Tales of a Drama Queen (16 page)

I'
m thinking I'll get a King Charles spaniel, a chocolate lab or maybe a borzoi. I don't really know what the King Charles or the borzoi look like, but I've always liked the names: one regal, the other exotic.

I'd interrupted Maya during breakfast to drag her to the Humane Society. The idea being to cheer her up, take her mind off the miscarriage. When I showed up, she was untidily sipping coffee in her robe and slippers. I helped myself to the coffeepot as she reluctantly shuffled to the bedroom. She reappeared in five minutes looking pert and perky, in a navy blue sweater I recognized from high school. I hate her.

“This isn't cheering me up,” Maya says when we reach the kennels. It's a blustery day for Santa Barbara, gray and cold. The cast-off dogs shiver in their cages, barking and cringing.

“Me, either. The only thing I can still fit in from high school is earrings.”

“That's not true,” she says. “There's always socks.”

I roll my eyes and kneel in front of a fluffy red dog with a spotted tongue. “Priscilla. Chow Chow mix. Four years old. Family was too busy to care for her. They had her four years, then became too busy?”

“You do know they
sell
puppies, don't you? Purebreds. For like, hundreds of dollars.”

I pat the Chow goodbye and move to the next cage: Tadpole, a fat tube of a dog, with a shiny coat and an eager face. “Yeah, but I read a thing in
Vogue
or
Glamour
about puppy mills. Plus, they said that there are plenty of purebreds in shelters. I can probably find a perfect Afghan.”

“Since when did you decide you need a dog?” Maya asks.

“Since forever. My dad refused to let me have one as a kid, and once he left, my mom maintained the ruling like it had been grandfathered in. When I tried to get Louis interested he complained about his sinuses.”

We stop in front of a pit bull mix with a brown-and-white coat and a scar on his muzzle. He's probably the fifth pit bull mix we've seen.

“Those pit bulls are horndogs, aren't they?” Maya says.

Which reminds me: “I've got a court date on Monday.”

“You're not trying racquetball again, are you?”

“Different kind of court.” As we finish the circuit of dog cages, I admit to the Café Lustre incident.

“Cranberry juice?” Maya is agog. “How
do
you do it, Elle?”

“It's a gift.”

We finish our tour in front of the cage of an oversize male Dalmatian named Hoser. He's large, glossy, purebred and beautiful. Plus, he'll match my furniture. But there's a little note on his cage saying that he's already been adopted. So I return to Priscilla. She's very nearly purebred Chow Chow. And she was tossed aside after four years. I was tossed aside after six, so I know how she feels.

I fill out an application in record time, and hand it to the woman in the office. I scan the fliers on the wall as she looks it over. Dog walkers and trainers. Someone selling an Invisible Fence. A poster about that missing puppy, Holly-Go-Lightly, who still hasn't been found. She's become a local celebrity, with increasingly dire warnings about her health and medicine. A stack of business cards for someone who sells handcrafted collars and leashes: I take one of those. I already have the food and water bowls, of course.

“This won't work.” The woman behind the counter looks up from my application. “You don't have a yard.”

“Well, I'll walk her.” I say. “Downtown, and at Hendry's and the Wilcox. She'll get better exercise that way, anyway.”

“You need to have a fenced-in yard. And the fence has to be at least five feet, with a sealed perimeter.”

“A perimeter? What is this? Fortay Knox, or the Humane Society?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, that's our policy.”

I hate, I hate, I
hate
being called ma'am. “Why? What does it matter where she walks, as long as I walk her?”

“But what if you don't walk her?”

“But I
will.
”

Maya fidgets with a brochure about spaying and neutering, as I feel my jaw clamp. “So you're saying I can't adopt Priscilla.”

“No, I'm sorry.”

“Is there
any
dog I can have?”

“Policy is, you have to have a yard to adopt a dog.”

“What if someone drops off a dog without any legs—will I
still
need a five-foot fence?”

The woman stares at me. “We don't often get legless dogs.”

