Tales of a Drama Queen (18 page)

“H
ow about him, instead?” I let a black-and-white Australian shepherd mutt lick my fingers through the fence. I'm at the County Animal Shelter; a more permissive organization than the Humane Society, they don't have a perimeter-security policy. They do, however, insist upon matching you with an appropriate dog. The volunteer, a nice-looking woman in her early sixties, asks about my life and house, and directs me toward what she considers the best match. Sort of like a personal shopper. But I'm more interested in this shepherd than in her pick.

“Too much working dog in him,” she says. “He needs someone who'll really spend the time—not just loving him, but working him.”

Well, that makes sense. “This lab here, then. What's her name? Pixie! There's a sweetie…oooh, who's my sweetie?”
Pixie is a hyperactive ball of kinetic energy, ricocheting in her cage like a pinball.

“Not Pixie. I really think the first dog we saw would be—”

“How about this little guy?” I say, eyeing a cute tan and white dog. “He's darling!”

“He's a rat terrier.” The way she says it clearly means
no.

I sigh. “So it's the first one or nothing?”

“She's the staff's favorite. She's a doll.” We make our way back to the first dog, who watches with sad brown eyes. “Look at that face,” the volunteer says. “How can you not love that face?”

She's a purebred boxer. And if you ignore the three-inch string of drool escaping one of her jowls, she does have a dear black-masked face. The problem is her fur. She has none, from the back of her ears to the base of her tiny stub-tail. Her skin is black and scaly, and you can count her ribs at a distance of twenty feet. I can't decide if she looks more like a lizard or a rat—either way, she appears to be three days from being buried in the backyard. “Scab” is written at the top of her information card.

“You call her Scab?” I ask.

“When she came in, we picked a cup and a half of scabs off her. Frank started calling her Scab, and it stuck. You can name her anything you want, though.” She smiles at me. “This little girl wants to go home with you. Should I start the paperwork?”

I'm sorry. I know I should say yes. I know that's the right thing to do. But adopting a depressed, hairless, scaly, drooling dog is not wise. Not for me. I'm surface-y, and this dog's surface is truly wretched. Plus, there are definitely plenty of boxer lovers who will adopt her.

“No,” I say, and I swear the dog's eyes grow sadder. “No.”

 

Back at home, I call Joshua. We should be able to talk about these things, right? Feeling like a bad person for re
jecting a scaly dog, I mean. And about other things, too, like not wanting to steal papers from the office.

I get his machine. “Hi, Joshua! It's me. You're never in. Well, I was about to get those papers and stuff, but actually, when I think about it, I'm kind of uncomfortable taking them, actually. If you see what I mean. Anyway, I went to the pound again, but didn't adopt a dog yet. I thought maybe we could go together, and you could help me pick one. Umm…so give me a call? Love you.”

He didn't call back that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

He is not going to call.

 

I attempt to drown my sorrows in work. Task-Oriented Reading has taken root, and is bearing fruit. Flowering, blossoming, flourishing, etc. Assorted one-time callers being converted to repeaters, bread-and-butter calls now result in more than watered-down New Ageism and sympathy.

The cards tell Ann from Sacramento to ask her shy, handsome co-worker out herself. She calls back in two days—he said no. He's got a girlfriend. But he also has a buddy….

The auric shift informs Steph from Dubuque to keep her knees together until Stage Four. She lasts until Stage Two. It's a start.

The numbers and the signs, the runes and crystals and the Gift—they have tasks for just about everyone: walk to work, buy yourself flowers, go to a movie alone, tell him how you feel,
don't
tell him how you feel, put aside fifty bucks a week, ask her which she prefers, stop calling a 900-line, there's a lovely dress in the Shapely Woman's department at Super 9 for only $49, wear the garter belt if it'll make him so happy, join a bird-watching club.

I lose some casual callers, but such is life. Can't please everyone all the time. I know, because I told Darlene from Baton Rouge that very thing.

