Tales of a Drama Queen (14 page)

“More or less.”

He's probably in his cave. Not that I care. “Maya around?”

Eyebrow-ring shakes his head.

“Oh, well, I'm her friend Elle….”

“With the blender, right? She mentioned you. I'm Kid.”

“Kid?”

“As in ‘Billy the.' My mom had a thing for westerns.”

“Ah.” This is the guy Maya hired instead of me? “So why didn't she name you Billy?”

He looks at me. “Can I get you anything?”

“Well…” No fun to sit here without Maya. “I don't—”

“I'm buying,” Monty says, sliding onto his stool.

“Hi, Monty.” I give him the once-over. “Looking sharp as ever.”

Kid flips his head in greeting. “Gin and tonic?”

Monty nods. “And you, Elle?”

“Same.”

Kid fiddles with bottles and I ask Monty how he's doing.

“Sold a property today. Made a tidy little sum.”

“Is that why you're buying?” I grab a handful of pretzels. Stern lecture of Maya on stale Fritos has resulted in plethora of fresh bar snacks.

“Well, the three dollars hurts even less today. How's Spenser for Hire?”

“Spenser? Turns out Spenser is for ‘fire.'” I tell him the story as we sip our G&Ts.

“So you didn't get fired for
not
arresting the shoplifter, you got fired for arresting the
non
-shoplifter?”

This strikes us as funnier than it is—but we're lubricated by gin and our mutual amusement at the nickname “Spenser.” On a roll, I tell him I'm now working as a phone psychic, and loving every minute of it. He congratulates me with another G&T, and says, “Maya tells me you're living in a trolley? I didn't think that was legal. I should invest in a bunch of used trolleys, start a trolley-park in Goleta.”

“I'll be your first tenant. My landlord kicked me out.”

He asks why, of course, and I tell him the water-balloon story. He puts his glass on the bar and his skinny shoulders shake with laughter. “Pegged him until he fell down? I ought to set you on Fess Parker. So where are you moving?”

“Back with Maya, I guess.”

“I've got a place, if you're interested—it's only a studio.”

“Monty, I've been living in a trolley. A studio can only be viewed as a step up. How much?”

“Six hundred.”

My heart stops. “A week?”

“A month. You interested?”

“How bad is it? Brown carpeting and a microwave instead of a stove?”

Monty looks offended. “It's a nice apartment.”

“Then I want it.”

“Then it's yours.”

I beam. He beams. I know I should ask about first, last and security. Instead, I say, “Can I have dog?”

“Anything but a cat.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Can't stand cats.”

“And, um…you'll want $1800 to move in?”

He gives me a look that makes me wonder exactly how much Maya told him. “Place is empty anyway. You move in
when you want, and keep your job, and give me the six hundred on the first of next month.”

The first is like two weeks away. Ten dollars an hour times eight hours a day, times ten days…$800! Minus taxes and stuff, and ignoring Carlos and every shopping instinct I have…and I can do this. I
will
do this. A regular job, a real apartment…the New Elle has finally arrived.

“So,” Monty asks. “How are things in the man department?”

 

Get home from drinks with Monty and check voice mail. Zero messages. I take a hot shower, spend thirty minutes conditioning my hair, and when I step out, hallelujah, the dial tone is buzzing.

Four messages. Please, God, let them be Joshua, Joshua, Joshua and Joshua. They are:

1) Strange voice, asking for Angie. Very important.

2) Louis: Blah blah blah. Stamp collection. Blah blah. The ASPCA. Blah blah blah.

3) Merrick: Called to say hello. Hello. Hope all is well.

4) Strange voice, telling Angie to forget it. No longer important.

No Joshua. I replay every minute of last date, and still think I did okay. No obvious gaffes. No terrible debacles. Maybe he doesn't like salad-eaters. Maybe he's with Jenna. Maybe I'm not exciting/attractive/wild enough for him. If I were him, would
I
date me? No. I'd date Halle Berry.

At least Merrick called, and Carlos didn't. But neither did Maya. Suspect she is truly sick of me. So I've been sulking and not calling her, either. See how
she
likes it. Although I guess she probably does like it. Anyway, I should be the adult, and call with both bits of good news: have a job, and a place to stay.

