Tales of a Drama Queen (2 page)

I
wake with the Sunday edition of the
Santa Barbara News-Press
on my belly. I'm depressed and hungover, and unsure how to take the newspaper delivery. Helpful encouragement, or a hint that I'm not welcome for long?

The headline of the Lifestyle section is about Oprah buying a fifty-million-dollar house in Montecito, the über-rich suburb of Santa Barbara. Eager to jump into the job and apartment hunt, I make a list to evaluate my present situation:

Maya enters, bearing fresh coffee. “Did you see Oprah's moving to town?”

“Is she?” I take a life-giving sip. “Where's Brad?”

“Working.”

At SoftNoodle, a post-dot-com dot-com. They wanted a name that evoked both software and brains. Instead, they got impotence. “He works Sundays?”

“All the geeks do.”

“He's not geeky. He's perfect.”

“He's not perfect!”

“He looks, talks, tastes and
is
Perfect Brad.”

“Tastes?”

“You know what I mean. Name one way he's not perfect.”

“He's not Jewish.”

“Oh,” I say. “That.”

Maya and I have been friends since we were twelve. She always celebrated the major Jewish holidays, unless she had other plans, but that was the extent of it. Maya's mother, on the other hand, was really observant. She died of breast cancer last year—her funeral was the one time I'd been back since college. Since then, Maya has taken religion more seriously. Not that she's started attending synagogue or anything, but she knows her mother wanted her to marry someone Jewish.

“So no wedding bells?” I say.

Her face clouds. “The wedding bells were supposed to be for you and Louis.” She sits next to me. “Did he really hurt you, Elle?”

I'd been thinking about that, between bouts of obsessive eating. “Other than my pride? No. C'mon. Of course not.” I take another sip of coffee, wishing it were a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby. The name of the ice cream makes my heart hurt. “Yeah. I guess he did. I miss him. I liked him. I really—he was solid. We really knew each other—little things, you know? The stuff that doesn't matter, but that's all that matters. And he was…well, he was there. That's important in a fiancé.”

“He was there.” Her tone says,
you don't sound like a woman in love.

“Do you remember in high school, when we wanted to be mistresses?”

“No.”

“Maybe that was just me.” I'd seen a special on
20/20
about Kept Women. It had made an impression. Your own house, designer clothes and an allowance. All you had to do was have sex whenever he wanted. I liked sex—it didn't seem like a hardship. “That's pretty much what I had going.”

“You were his mistress?”

“Well, we didn't have sex whenever he wanted. But I lived
in an apartment he paid for, I didn't work, he bought me clothes.” I look at her. “I should've asked for an allowance.”

“Do you love him?”

“Sure. That's what kept it from being tawdry.” I finish my coffee. “I know you must've thought I led this exciting, sophisticated, romantic life…”

“Not really.”

“But to tell the truth it was kind of—” I look at her. “What do you mean,
not really?
”

“You never sounded happy. Just sort of…empty.”

“Empty? I wasn't empty. I had the shopping and the lunches and the…the…museums. It was full.
Very
full. I was settled, Maya—I had it all. A man I loved, a lifestyle, friends…”

Maya gives me a look.

“I had friends! People from Louis's work. I could've stayed with one of them, but it would have been—you know. More comfortable for everyone if they stick with Louis. Besides, I wanted you.”

“Good. They can stick with Louis, I'll stick with you.”

I feel sort of weepy, and Maya gets that pitying look in her eyes again, so I ruffle the newspaper and say, “You think I should get a place downtown, or on the Riviera?”

“You might not have a choice. How much can you pay?”

I look around her apartment. “What's the rent here?”

“Take a guess.”

It's the second story of a cape in a nice neighborhood—the upper eastside. Hardwood floors, white walls, a big kitchen with tile counters. Maya's always had good taste, and the decor is mostly minimalist with Asian and Jewish accents thrown in. A Chinese lantern hangs over the dining room table and the mantel displays her mother's collection of antique menorahs. “I don't know,” I say. “Nine hundred?”

Maya snorts. “Try sixteen.”

“But it's only got one bedroom, and no dishwasher!”

“Dishwashers are two hundred a month extra.”

“Oh. Well…” I don't know how to tell her, but she's been had. I bet this was the only place they looked at. Not everyone is good at this kind of thing.

“You'll find something,” she says, and hands me a set of keys. “Use my car. Brad and I are sharing. You want to come shopping?”

I brighten. “Shopping?”

“Groceries, Elle,” she says, laughing. “Then I have to stop by the bar.”

“Oh. No. I should start the apartment hunt.”

“Back in a few hours, then.” She closes the door behind her, and I have a brainstorm: I'm gonna find the perfect apartment before she gets back. This is my new life, this is the New Elle—if Oprah can buy a fifty-million-dollar house without breaking a sweat, I can find an apartment in the time it takes Maya to buy detergent and cottage cheese.

 

I'm into the last ten minutes of Davey and Goliath when a key turns in the front door. I hit the off button on the remote a moment before Maya enters. I wish she'd come later. Goliath had disobeyed Davey, and I'm pretty sure he had a lesson coming.

Maya glances at the TV. “What were you watching?”

