Tales of a Drama Queen (12 page)

L
ife is a blur of Joshua. Granted, we only had one date and two phone calls, but I have spun a gossamer web of daydream and fantasy. We have been to Bali and Paris, and to Venice twice. Our wedding was spectacular, despite the paparazzi. Our children have his eyes and hair and features, and they have me for…well, the uterus and womby stuff. Hadn't really thought what they'd have from me. Possibly my ability to fill out forms with remarkable speed.

But reality encroaches. Joshua daydreams have fully occupied days, as I've unsuccessfully searched for new job and apartment. “Man,” however is on my list. So I haven't failed my duties completely.

Tomorrow is big date. I read in
Glamour
that the second date is the most important, as we have passed Stage One and are now in serious territory. (Was slightly concerned to discover that sleeping together is actually Stage Four.) I am
frantic with anticipation and anxiety. What if he realizes he doesn't like me? What if my toilet explodes, or condoms or dead squirrels erupt from my tote, or if he realizes what a pathetic and unlovable person I am? Far easier to date carroty freak-heads. Carroty freak-heads who do not call after trolley shitwater incident.

I want to buy something new and gorgeous to wear, so Joshua will know we are meant for each other, but my monster stack is officially in the double digits. In effort to end cash-flow woes, I dream about moving in with Joshua, and never having to apply for another low-pay, no-status, not-hiring-me-anyway job in my life.

Maya thinks my love—she cruelly calls it infatuation—for Joshua is cute, in a giggly, elementary-school way. She also thinks I'm a total loss, and will soon be living in a van. She will be less amused when I convince PB to loan me money.

So, this morning, I fling open my closet to wrestle my money problems into submission. I am ruthless. This pile to keep, this pile to sell.

Four hours later: sell pile is miniscule, but there are a few items that have always added ten pounds. I drive my poor unwanteds to a shop on upper State which sells preowned designer clothes.

Utterly horrible, watching the beady-eyed woman run her bony fingers over my lovelies. I almost snap, but do not. I stand, smile pasted firmly on my bloodless face, and await judgment.

“One hundred and twenty dollars,” she says, folding a DKNY skirt.

Shit. I was hoping for one-fifty. The New Elle, however, haggles: “That's less than I expected. How much for the faux crocodile boots?”

She eyes me queerly. “That's one hundred and twenty for the lot.”

“
What?
I paid that for the belt alone! One hundred and
twenty is a crime. This is runway robbery.” I whine and cajole until she agrees to look over the clothes again.

“The Theory blouse is stained,” she says, when finished. “One hundred even.”

 

Joshua and I have dinner at Downey's, which is sort of staid and stately and
très
expensive. I brought my $100, just in case. The food smells delicious. I don't know how it tastes, as, despite being ravenous, I only order salad. To make a good impression. Maya scoffed when I told her my plan. She said this only works on other women, and even they hate you for it. But she's in a relationship, she doesn't know what it's like.

Best part of dinner? He
pays!

I am aglow with pleasure.

Then it gets better. He slides me an envelope. “What's this?” I ask.

“Open it.”

I do, and it's full of money.

“Count it,” he says.

“One hundred and seventy-three dollars. For what?”

“Count it again,” he says. “This time without eyeing the dessert cart.”

“I have a thing for dessert carts.” I say, and remember I am the New Thinner Elle. “I wouldn't touch the desserts, of course, but they're always so well-presented, aren't they? Anyway. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one.” I flip through the bills. “One hundred ninety-eight.”

“Two-eighteen,” he says. “And it's yours.”

“Mine?”

“From Nordstrom's. The BCBGs. I spoke to the manager about your fall, and the store's liability. He thought refunding the purchase was the wisest course.”

I squeal and tell Joshua exactly how wonderfully perfectly gorgeous he is. I ask for details about the Nordy's triumph, but he humbly says there was nothing to it. “But to celebrate,” he says. “Let's go for a drink, shall we?”

“Drinks are on me,” I say grandly. “Let's go to Shika. I know the—”

He laughs in disbelief. “Shika? You mean—Shika? You're kidding, right?”

“Of course! Not Shika. Ha ha.” I feel sick for betraying Maya.

