the matter.” He nods and goes back to what he’s doing.

  Twelve minutes later my annoyance level has skyrocketed. I pull out my phone and text him:

  Kyle—are you okay?

  I wait. I stand there getting more and more angry as he doesn’t respond.

  I send another text:

  Hello????

  Finally I hear the sound of a text message coming in. He wrote back:

  Berry, I’m sorry. I’m married. I know that I probably should have told you. But I saw that news van & freaked. I just can’t risk being on camera and having m (part one of two)

  It stops there. There’s a hundred-sixty-character limit, so I wait patiently for part two. Married? In our marathon conversation he never thought to bring up that teensy little detail? Or perhaps not kiss me during the concert? Or spend today with me like he was becoming my new boyfriend?

  Ding. Part two: y wife see us. If you’re upset, I understand. If you want me to come by your hotel later tonight, I’d like that. If not, no hard feelings. —Kyle

  And that’s it. “No hard feelings”? You have no hard feelings? How about my feelings? They, in fact, are extremely hard feelings. Solid. Rigor mortis feelings.

  I retrace everything Kyle said when I’m back in my hotel room. No ring. No discussion of a significant other. But to be fair, no direct questions were asked about a significant other. He disappeared the first time the camera crew showed up, but why would I think anything of it? The second time … Sure, perhaps I could have given it some thought … if I was a completely suspicious psychopath. Is that what I need to be? In order to protect myself, do I have to be offensively defensive?

  I just want to get the hell out of New York and go back home to my comfort zone. Erase that kiss. Erase today. Erase all things Kyle. Erase, erase, erase.

  I pull out my iPod and put KKCR’s live podcast on to make me feel a little more at home. Black Sabbath’s “Immaculate Deception” is blaring.

  “Sweeter than the dream, the reality of you, immaculate, deception.”

  Perfect.

  No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it’s only a question of degree.

  —W. C. FIELDS

  Chapter Six

  I have a blown-up picture of Jimi Hendrix’s headstone hanging on my wall at home. It’s a black-and-white photo that I took when I actually went to Renton, outside Seattle, to visit the grave site. It has the lyrics to “Angel” scrawled in Jimi’s recognizable handwriting—recognizable to anyone who’s a Jimi Hendrix fan—and then somehow transferred onto marble. To me it’s a beautiful reminder of talent and recklessness and how sadly they often go hand in hand. A reminder to share your gift, whatever it is, while simultaneously not being an idiot.

  The grave itself is pretty monumental—which is only a recent development, because apparently when Jimi died from an accidental overdose in London, his family barely had the funds to bring his body back to the States. For more than twenty-five years Jimi’s grave was nothing to speak of, but after a drawn-out legal battle, Jimi’s father finally regained the rights to Jimi’s musical legacy, and the first thing he did with the money was build a beautiful memorial for Jimi—a resting place fit for a legend.

  When I walk back into my apartment after the trip I’d like to forget, I find myself staring at the photograph, looking at Jimi’s handwriting, taunted to rejoin the land of the living by the lyrics “Today is the day for you to rise.”

  Okay, Jimi. I’ll rise. I will overcome. I will put this weekend behind me and move forward. That said, I’m swearing off men for a while. Because, seriously? Two complimentary shit cocktails in a row? Some might call that a “one-two punch.” I, however, know exactly what it was.

  So what do I have to look forward to in the next guy I date? Guy Number Three in the screw-it-I-might-as-well-join-the-convent series? I can only imagine. And I don’t want to imagine. I’ve had one die and one be married—thus technically dead to me, and possibly also dead inside. What fresh
hell could be next? Psychopath? Social disease? Drummer in a band? One, two, uh, one, two, three … Count me out.

  But before I can take heed of Jimi’s words and rise anywhere, I need to wash off the thin layer of travel grime that I’m certain is coating my entire body. Between the radiation from airport scanners and the general airplane filth, even thinking about the many unseemly violations of my person makes me a bit nauseated. So I jump into the shower to do a thorough post-travel scrub.

  Then I do the most stupid thing a girl can do after she gets rejected by a boy: I step on my scale. And, yes, I know technically he was willing to come to my hotel—how gracious—but the fact that it would be completely meaningless and that he had some poor unsuspecting wife at home still makes it feel like a rejection. I wasn’t worthy of being seen in public with, from one of the biggest stages in the world to a common city street. I was worthy of a morally bankrupt booty call. Blech.

  You know how you step up and the number bobs around, up and down, finding center, and when it lands, you think, “God, no. It’s broken. It’s gone nuts. When did this cheap thing break down?”

  Well, after the third or fourth time resetting it and stepping back up, hoping for a miracle, I literally gasp when I read the number before me. I’m six pounds heavier than I was the last time I weighed myself. Six. It’s not that I’m saying I’m fat. I’m not one of those girls who’s skinny and complains about how fat she is all the time, making you want to force-feed her frosting so she really knows what fat is. I don’t even weigh myself regularly. Once every week or two. And as far as my weight goes, I’d say I’m normal. Healthy. I’m in fairly decent shape. And I fluctuate like everyone else. But by two or three pounds up or down. Not six. And, yes, if we’re going to be honest, I’ve been hitting the crumb cakes more often than the gym of late. But this is appalling. It’s more than five. Closer to ten than to one. Six. Of course it’s an evil even number.

  Nat calls me as I’m toweling off to tell me that she’s just spilled salt in the kitchen.