Perfect Brad answers with an anxious “Hello?”

“Brad, it's Elle.”

“Oh. I thought you were Maya.”

“Wish I was. Where is she? She's not at the bar.”

“Still at the doctor.”

“The doctor? What for?”

“She miscarried.”

Oh, no. “I didn't even know she was pregnant.”

“Neither did we. She's getting checked up right now.”

“When did it happen?”

“Day before yesterday.”

No wonder I hadn't heard from her. And good friend that I am, I've been sulking. I ask what happened, and if she's all right, and he tells me the whole story.

“It wasn't like we wanted a baby,” he says. “But it's still somehow sad.”

“Can I come see her?” I ask. “What can I do? I'll bring ice cream.”

He sort of chuckles. “Come tomorrow. And just…bring yourself. You always make her laugh.”

S
tayed up late, mentally designing gift basket for Maya. Am resolved not to spend money, even when presented with this valid and convincing opportunity. Will have to make my own raffia, chocolate éclairs, violet bath oil and handwoven basket—which is slightly daunting.

Surprisingly, I'm happy to be back at work. It's just talking on the phone, isn't it? People call
me,
asking for help. I'm much better giving advice than taking it. And although I didn't have time last night to check into numerology, this morning I caught sight of the cover of
Marie Claire.
A special horoscope issue. Talk about fate.

I read it while waiting for my next call. It's a relief to know that if someone asks for their horoscope I'll be prepared. Of course, I've had three calls already, and no one's asked. Most people who want a horoscope call the horoscope line.

I'm at a different desk today, in the corner next to Straight Sex. Which is odd, because the majority of the phone-workers are men. Wouldn't have thought women called for this sort of thing.

I glance up from my magazine as a guy plants himself at the next desk. He's young, wearing an orange velvet shirt that clashes mercilessly with his blue hair.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Phone sex?” he asks.

“No thanks.”

He laughs. “I meant are you
working
phone sex?”

I smile and shake my head. “Psychic Connexion.”

“I did Psychic for a while. This pays better—and it's more straightforward. Nobody wants to talk, just moan.” His phone rings, and he picks up and says, “Hi, this is Gina,” in a soft, husky voice. He listens a moment. “A red lace teddy, with black thigh-high stockings attached to my garters and black heels and my bottom is just aching to be spanked….”

Must be cross-dressing. I check the sign. Still says Straight Sex. It dawns on me that all the men are pretending to be women.

“I'm so wet,” Blue Hair says. “How many fingers? There's one…oooh…there's two…and there's three…oh, baby…” Blue Hair notices me watching and winks. “There's another girl here with me, her name is Jasmine. You want to talk to her?”

I wave my hands in a horrified rebuff, and he winks again. “Oh—Jasmine can't talk, both her hands are busy at the moment. What does she look like? Angelina Jolie, with bigger tits—she's got a high, bubble-ass and her long, long legs are spread and can you guess what she's doing to herself?”

My phone rings, thank God. I launch into my spiel, desperately blocking out Blue Hair's sex talk, but the woman doesn't want to get the free newsletter, which is a bummer because I get a buck for every mailing address. I take her
name, anyway. It's Janet Taluga—takes me three tries to get the spelling right.

“I want to know what to do about my husband,” she says. She has a soft, pretty accent.

“What's wrong with your husband?” I ask.

“I thought you'd tell me.” Oh—she's one of those. There are two types of Psychic Connexion callers. Those who don't care about metaphysics, as long as you give good advice, and those determined to prove you can't foresee your way out of a paper bag.

“I can tell you, of course…but why waste the Gift on information you already know?” She doesn't respond, so I say, “Ah! Wait, I'm getting something…” and flip through the pages of
Marie Claire.
“You sure you don't want your horoscope?”

“If I wanted my horoscope, I'd have called the horoscope line.”

Her accent is definitely Southern. “He's from the South, isn't he?”

“Yes,” she admits. “But with my accent, that's not so big a stretch.”

