Read Online With a Little Luck: A Novel by Caprice Crane - Free Book Online Page A

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 surewhy 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.” Hesneers up at me from the mic. “Remember, folks, if you want all classic