Tales of a Drama Queen (17 page)

“Yes, Your Honor.” Wooo! Down from seven hundred bucks to a dry-cleaning bill! I won my very first case. And here I thought Louis's job was so difficult and technical.

We sign this and that, and the Dingle glowers at me, and mutters, “Bitch.”

I smile, as we exit to the hall, and say under my breath: “Fuck you, you white Tyson wannabe.”

His Neanderthal brow creases in confusion, but he follows me down the hall with: “Bitch.”

I stop to confront him. He's really quite large. And wide. Very wide. But I will not back down. “You're an earbiter, Dingle. If you paid seven hundred bucks for that crap suit, you—”

“Bitch! You bitch!”

“That's it? That's all you can say? You slope-browed, off-the-rack, overgrown jelly vendor—” my volume creeps upward “—
Sopranos
-watching—”

Merrick says: “Hey. What's up?”

Merrick again!? Always catching me at my best. He looks at Dingle. Looks at me.

“Nothing,” I say, petulantly, and take Merrick's arm for moral support.

“Fuckin' bitch.”

“What did you say?” Merrick says to the Dingle, all masculine aggression, and he's my hero.

“Fix my suit or I'll sue your saggy tits,” Dingle tells me. “And not small claims, next time.” He walks massively away.

“What?” Merrick asks, watching the departing hulk. “Was that?”

I shake my head. “That was Dingle. Will you beat him up for me?”

“Were you in court?” He obviously can't believe it.

“Yep! It was kind of fun, actually. I won!” I notice Dingle's suit in my hand. “Sort of. Anyway, what're you doing here?”

“Planning permits. But what—how—?”

Incoming scold. I make sure Dingle's gone, and disengage my arm. “I won't keep you, then.”

“Are you going home?” he asks, taking a breath. “I'll walk with you. Or did you drive?”

“No. I mean, yes. I'm going home. I walked.” I don't know why he makes me so nervous. Possibly a reaction to his Chernobyl haircolor. Or because I can't tell if he finds me attractive, absurd or appalling. Or all of the above. But I do not want to tell him the Dingle story. “Don't you have to get your permits?”

He taps his portfolio as we head for the street. “All done. So tell me about court.”

“Not much to say. There wasn't even a pulpit.”

“You were hoping for powdered wigs?”

“She never used her gavel, either. It's not at all like you see on TV.”

“No,” he says, and I suspect he's laughing at me. “What's it like then?”

We cross Anacapa Street and walk past the library and through La Arcada, an outdoor shopping arcade. “There used to be a shoe store here,” I tell Merrick, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Footnote. It was a great little store.”

“Was it about Super 9?”

“It was mostly about shoes. But they sold accessories, too.”

“Super 9 thinks you're involved with the shoplifting? Or is this about your employee theft?”

“I told you I didn't do that! And it wasn't about Super 9, anyway. I don't want to talk about it.”

We wait silently for the light to turn, then cross State.

“So, that's why you're dressed that way,” he says.

“What way?”

“You know. Less…elaborate than usual. You look like a sorority girl or something. Like you work in a bank.”

I smile at the idea. Those two institutions would eat pigeon pie before accepting me into their folds.

“Well…” He cocks his head at my ensemble, definitely checking out my breasts. “Did it work?”

Momentarily thinking he means my Wonderbra, I say, “Yes.” Then realize he means the whole outfit. “I mean, yes.”

He nods. “That's what I thought you meant.”

I pause outside Saks. The male mannequins in the window are wearing Hugo Boss suits. Lovely clothes, but why bother? As if men ever look in shop windows.

“What do you think of that one?” Merrick points to a sage three-button.

I look at him. At the suit. At him. At the suit. It would look great on Joshua. It would look good on Merrick.

“I don't think so,” I say.

“I think it'd look good.”

“Since when do you wear suits? I've seen you dressed up—you wear mandarin collar linen shirts.”

“Well, Santa Barbara,” he says. “When do you see anyone in a suit?”

“Other than Monty, never.”

“But for New York, I need suits.”