“Mmm.” She isn't going to give me anything. What can I tell her? My eyes land on the headline Don't Get Sucked into His Sucky Mood. “I'm getting that his temper isn't always even. He's a little moody.”

“Oh, no. He's not moody at all.”

She lies just like I do—utterly unconvincingly. “Janet. The cards don't lie. I'm pretty sure he's moody.”

“Only sometimes.”

“And is that what makes you wonder what to do about him?”

She doesn't say anything.

“Is he mean, Janet?”

“No,” she says softly.

“He has a temper.”

“I—I…” Sounds like she's crying.

“He yells at you,” I say.

“Sometimes.”

“You know, Janet, sometimes we end up staying with a man far longer than we should. I know what that's like.”

“You do?”

“Six years.”

“Did yours hit the bottle hard?”

“Your husband drinks?”

“Most nights.”

“And that's when he loses his temper?”

“Sometimes. Usually. Yes.”

“And you're wondering if you should leave him?”

“Is that what you see me doing?” There's both hope and fear in her voice.

“Well…” I hesitate. What if they had just had a spat? On the other hand, what if he's beating her? I search my desk for the sheet with the crisis intervention hotlines on it. “Have you tried counseling?”

“He would never—oh my God, I gotta go. He'll
kill
me when he gets the bill.”

“No, Janet, wait! Just let me—”

The line goes dead. I'm left holding the hot-sheet, a sick feeling in my stomach. I should have been quicker. But how much responsibility do I have? She's calling a psychic hotline—what does she expect? This makes me feel no better. I should have been quicker.

Blue Hair is talking about where he wants to put his tongue, and I can't get over the stomachache. Maybe Janet only called in a fit of pique, and I've overreacted by imagining she's abused. Maybe I'll go mad from listening to eight hours of phone sex. This is a twisted job. It's like being a pretend therapist, for people who don't have money or are afraid of therapy. It's great when it's entertainment—chatting about men and love—but this serious stuff scares me. I'm not sure I'm gonna make it.

My phone rings before I'm ready. It's James again—my
first repeat caller! He met the woman from his church for donuts this morning, and now he wants to know what their chances are.

“But first,” he says, “I want my horoscope.”

I feel abruptly better. “Now
that
I can do.”

 

Maya's gift basket contains: A thermos full of Cosmopolitans (Kid helped); a beach rock in the shape of a heart, if you squint your eyes; two dozen gorgeous roses; a dog-eared copy of
Pride and Prejudice
that Maya lent me seven years ago; a lavishly hand-illustrated card, signed E.M. and a butter-ring from Anderson's.

“And it cost nothing!” I tell Maya triumphantly.

“The roses? Sixty dollars at Honeysuckle.”

I grin. “Free, at the rose garden.” The city garden, across the street from the Mission.

“Elle—you stole these from the rose garden?”

“Six o'clock in the morning, in my bathrobe, with a pair of cuticle scissors. Now
that
is love, Maya.”

She laughs. “And the butter-ring? You broke into the bakery? Mrs. Anderson will not be happy.”

“I sold my BCBGs.”

“Your broken BCBGs?”

“I super-glued them.”

She laughs again, and Brad shoots me a look of such gratitude I feel quite like Mother Theresa, washing lepers' feet. Only younger and taller, and with better skin.

“And the card?”

“Hand-drawn,” I say proudly.

“I'd never have guessed,” she says with a straight face. “But what did you pay the kindergartner who drew it?”

O
n Sunday, I call Joshua twice. Leave one message.

On Monday, I call Joshua twice. Leave one message.

Tuesday, for a change, I call five times, and leave no messages.

I also work. Have not met C. Burke yet, but my log-in times are creeping up nicely. I found a training manual. Read five pages, and threw it away. It was all about keeping people on the phone and squeezing them for as much money as possible. Made me feel almost like Adele; I know it's not a noble calling, but there's no reason we can't be helpful and nice and funny, instead of greedy, grasping frauds.