“You know, it might
behoove
you to put up a sign, telling people they can't adopt a dog without a yard.” Can't believe I just said behoove. “It's not very humane to let people bond with one of these poor dogs, then casually rip their heart
out because of some mania for perimeter security. You think they're better-served living in those kennels? How many dogs will die because you insist on yards? Because walks on the beach aren't good enough? Huh? Huh? When is this madness going to end?”

I pause for breath, glowing with self-righteous fury, and the woman says, “This is a no-kill shelter. We place one hundred percent of our dogs. To homes with yards.”

“You know,” Maya says, after I slink away. “You were right. That did cheer me up.”

 

I work Sunday. I am dogless, but unbowed. It's slow, though. In the first hour, I have a half-dozen people who won't commit to a reading, then nothing for the next hour and a half.

In the afternoon, I get a handful of twenties and twenty-fives, all the same: yeah, you'll find a man, but you have to work on yourself first. Prince Charming doesn't ride up and marry just anyone, he marries the princess. The princess is
not
needy and desperate. She is not disrespected, she is not helpless and she sure as hell will climb on that horse herself if need be. And remember: you gotta kiss a lot of frogs.

Well, it sounds good when I say it. I got it from an article in
Mademoiselle.
Or
O.
Or somewhere.

I'm in another slow period, doing the crossword, when James calls. He's the guy who was hot for his sister-in-law. I'm relieved to be interrupted. I only have two words, and they're both celebrity names. I suck at crosswords—maybe
L
should have a crossword for the wordly disinclined.

“Hey James,” I say. “What's a six-letter word for bee yard?”

“Apiary.”

I count the letters. “It fits! How did you know that?”

“I'm that kind of guy, Elle. I know all about the birds and bees.”

I laugh. “What can I do for you? You want your horoscope?”

“Nah. I just wanted to tell you, I'm thinking of asking Sandy to marry me.”

Sandy's the church lady his sister-in-law set him up with. “Married? This is pretty quick.”

“But we've seen each other every day since our first date. We've got a lot in common. Same church, and we both like NASCAR and McDonald's.”

“Oh. Well. Um.”

“What do the cards say, Elle?”

The cards say Louis and I lived together for six years before we decided to get married, and then we didn't. “Well…NASCAR and McDonald's are a good start, James. But it's only been what?—almost two weeks?—since you started seeing her. Maybe you ought to get to know each other a little better. It's a big step.”

“Well, the thing is, um…” He hems and haws for five minutes before I pry it from him: “She doesn't believe in sex before marriage.”

“Ohhhh.” Understanding dawns. “And, um…no sex sex, or no sex at all?”

He doesn't understand.

“I mean, I understand she wants no actual, main-course, meat-and-potatoes type sex. But is she also against the, erm, side dishes? The not-quite-sex sex?”

He still doesn't get it.

I consider having him call Blue Hair—whose name is Ian, actually, an International Relations major at UCSB. He's wearing his orange velvet again, and is at the desk next to mine, on the Straight Sex line. But James is my client through thick and thin, and I have a sudden flash of intuition: he's a virgin.

“You know,” I say. “Hands, mouths…” Every third day, more or less, I spend eight hours listening to the most explicit aural sex possible. It is all I can do not to bring James up to speed with an X-rated, moan-heavy, monologue.

“Oh! You mean…not going all the way to home base.”

Home base? “Yeah. The cards here say that marrying her for sex isn't such a great idea. You ought to get to know each other first. And there's plenty of things you can do that aren't, uh…the home run.”

“Her father is the pastor,” he says. “I couldn't ask her to do that sort of thing….”

I spend twenty minutes informing him that some women actually enjoy that sort of thing. “And masturbation is always an option, James, if you need to take the edge off.”

He insists that he doesn't jerk off.

I insist he does. He's a man. Men do.

He insists he doesn't. And I believe him. This man is considering marriage, and he doesn't even know how to bring himself off. He doesn't need a psychic, he needs a Chicken Ranch. I waggle my fingers to get Ian's attention. He looks up with a grin; he's been eavesdropping on the call, like I thought.

“Listen,” I tell James. “I've got a friend here, another psychic. Her name is Jasmine.”

The phone is ringing when I get home. It's Joshua.