I suspect he's trying to impress me.
Oooh,
he goes to New York on business. Actually, I am kind of impressed.

“You should play up the Santa Barbara thing,” I tell him. “I mean, when you're in New York. Go sub-casual. They'll be amazed how confident and cool you are.”

“You think?”

“Well, not
sub
-casual. But you know…go like you are.”
He's wearing a charcoal-gray long-sleeve tight-fitting sweater, and gray wool pants. Sort of a Ben Stiller look—but with freak-red hair. “You live in Santa Barbara, you ought to remind them you're a visitor from a faraway, and far better, place.”

He appears to be considering this as we continue walking. “That actually makes sense. What do I owe you?”

“Hmm?”

“For the consultation. You never told me what kind of consultant you are.”

“Eclectic,” I say, as we stop at another light.

“Spare any change?” a homeless guy asks me. He's fidgety and wiry, with curly gold hair and intense blue eyes, and I love him for interrupting.

Merrick and the other people at the light watch to see what I'll do. I want to give him money. But I don't want to give him money with an audience of light-waiters. Still, I am a princess, and do what I please. I open my wallet, and it's empty. I'm trying not to carry too much cash, so I don't waste it on trivial items such as food and drink.

“Oh, Jeez,” I tell the guy. “I'm sorry. I have maybe—” I check the coin-pocket “—almost a dollar in change.”

I try to give it to him, but he won't take it. “Even I have ten bucks,” he says, and we laugh.

Merrick gives him a five and the light changes and we cross. I expect him to say something about the guy. He doesn't. The original Louis always bragged about how generous he was to “charity cases.”

“Thanks for that.” I gesture behind us. “My money's in my other wallet.”

He gives me an indecipherable look. “No problem. I see him downtown sometimes. He's one of my favorites. One time I was eating lunch in that little park, outside the
News-Press,
and saw him asking people to pick up after their dog. Respectful, but firm. I liked that.”

I like that he likes that. I like that he has a favorite home
less person. I end up telling him my own personal dog story, including the punch line about it being a no-kill shelter.

He has a nice laugh. He tells me about his childhood dog, Bounder, who was afraid of awnings and wheelbarrows. I tell him about my childhood imaginary friend Pebbles, who was afraid of nothing.

We stop outside our house, sorry the excuse for conversation has ended. Well, at least
I'm
sorry. I don't know what he's thinking, except he says, “You're so calm about having gone to court.”

“I had an imaginary gerbil, too,” I say.

“I'll probably never go to court in my life.”

“You were just
at
the courthouse.”

“I mean in court. A
lawsuit.
”

“What about jury duty?”

“That's not a
lawsuit.
”

I shake my head. “It was just small claims.”

“But…how do you do it? Get yourself into trouble all the time?”

“I'm not in trouble,” I say. I got off easy at court. Of course, there's no denying I do attract a certain amount of contention.

“Elle, I heard that guy threatening you.”

“He's just mad because he thinks the suit looked better before I decorated it.” I show Merrick the purple stain.

He shakes his head in disbelief as we enter the foyer.

“Anyway, the Dingle's mostly harmless.” I hope.

“Sure, that's why you were so happy to see me. What's a jelly-vendor?”

“A what?”

“A jelly-vendor. You called him a jelly-vendor.”

“I did?” I shrug. “I dunno. It just slipped out.”

“Slipped out? Jelly-vendor.” He runs his fingers over his forehead like he's got a headache. “Let me get this straight. You have a job as an eclectic consultant. You were taken to small claims court for ruining a weightlifter's suit. You're a
fake bartender, a wannabe loser-Oprah, and a shoplifting store detective. You go on dates for the doggie bags.” His eyebrows move upward. “You waterbomb your landlord. Is there anything you
won't
do?”

“Settle,” I say. I give him the swing in the backyard again, on my way upstairs. This time, when I turn on the landing, he's still watching.

“H
ello?”

“Is this Janet? Janet Taluga?”

“Yes.”

“This is Elle Medina. From Psychic Connexion. You called a while back.”