Turns out the customer doesn't have to pay any disputed charges. That's the other reason they tell us to push the free psychic newsletter—so they can prove people called. So I only ask for addresses when I remember. It's only a buck
extra, anyway. And if you just listen, and ask questions, people like to talk. There's nothing to it.

Wednesday, I get another call from a woman complaining about her boyfriend. Her name is Nyla. She's from Chicago. Her voice is husky and she talks in a flat Midwestern accent.

“I think he's sleeping around on me,” she says. “Am I right?”

Always best to avoid yes and no questions, so I ask if she trusts her intuition, and if her suspicions and hunches usually prove true. We talk for a while about that, then I ask what makes her think he's sleeping around.

“He's been distant. Kind of cold—well, even colder than usual. And not much interested in sex.”

She doesn't have the abused-animal feel that Janet conveyed. “How long have you been together?”

“Four years.”

“And he's never been distant before?”

“Not like this. He's always been sorta…contained. Well, but now it's like he doesn't care about me at all. I mean, like I'm a convenience, a dishwasher, or cup-holder or something.”

She explains, and he does sound cold. Not cruel—just like he doesn't care about Nyla either way. “You sure you want to stay together?” I ask.

“God, yes! I can't leave him.”

“Why not?”

“Well. He pays for everything.”

“But he's not there for you, emotionally. Right?”

“He's a doctor. And he works really hard,” she says. “He's a, um, a good provider. I mean, I couldn't leave him. He, you know…”

“Pays for everything?”

“
Everything.
Last week I got a Vivienne Westwood. And a Fendi bag that cost like sixteen hundred.
Vogue
's pick of the year.”

My chair starts to feel a little uncomfortable. “So?”

“
So,
if I left him I couldn't afford an apartment on the lake, or wear Gucci, or shop at Whole Foods, or eat at the Pump Room, or—”

“The cards say you're lost,” I tell her.

“Lost?”

“You've forgotten who you are. The cards say you have to—well, here's the Juggler.” Adele hisses something to me about there not being a Juggler, but I can't stop now. “You've been juggling your life around him, like moons in an orbit.” What the hell does that mean? I am becoming my mother. “You need to be your own planet.”

“But…the Pump Room is on
his
planet. Prada is on his planet. His planet has all the good stuff.”

“Your planet has plenty of good stuff,” I say. “You just have to look.”

“I don't know. This isn't what I—I just wanted to hear if he's sleeping around.”

“You better start looking for a job, Nyla. Because the cards say splitting up is definitely an option.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Forget it. I'm calling another psychic.”

“Until you find one who says he's not sleeping around? The problem isn't him. It's you.”

She says something impolite and gives me a dial tone.

 

An older woman calls. Her name is Valentine, which I love. I get her address…and she lives in Montecito! I ask if she lives next to Oprah. She says no. But I still gushingly question her about her house, her garden, her furniture, shopping habits and life. She's seventy-four, has outlived three husbands, and is on the prowl for the fourth. She was born on a dirt farm in Georgia. She is vibrant and happy and prefers cotton and wool fabrics in bright colors. She doesn't like antiques much, and I think I break some sort of record, because the call is sixty-two minutes long.

Darwin is amazed. Adele is jealous—she says, “You didn't even offer her a reading!” C. Burke will promote me. Sheila will be proud. Monty will be paid. Even Carlos will get his money.

I am buzzed, eager for the next call. It's a woman who wants to go off the pill without telling her boyfriend. Her numerology (she is a 7 or maybe 4—couldn't quite get the math right) informs us that she should rescue a dog from the pound instead.

And I'm on a roll. Everyone should rescue a dog. Except the allergic man. He, it turns out, should take up ballroom dancing.

 

Thursday is a good day. I have two skeptics, who I'm really starting to like. You can joke with them. They want to believe, but know it's ridiculous. So my goal is to give them a good reading—well, good advice—despite themselves. And if you sorta halfway admit that no, there's nothing psychic about it, but you're happy to listen to them talk, it's all peachy.

I have ten or eleven normal calls. Bread-and-butter, Darwin calls them. About love and money and sex. I've discovered that women's magazines are far better fortune-telling devices than tarot cards, though I still read off the names of cards occasionally, for verisimilitude.