“My sweet little psychic,” he says. “Did you get the stuff from work?”

“Well…not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“There hasn't been quite the right moment. Why do you want it, anyway? I'm afraid if I take anything I'll get in trouble.”

“I'm interested in everything about you, Elle.”

I melt.

“And why would you get in trouble wanting to know more about the company? You should get promoted for that kind of behavior.”

He does have a point. “Okay. I'll try again tomorrow. Do you want to come for dinner tonight?”

He doesn't. He'll call in a few days. Once I get that information we can get a room at the Harbor Inn, have dinner and drinks. Then we can laze around the pool together the whole next day. Once I get that information.

I am in bed by 8:30. The darkness is heavy, its weight compresses me. I wish it were heavier. I wish I could sleep. I lay in bed for hours, and look at the clock: 8:52. I turn. I fidget. I tuck and untuck. I wish everything were easier. Finally, I sleep.

I wake the next morning past ten. I know I'm sick about something, but can't remember what. Then I sit up, remembering: I have to go to court.

I dress as conservatively as possible. A pale pink cashmere sweater set and gray flannel pants. Even a pair of pearl earrings left over from the eighties. I walk the half mile to the courthouse.

If the Santa Barbara airport is a hacienda, the courthouse is a Spanish-Moorish palace. Its white ceramic facade is surrounded by lawns and a sunken tropical garden. I, however, do not rate the grand courtroom with the polished wood pews and Spanish murals. I rate a dinky room with not even a pulpit for the judge to sit behind. Very downscale and disappointing.

There are twenty-five or so people in the room and I spot Tony the bouncer immediately upon entering. Still looks like a white Mike Tyson, and I am cheered, sure no one will believe him over me. He sees me, and makes a rude gesture with his stained suit in my direction. I sit on the other side of the room.

Judge Miller presides. Only she may be Magistrate Miller. I wasn't listening. In any case, she's neatly efficient and not nearly as intimidating as Judge Judy or similar. Well, maybe
nearly.
But at least this isn't being televised. If it was, I'd never have worn pink.

In twenty minutes, Tony and I stand before her.

“Did you or did you not, Ms. Medina, throw—” she con
sults a piece of paper “—cranberry juice at Mr. Anthony Dingle?”

I giggled when I heard his name was Dingle. I almost laugh now, but the judge's stern expression stops me.

I swallow. “Well, you see, um, Your Honor, I sort of did, but…”

“Yes or no?” the judge asks.

“Your honor, as you can see, I did him a favor.” I gesture toward Dingle, currently wearing an atrocious brick-red suit. “Look what he wears. That color does nothing for him. And the cut is criminal.”

“You got a friggin' problem with my suit?” the Dingle says.

The judge says, “Ms. Medina. Did you or did you not throw the juice?”

“It was self-defense, your honor. He told me my breasts were sagging.”

Twenty-five pairs of eyes, including the judge's, beam to my breasts. But I'm prepared: I've got a Wonderbra under my cashmere—no one's gonna accuse these babies of sagging.

“The juice,” she says, and I think I detect a bit of sympathy. “Did you throw the juice?”

“I don't know if I threw it, exactly. I sort of spilled it, maybe? But those are fighting words, aren't they? I mean about my—”

“Ms. Medina! You are ordered to pay Mr. Dingle for the replacement of his suit, in the amount of…” She consults her paper again, and turns to Dingle. “Seven hundred dollars for
that
suit?”

I snort.

“Seven hundred twenty,” Dingle says. “I'm rounding down.”

“But you have no receipt and no credit card slip?”

He shrugs a Tyson-esque shoulder. “Don't keep that stuff.”

“Your Honor,” I say, arching my back slightly. “I would
like to state, erm, for the record, that the suit in question is heinous, that my breasts do not sag and that if he paid a cent more than thirty-nine ninety-five, he got reamed. For seven hundred dollars, he could have bought—”

“Yes, yes,” she says. “Ms. Medina, you are hereby ordered to take possession of Mr. Dingle's…admittedly offensive garment. You will repair the damage, or have it repaired and return the suit to him no later than three weeks from today's date. Is that understood?”