“I know the guy who owns The Gothic,” Joshua says. “We'll go there.”

See? We even have
that
in common—we both know bar owners. And once I know Joshua better, I'll insist we go to Maya's.

The Gothic is a tragically hip bar that specializes in expensive martinis and quasi-pornographic art. The place is packed at ten on a Wednesday. Shika doesn't even get this busy during Fiesta or Solstice.

We sit at the bar with the owner, drinking twenty-year-old Armagnac. He's almost as good-looking as Joshua—except that his face is florid from drinking too much. They're discussing whether the Bahamas or Mexico is more fun. I've never been to either, so I keep quiet. Which is probably a good thing—I don't want to fuck up in front of the beautiful people.

Joshua keeps rubbing my back and running his fingers through my hair, so evidently I'm doing fine. Until a pair of feminine hands covers his eyes. A brunette stands behind him. She leans close enough to lick his ear, and whispers, “Guess who?”

She is my nightmare. She's in a bar, so she must be twenty-one, but she looks nineteen. She's five-two. Wearing a black deeply cut unitard which showcases her spectacular figure and caramel-colored skin. A red sweaterette is tied around her middle—a false attempt at modesty which only serves to make her waist look even smaller. She manages to be both tiny and voluptuous at the same time, like Salma Hayek.

“Joshua thinks it's Jenna,” Joshua says.

I am too busy staring at Jenna's buoyant breasts, straining
for release from the unitard, to be horrified at Joshua's referring to himself in the third person again. She has such sweet cleavage it makes me want to convert.

“Oh, Joshua!” Jenna pouts. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your scent. Obsession, right?”

I hate Obsession. I've always hated Obsession.

“Of course, darling.” She kisses him.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Exhausted. I worked two shifts at the café yesterday, and one today. I just want to relax and have a good time.” She eyes Joshua at this last bit, which makes me want to humiliate her for being a waitress. I may be unemployed, but if I
did
have a job, it'd be better than that.

“Where do you work?” I innocently ask.

“Café Lustre.”

“Never heard of it—is it new? I've been away, in D.C.”

“The
strip
club,” she says.

“You wait tables at the strip club?” Yuck. “Are the tips any good?”

She laughs, beautifully. “I don't wait tables. And yes, the tips are excellent.”

I hate her. I want to punch her sex-kitten little face.

“Jenna's a dancer, Elle,” Joshua says.

“Oh. I've considered doing that.” I close my eyes, tightly. What am I saying?

“Right,” Jenna says. “Men line up to see
you
naked.”

That's it. I might as well go home right now. There's no way I'm going to win a sexpot contest with a girl who belongs on the cover of
Maxim.
But Joshua leans into me and kisses me, long and hard. “I'd pay to see you strip.”

My heart bursts through my chest and does a victory lap around the bar. Joshua pulls me to my feet, and puts his arm around me. “In fact, I'm ready for a private showing. We'll see you guys later.”

I'm officially in love.

I'
m quite gratified that skills learned from “Stripping for Your Virtual Boy-Toy” article pay off. Joshua is so overwhelmed by my wanton-harem-girl-in-a-trolley erotic display, that he interrupts the dance routine for main course. Am happy to serve it up.

The sex is even better than last time. Wonderfully gorgeous. Extremely nice. At least the “Joshua is coming” doesn't bother me so much.

Joshua leaves during the night. I suspect I'm supposed to be offended, but am only pleased. Now I don't have to worry about my morning face, hair, breath and personality.

Stage Two is officially successful. Cannot remember Stage Three, but suspect it's clear sailing from here.

The next morning, in celebration of utter good fortune, I decide to treat myself to a latte and a blueberry muffin. The sun is shining, the day is warm. I buy a paper and
bring it with me to the Brown Pelican, the restaurant at Hendry's Beach, and sit at one of the tables overlooking the ocean.

I can see the nooks and crannies on the Channel Islands, several miles off the coast. Can't believe I ever lived in D.C. Did it for Louis, of course, and at the time it seemed right. He was in his third year of law school when we met. I'd just finished my sophomore year. He took care of me, and I of him. Felt natural to move in together when he finished school, and got hired at S, M & B. His apartment was much nicer than the dorms.