When not on the phone, I spread the Task-Oriented
word among my co-workers. They look dazed, and try to avoid me. I don't care. This works. I write a pamphlet. Darwin starts calling me “comrade.” I am having a fairly fantastic time. At work, at least.

The phone rings. A man's voice: “Elle… Can your psychic powers divine who this is?”

The voice is familiar. Not a repeat caller, though. Not Carlos, thank God. “Joshua? I'm so glad you called!”

“Joshua? No. It's Louis.”

“Louis? How the hell did you get this number? If this is about your fucking stamp collection—”

“Merrick. It's Merrick.”

“Oh. Merrick. Oh. Hi. What do you want? How did you get this number?”

“Maya gave it to me.”

Must kill Maya.

“So are you going to give me a reading?” he asks.

“Sure. Let me lay out the cards.” I flip through my magazine. “Hmmm…I see trouble. Trouble at home. It appears your apartment will be flooded when the person upstairs plugs her bathtub and leaves the water running all day.”

“No—for real, Elle. Pretend I'm a regular client. What would you tell me?”

“First, I'd get your address for our free psychic newsletter.”

“You know my address.”

“Let me fill this out…” I'm done in a jiffy, because I'm good with forms. Don't know if I've mentioned it. “Done.”

“Now what?”

“Whatever you want. You're the client.”

“Well…shouldn't you tell me something about myself?”

“I can't,” I say. “I know you. It only works with people I don't know.”

He laughs. “You don't know me
that
well.”

“Well, ask a question,” I say. “We'll see what I can do.”

“Okay. Will you have dinner with me this Friday?”

“Oh. Wow. You know, I'm actually kinda seeing some
one.” I am, too. Maybe Joshua's machine is broken. Or he's out of town on business—whatever that may be. Or cavorting with Jenna. No. No, he's
not
with Jenna.

“Seeing someone for real, or seeing someone like you're consulting?”

“I am consulting,” I snap. “In fact, I've developed a whole new theory for the business. It's called Task-Oriented Readings.” I tell him how it works. “The only problem is people are making fun of me for writing a manifesto.”

“Like
Das Kapital.
” He laughs again. “Das Krystallball?”

I grunt at him. It annoys me, for some reason, that he's being charming.

“So what's my personal task?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I grumble.

“I think it's to persuade Elle Medina to have dinner with me.”

“I told you, I'm seeing someone.” Why won't he believe me? Is it so hard to believe that I have a boyfriend? And I do. Have a boyfriend. He's just busy. “His name is Joshua. He lives in Montecito.”

“You call him that? Joshua?”

“I know, I know. It's lame he doesn't go by Josh. But he's not gay.
That
I know for sure.”

“I meant,” he says a little stiffly, “do you call him Joshua, or by his last name?”

“Oh. Yes. Joshua.”

“So how'd you meet?”

“At work,” I say, all innocence.

“He's a phone psychic, too?”

“Not here. I met him at Super 9.”

“He works at Super 9 and lives in Montecito?” There's a slight pause. “Elle, please tell me you're not dating the shoplifter who got you fired.”

“Well, technically…yes. But he didn't actually shoplift—” I stop speaking because I don't want to interrupt Merrick's
unattractive whoops of laughter. “I don't see what's so funny—”

“You…you're…”

“He's
gorgeous.
And he knows all about Prada.” Sort of. “And he's a great cook, and he's spontaneous—”

“Spontaneous how?”

“Spontaneous like I never know when he'll call, or stop by or, er…”

“Yeah?”

“And we went to Citronelle for dinner, and neither of us had enough money, so we stiffed the bill and ran out! And he lives in this huge mansion, and we're thinking of, um, living in Montecito and…and we're going to Venice.”

There's a long pause as I catch my breath.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

“What?”

“I don't know, Elle. You—” He sounds tired and disappointed. “I never know what's the truth with you. Well, this has been enlightening. You do a great job. You really answered my question.”

“Merrick…”

“I've gotta go,” he says.

“Go where?”

He hangs up. My face hurts. I stare at the phone.

Five minutes later, it rings again.

“Psychic Connexion. This is Elle.”