Adele isn't entirely convinced that this is proper for a psychic reading. I tell her my personal Gift is synched with the contemporary moment, with the cultural mood—not with ancient cards or runes or zodiacal signs. She's still pondering that, I think—but we get along pretty well, now. Except that I'm a little jealous of her. She, oddly, seems to have a reputation among Texans—a lot of them call and ask for her by name for their bread-and-butter questions. I am eager to develop my own list. I'm getting a few repeat calls already, which Darwin says is unusual. The rumpled and paternal C. Burke will love me.

I have three crisis calls on Thursday, too. Women in trouble—I am faster with the hot-sheet this time. I give them the crisis numbers, and tell them very sternly that the cards say they should
not
be calling 900 numbers, but absolutely must call the hotline numbers. I give them the regular number for the office, too, in case they need to talk. That's sort of against policy, but we're allowed personal calls, and who's gonna know if they're friends or ex-clients?

And on Friday, I get a paycheck. Superior pays every week, and I'm halfway done with the money I need for first month's rent. I'm moving in today, and I'll pay Monty next week.

I attempted to cry myself to sleep last night because Joshua has not returned my calls, but the truth is I only miss the attention, and the sex, and the contact high from his beauty. Hmm. That's quite a lot, actually.

I'm with Perfect Brad, now. I'd stopped by to give Maya get-well cupcakes and borrow PB to help me move. Goodbye, trolley and hello, studio. It's a converted attic in an old Victorian, located between State Street and, well, the Department of Motor Vehicles. Not the most beautiful neighborhood, but a pretty good one—and I won't need my car much anymore, because I'll be able to walk everywhere downtown.

The building is a project of Monty's—he bought it last year and is having it restored. It's almost finished, and it's lovely. Arched ceilings, painted creamy white. Soft buttery yellow walls, and muted olive carpets. Through the old bay window, I feel like I'm hovering above downtown. It has a kitchen and a bathroom, and they are each in their own place, with absolutely no overlap. I love it.

“It's perfect, isn't it?” I tell PB.

He grunts under the strain of my bureau and tells me it's great. “Maya's dad,” he says.

“Huh?”

He puts the bureau down. “Maya's dad. He talked to Monty about it.”

“What it?”

“You. Needing a place.”

“Mr. Goldman! I had no idea. What a sweetie.” Perhaps Mr. Goldman needs an orchid. “Oh, would you move that just over here, Brad? Thanks.”

When we finally get all the furniture upstairs, I walk Brad to his car and head back to the trolley. Mrs. Petrie said that if I get out today, they'll refund me a hundred dollars of my security.

Good thing the trolley is so small there aren't many surfaces to clean. Still, I am a dirty bird—sweaty, malodorous and thoroughly disheveled—when Joshua walks in the door. He is clean, well-dressed and thoroughly gorgeous.

“Moving out?” he asks.

“Moving up!”

“New job and new apartment.” He smiles, and the sun shines a bit brighter. “You've got it going on.”

“New job? How did you hear about that?”

“Your message. Well, one of your messages.”

“Oh! I…well, I was calling because I thought you, um, left your wallet here, but it turns out it wasn't your wallet. Not that it was anyone else's wallet. It was mine. An old one. Maya's, actually. A friend. She—”

He stops the babble with a kiss. When I regain my breath, he asks about work like a real boyfriend would. “Work is amazing!” I say. “Mostly I just talk on the phone, which is a personal strength of mine and—”

“You work the phones, not the office?”

I tell all, and he listens with attentive gorgeousness and says: “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“I'm a bit of a mess,” I say, so he'll tell me how beautiful I am.

“You look okay.”

“Um, but I can clean up. Where shall we go?”

“My house. In Montecito.”

“You have a house in Montecito?” Notice how often
Montecito is coming up, recently? Oprah, then Valentine and now Joshua. And it's not just because it's the next town over. It's fate. It's in the cards.

“I'll make dinner,” he says. Then asks, a little doubtfully, if I can be there by seven.

I wipe cobwebs from my forehead. “No problem.”