I'd considered graduate school when I'd finished my B.A. in Psychology, and had even been accepted into the master's program at American University. But by the time registration rolled around I'd lost interest. Was too busy playing wife to Louis. Besides, at twenty-two, I had plenty of time. But now, four years later, all I have to show for it is a way with silk throw pillows and the ability to pick the best dish on a lunch menu.

Sitting at Hendry's, the ocean sparkling at me, aching pleasantly from sex, I realize I don't miss Louis at all. Six years, and I don't miss him. Should I feel empty, or free?

I finish my breakfast and force myself to look at the classifieds, hoping to find a job that requires competence with silk pillows and lunch menus.

The ad stands out like a beacon:

$200 per night! I can't believe Jenna is making so much money. Why can't I make 200 bucks a night?

Because I don't have that good a body. I have cellulite and a thick waist.

Well, sure. But Joshua said he'd pay to see me naked. If someone who looks and fucks like he does wants to see me strip why wouldn't other men? And $200 a night, just for taking my clothes off, well that's easy enough. I'll just close my eyes and think of… Money.

Sure I will. There's no way I'd ever strip in public. I get embarrassed dancing with my clothes
on.
And how old is too old to strip? I called a number for information about selling my eggs, and when I told them I was over twenty-four, they said thanks but no thanks. So stripping seems out of the question.

Then the check comes. The latte and the muffin and the omelette and the mimosa comes to $23. Plus I had to fill the Beemer with gas today—and have a new muffler put on. I pay the bill, and leave four dollars tip, and I have seventeen dollars left.

Not on me. Not in my wallet. My total, overall, complete, entire and absolute wealth is: seventeen dollars. Carlos will be furious.

That's it. No choice. Today. Café Lustre.

 

Not sure what to wear to stripping interview. I check my wardrobe, and the only thing remotely appropriate is a Vivienne Tam see-through net dress in red with embroidered flowers, that goes over a red satin slip. Convinced Louis to buy it for last year's office Christmas party. Of course, if I get the job, I'll have to lose the slip.

The café is a windowless box of a building. I open the door and nervously step inside. Dark. Stuffy. And there's a naked blond girl writhing on the stage to an old Foreigner song. Those can't be real tits. How does she get them to stick up like that? Oh my God, she's putting one of them in her mouth. I can't do that. Am I suppose to be able to do that? I thought only dogs could do that.

There are waitresses in skimpy porn-costumes and a topless girl is rubbing her tits in a seated guy's face. He's
sitting on his hands, like he's afraid to touch her, which seems odd. She turns and presses her “down there” (as my mother calls it) against his obvious hard-on (as my mother does not call it). Is that part of the job? I thought you only had to get naked, swing around the pole and you were done. This is all wrong. The little Jenna sexpot was right. I cannot do this.

Must get out. Get out now. I turn to flee and—Jenna.

“Oh hi, Jenna! I was just—” I want to say
leaving,
but cannot in the face of her superior expression “—here to apply for a job.”

She's wearing only a g-string. Well, this is awkward. I try to keep from looking at her breasts, but my only options are the dog-woman on stage and a couple of lap mushers.

“You're here for a job?” she asks.

No! No! “Yes. Yes!”

“You know what? Good for you.” She hooks her arm through mine and smiles. “A lot of women are all snotty and superior when they hear you dance, but they don't have the courage to even try it.”

We walk side by side, arms clasped, and my elbow knocks her bare tit as she leads me towards the bar. Doesn't seem to bother her, so I pretend it's not happening.

“Maybe we can even work on an act together. Joshua loves girl-girl shows.”

“I, um…Joshua what?”

“Wesley—the owner—he doesn't come 'til later,” she says. “Tony usually takes the first look.”

At the bar, she introduces me to Tony, the white version of Mike Tyson. He's wearing a summer seersucker suit with black dress shoes. Not a good look.

“Elle's looking for a job,” Jenna says.

“I can see that,” he growls. “Get back to work.” He talks like he's way too fond of
The Sopranos.

“Don't mind him,” she says. “His bark's bad, but his bite's worse.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I stammer, as she disappears into the greasy gloom.