It's Nyla. Doing really well. “You were right about being a magazine editor,” she says. “But you know what? Bookstore clerk sounds pretty good. I know they don't make any money, but I don't need money—not if we stay together. And we will, too, if I get out of the house and start doing something. And I like books—I mean, I spend almost as much time in Barnes and Noble—are you crying?”

“N-no.”

“What's wrong, Elle?”

“Nothing. I just—I saw a sick dog at the pound, and I
have my period, and I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't be unloading on you.”

“No, that's okay.”

But it's not. She's paying, I'm the professional. I take a deep breath: “Just needed a little weep. Better now. Listen, Nyla, I have one last task for you. It's a biggie. Are you ready for it?”

I can hear the smile in her voice when she says: “I'm ready for anything.”

“You have to stop calling.”

“What?”

“It's expensive, and it's his money. And more important, you don't need me anymore. You can do it yourself. You can
only
do it yourself. We both know it. You're a…you're really great, Nyla. I like you a lot. If you lived here, I think we'd be friends. But you have to do the rest by yourself. Most of all, you have to know you
can
do it yourself. I believe in you. Your next task is this—believe in yourself.”

I hang up, breathless and light-headed. I take my headset off for a brief break, and feel someone standing behind me. I swing in my chair, and a harried-looking guy in a mediocre suit is standing there.

“Elle,” Darwin says from his desk. “This is Christopher Burke. Back from paternity leave.”

“Christopher C. Burke,” Burke says.

“Oh!” I pop out of my chair and offer my hand. “It's great to finally meet you.”

“You hung up on a client.”

Ouch. Well, nothing to do but explain: “It's all part of my plan. Task-Oriented Readings. Clients have to complete a task before calling back—I don't know if you've had a chance to read my pamphlet?”

He nods in understanding, and I thrill with possibility of my first convert to the cause. He smiles softly, and says: “You're fired.”

 

Spend twenty minutes weeping in the Psychic Connexion parking lot, too upset to drive. This is far worse than being fired from Super 9 shoplifting patrol. I was good at this. I liked it.

Now I'm afraid to go home. How will I face Merrick? What will I tell Maya? And Sheila, and Monty, and Carlos and my mom…

What should I do? Where should I go?

Only one thing occurs to me: picking up the Dingle's dry cleaning. Am already humiliated and defeated, there's no reason not to complete my disgrace.

I drag my tear-stained face into the dry cleaner's. The pretty, forty-something Asian woman behind the counter wants $28.95.

“What?” I say. “That's a little high. The suit itself wasn't worth forty.” I should've bought one of those home dry-cleaning kits. Could have saved twenty dollars—which, now that I'm unemployed again, I desperately need.

“The stain was cranberry,” she says. “On seersucker. And look now—not a shadow.”

She's right. The stain is absolutely gone.

“Twenty-eight ninety-five, then,” I say, with an attempt at a smile.

“Tell your boyfriend, be more careful—it'll save a lot of money in the long run.”

My boyfriend. I fork over the cash, and look away while she counts the change, afraid I'm going to start crying again. A framed article on the wall says
Local Dry Cleaner Awarded Environmental Award,
and the picture shows the woman holding a wedding dress while smiling into the camera. I may be unemployed and unwed, but at least I'm not killing the earth.

“Bag or no bag?” she asks.

“Is that how you got the environmental award?”

“Partly.” She smiles.

“Then no bag, I guess.”

I take the suit and am about to leave when she says, “Oh, wait. This was in the pocket.” She hands me a matchbook, three lollipops and a bunch of receipts. The matchbook says Café Lustre, and features three topless girls in lurid poses. “Tell your boyfriend,” the woman says, “he doesn't need that sort of place. He has a pretty girlfriend, and she picks up his dry cleaning, too.” She pauses a moment, and I think she's going to ask if I cook and wear sexy underthings and give the Dingle time in his cave. “But the one in the middle?” She means the picture on the matchbox. “She's cute. Almost makes me want a lap-dance.”

I look closer. The one in the middle is Jenna.