“Yes, I—I did. But how—how did you get my number?”

“I'm a psychic, Janet.” Plus, Perfect Brad searched online for her name. “But the question isn't how, it's why. I have a feeling you need to talk to someone.”

“But you called…I mean, how much is this costing?”

“Don't worry about the phone bill. I'm calling from work. Oh, costing
you?
It's free, Janet—except I'm asking you to speak with me.”

A long pause. “About my husband?”

“About whatever's on your mind.”

Another pause. “He doesn't mean to hurt me. He's always awfully sorry. It's the drink makes him do it.”

“Janet.”

“Don't yell at me.”

“I won't yell at you. I just want you to talk to the right people about this. I have a few numbers. You have a pen and paper?”

“Yes.”

I can hear that she's lying. “Go get a pen and paper, Janet.”

Rustling. She returns. “I love him, though. I really do.”

“That's okay. That doesn't matter. I'm not telling you what you should do, or feel, anything like that, except call and chat with these people who understand what it's like, going through what you're going through. They won't make you do anything. They'll just listen, which I think is what you need. You don't like what they say, hang up.”

Another pause. “Okay. What are the numbers?”

 

Am next to Ian Blue Hair again this afternoon. Trying to read
Vogue,
but the sex talk distracts me. I shift in my seat. Might be getting slightly turned on. How can this be? He's a man I'm not interested in, pretending to be a woman I'm
really
not interested in, talking to a man who thinks he really is a woman. Hence, I cannot be turned on. I must be ovulating.

Possibly just missing Joshua. I left three messages with him, and was finally rewarded with a message of my own: “Hey, Elle—I miss you, too. I've been swamped, but we'll get together soon.”

And I
should
make it soon. Because Ian Blue Hair, without interrupting his description about how hard he wants it, and where, gives me a knowing grin. Like he can tell I'm getting turned on. He can't tell, can he? God knows what sort of extra-sexual-perception you get, talking filth on the phone eight hours a day.

Darwin spots me and hurries over from his cubicle, sipping from a venti Starbuck's cup. “Adele,” he calls. “Break time?”

She pops up from two aisles over, runes in her hands. Looks from him to me, and nods. They crowd over my desk for a whispered conference.

“They check the outgoing calls, Elle,” Darwin says.

“Who does? What outgoing calls?”

“Like a twenty-seven minuter to someone in Georgia this morning?” Adele says.

“Ohmigod. They check those?”

“They check
everything.
It was a client?”

“Well, yeah. I mean—she called here, first.”

“Shit, Elle,” Darwin says. “That's grounds for termination.”

“Don't be a worrywart,” Adele tells him. “We caught it.”

“What do you mean, caught it?” I ask. My phone rings, but we all ignore it.

“The comptroller thought it was my account,” Adele says. “I told her it was a private call, and I thought it was yours, but I didn't know. Worst they'll do for a private call is subtract it from your paycheck. They won't fire you, like they will for poaching.”

“Poaching? What the hell? Did I sneak into the king's forest and kill a fucking deer?”

“Don't tell us,” Darwin says. “We're on your side. But management…it's policy to shitcan poachers.”

“Policy,” I hiss. “Policy is just another word for—”

Adele straightens as a man from another department walks past. “So that's how the crop circles work,” she says loudly. “Is that your phone ringing?”

I pick up, and it's Nyla.

She says, “I'm thinking of going off the pill.”

I take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm. Fired for poaching. I can't get fired. I need this job. I like this job. God bless Adele and Darwin.

“You're thinking of what?” I say.

“If I'm pregnant, he
has
to marry me.”

“Nyla, did you make your list of careers? Your five careers?”

“I was going to, but this pill thing…”

“No excuses. We can't talk until you make your list. Call me after you've done it. I'll be here all day tomorrow.”

“But—”

“And don't go off the pill. Think how you'd look in Roberto Cavalli with a bloated hippo body.” I hang up.

Darwin and Adele stare at me. Adele's mouth is open wide enough for me to see her back teeth are capped.

“What?” I ask. “I won't call anyone again, I promise.”