“Step back. Let me take a look at you,” Tony says.

In a daze, I step back. Because that's what I always do—what I'm told. What if I hurt Tony's feelings by saying there's been a mistake, I don't really want a job?

“Turn around.”

I obediently turn. But I will not remove any clothing. This is
not
Planned Parenthood. I'll tell him, when he's finished gawking, that I've changed my mind. Worse comes to worse, I take the job and never show up. I'm sure it happens all the time.

“All the way around,” he says. “Okay.”

I stop turning, desperate to invent an excuse to be gone. I'm here doing a research project? I'm actually a man? I have two wooden legs?

“You're way too old for this,” he says.

“What?”

“You are too old, baby.”

“I am
not.
I'm only twenty…one.”

“Sure you are. You oughta try the Screen Actor's Guild.”

“The what?”

“Screen Actor's Guild. The S.A.G.”

Is he telling me I ought to be in pictures? “Why?”

He eyes my breasts disdainfully. “Because they SAG, baby.”

The greasy gloom turns red as my rage rises. I humiliate myself, and he insults me?

A topless wonder passes by with a tray.

A glass of cranberry juice. A splash and a bellow, and I start running.

Heels, don't fail me now.

PLAINTIFF'S CLAIM

1. Defendant owes me the sum of: $
   700.00
   , not including court costs because (describe claim):
   She threw cranberry juice at my suit.
   
2. This claim is against a government agency, and I filed a claim with the agency. My claim was denied by the agency, or the agency did not act on my claim before the legal deadline. (See form SC-150.)
   
3. I have asked defendant to pay this money, but it has not been paid.
   I have NOT asked defendant to pay this money because (explain):
   Seemed like I'd get more money if I sued.
   
4. I understand that
   a. I must appear at the time and place of trial and bring all witnesses, books, receipts, and other papers or things to prove my case.
   b. I may talk to an attorney about this claim, but I cannot be represented by an attorney at the trial in the small claims court.
   c. I have no right of appeal on my claim, but I may appeal a claim filed by the defendant in this case.
   d. If I cannot afford to pay the fees for filing or service by a sheriff, marshal, or constable, I may ask that the fees be waived.
   
5. I have received and read the information sheet explaining some important rights of plaintiffs in the small claims court.
   
6. No defendant is in the military service except (name):
   

I declare under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of California that the foregoing is true and correct.

Anthony Dingle

(SIGNATURE OF PLAINTIFF)

 

I haven't left the trolley for three days. Hair in knots. Eyes puffy. Pajamas beginning to stink. Am reminded of country-western song I once heard on AM radio—
She Walks Like a Woman, But Smells Like a Man.

I've spent a total of nine hours, give or take a few, standing in front of the mirror with my pajama top raised, wondering if my tits
do
sag. I turn this way, and that way. Maybe. Definitely not. A little. No way. Still haven't decided.

Joshua has not called. Has not returned my calls. Is he with Jenna, who is unafraid to appear in public in all her gynecological glory?

Merrick hasn't called, either. I almost feel worse about that. I mean, sure I had a trolley full of crapwater, and I threw condoms at him and he disapproves of my getting fired from Super 9, but he…I don't know. I thought he'd call.

Even Maya hasn't called. Her desertion hurts the most. She knows I'm falling apart. But I'm afraid to call her, because she hates me. We got along great in high school, then for years when we didn't live in the same town. I know she loves me, but a couple months of the real Elle, up close and personal, is enough to turn anyone against me. I don't know what to do. It's not going to be much fun moving back in with them if they hate me.

It's finally time to admit I'm beaten. No money. No job. Bad credit. No man. Possible sagging tits. Pending lawsuit. And due out of the trolley in five days.

I call my mother.

“Mom, it's me.”

“Who?”

“Elle. Your daughter.”

“Oh, hi, honey. How are you? Did you get a job?”

“No.” I can't tell her the truth. She'll just tell me it's all my fault. And she's right. “No job, no apartment…”

“Well, keep trying. I'm sure you'll find something. I saw on
Oprah
the other day a woman who'd made a career organizing other people's closets. You know how much you love closets. I remember saying, when you were still in grade school…”