“You hung up on a client,” Darwin says.

“Oh, that. It's part of my plan.”

“You're not suppose to hang up on clients, Elle,” Adele says.

“Well, I've been thinking. Just talking isn't enough. Talking gets you nowhere. Task Orientation, that's where it's at. Give them a list of tasks to perform, and when they're done they call in to report.”

“Despite what you've heard,” Darwin says, “talk isn't cheap. Not at four bucks a minute. Talk pays the bills, Elle.”

I turn to Adele. “Are we in the bill-paying business, or the intuitive consulting business?”

“That's a good question.” Adele straightens her rainbow-colored crocheted vest, and I avert my eyes in horror. “And the truth lies within. We are both a service industry, with, um—” She pretends she can hear her phone ringing, two aisles away, and holds a finger up like she'd rather talk to me, but has to answer the call. As if I don't recognize that ploy.

I don't care what they think. I know I'm right. I'll be the star of Psychic Connexion. They'll put a picture of me next to the front door. C. Burke will shower me with praise and bonuses.

And speaking of tasks and C. Burke…

Five minutes later. I am in the inner sanctum. C. Burke's office. I am aware that the ghost of Calamity Jane haunts me, so am incredibly careful. I close the door silently behind me. My stomach aches. I flip through his files.

 

Merrick's in the hall when I get home. Neil, the enraged teddy bear, is with him, wearing a tool belt and hammering at a doorway. Maya told me he's a carpenter, and does a lot of work for Monty. And is Merrick's best friend.

What is it with men and their best friends? Even the most normal guy in the world will have this utterly bizarre best friend. It doesn't matter that they're from different planets. They don't even notice. You see it all the time. A fairly regular guy whose best friend is a Wall Street sleazebag, or a partially homeless juggler, or a depressive night clerk, or something. It's plain weird.

Of course, Maya's best friend is me.

Anyway. Merrick sits on the stairs, a bottle of beer between his legs, wearing a green cotton button-down and jeans.

“I'll hide them behind the palms,” Neil is saying. “You'll never know they're there.”

“Never know what's where?” I ask.

“Beehives,” Merrick says. “At my place.”

“Here?”

“My other place.”

“They're great for pollination,” Neil says. “And all the honey you can eat.”

“The hives are ugly, Neil. They'll ruin the view.”

“I believe they're called apiaries,” I say

Merrick ignores me. “And I'm allergic to bee stings.”

“You are not,” Neil says.

“Not usually. But if your bees are anything like you, they're killer bees.”

“Africanized. Africanized bees. Not killer bees. That's a media creation—and not only is it incorrect, it's stupid. Think about it! African varieties interbreed with local varieties, right? Right?”

“Neil. We're not at Shika.”

“Sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “I'd like some variety in the honey is all. I put them at your place, I'll call it Honey from the Sea.”

“You live at the beach?” I ask.

“You haven't shown her your house?” Neil says, oddly surprised.

“And if you really do have a house, why don't you live there?” I ask.

Merrick gives Neil a look. “It isn't finished. I told you I'm having problems.”

Neil chuckles and starts hammering again.

“What's so funny?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Merrick says. “Nothing's funny. How was your day? How's the consulting business?”

“Fine.” It's like I've been taking lessons from that nurse at Planned Parenthood. Any shorter a
fine,
and I would've said nothing.

He gives me a once-over. I'm in jeans, an oatmeal sweater and flip-flops. I look chubbier in jeans than any other item of clothing. I'm becoming a real slob, working at Psychic Connexion.

“No dress code at the consulting thing, huh?”

He thinks I look fat. At least I have normal hair. “No.”

Neil stops hammering. “What kind of consulting?”

“Eclectic,” Merrick says. “Like you and carpentry. No job too large or small.”

“Yeah?” Neil says. “What do you specialize in?”

“Is that my phone?” I say. “I think that's my phone.”

I race upstairs. I think I hear one of them say
mmm-hmmm
at my huge ass. But it's an
mmm-hmmm
like you say to a chocolate milk shake, so it's all good.