“Mmm? Oh, the news.”

“What's going on?”

“Lot's of…bad stuff. The usual. You're back quick.”

“I've been gone four hours, Elle.”

“Well, I'm going to look at an apartment.” I point to the classifieds crumpled on the table. “There's an open house, at one o'clock.”

She checks her watch. “It's twenty after, sweetie.”

So I lolled around watching Davey and Goliath reruns and missed an open house. So what? It's only Sunday. I've been in California less than twenty-four hours. I'm supposed to have accomplished something by now?

It's not like I don't have goals. Of course, I have goals. They are, after much soul-searching:

And, of course, the complete obliteration of Iowa, by Act of God, Hanta Virus or Crème Brûlée. I'm not particular.

I have assets as well as goals, by the way. I got $1,100 for my Vera Wang wedding dress. Was going to sell it on eBay, but began weeping when I wrote the header: Vera Wang Wedding Dress: Never Worn. Sold it to a local wedding boutique, instead, for their first offer. I would have talked them up, but it cost Louis $4,800, and I wanted him to suffer. If he ever learns how cheap I sold it for, I mean. Which he won't.

So $1,100 plus the roughly $4,000 in our household account, which was by all rights mine. Plus the triple-wick candle and instant ear thermometer, and so on.

I'm flush. A single girl in Santa Barbara with five grand and change. It's a monster stack of cash, burning a hole. The future lies before me, full of abundant promise and happy surprises, like an endless sale rack at Barneys.

M
onday. Would prefer to remain wallowing in self-pity, comforting myself with treacley
Facts of Life
reruns and family-size pizzas, but I'm afraid to appear as encroaching houseguest. Normally, I'd go shopping to kill time, but I need to conserve my monster stack of cash—my credit card companies have all fallen victim to some sort of computer virus. Technology. Just goes to show you.

I muster myself into a feel-good outfit and head downtown. Window shopping is just as satisfying as buying.

Except Santa Barbara didn't used to be such a retail Mecca. When I was growing up, there were three local boutiques, the best of which specialized in sequins and appliqué. Now there's Nordstrom, Bebe, Aveda and Banana, plus a Gap and Limited for when you need a single strap tank for the week that it's in. Across the street is Bryan Lee (
très
L.A.), and down toward the beach are vintage shops catering to
girls half my age—but I still manage to find a YSL suit I can squeeze into.

Fleeing temptation, I escape into the newish Borders Books, grab a
Vogue
and settle into a purple velvet chair.

A feature on Antonio Banderas takes a while to get through—kept having to pause and take deep breaths. Maybe my new man should be Latino. There are lots of Latinos in Santa Barbara. Suspect they are good family men, too.

I turn to the last page, “The Ten Best Satchels in America,” and compare them to my ratty old Coach tote. Everyone else is carrying satchels this year. Not tatty ancient totes. I want
Vogue
's number one pick—the Fendi. It's only $1,650. I wonder how much I'll get paid at my new job. Louis billed three hundred an hour, last I checked, which was years ago. Surely I'll make enough to afford a simple handbag.

I return
Vogue
to the rack and grab
Cosmopolitan.
I haven't read
Cosmo
since college, but I'm single now. This month promises “A Dating Diary,” “How to Perfect Your Stripping Skills on Virtual Boy-Toys” and some advice I could really use: “Land That Man, Ace Your Job and Look Your Sexiest Ever.”

Standing in the check-out line, I read “Ten Girlfriend Goof-ups” and discover I've girlfriend goofed in every way. I could have kept Louis if I'd cooked hearty dinners, wore sexy underwear, feigned interest in his work and allowed him time “in his cave.”

“I can help who's next,” the cashier calls. He's California cute, with dark hair and a tan. That's one thing about Santa Barbara—it's packed with beautiful people. Dumb, but beautiful. I know. I grew up here.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask Surfer Boy as I hand him the magazine.

“Uh, yeah.” He looks nervous. “That'll be $3.79.”

I dig in my repellent, prehistoric, possibly-infectious Coach tote for my wallet. “I'm doing a survey. Does she cook you hearty dinners?”

“She makes pot roast sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.” I give him a five. “Does she wear sexy underwear?”

His eyes light up.

“Give you time in your cave?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I don't get that one either. You think you'll ever break up with her?”

He doesn't hesitate. “No doubt.”

See?
Cosmo
is wrong. All the peek-a-boo bras in the world wouldn't have saved me and Louis. Which means it's not my fault. It'd be Louis's fault, but he's clueless. That only leaves one person: The Iowan Floozy. I consider throwing
Cosmo
in the trash, punishment for misinformation, but decide against. Floozy probably has perfect stripping skills. I need a virtual refresher.

A
five-day crying binge, interrupted briefly with bouts of piggery and compulsive TV watching, and I'm ready to look at apartments.

I make several appointments for walk-throughs, feeling like the heroine of my own Lifetime Television movie. Against all odds—puffy eyes, bloated ankles, damaged brain cells—Elle Medina finds herself an apartment. But can she find love amid the rubble?

No. But she can sure find rubble. Thirteen apartment impossibilities later, and I'm back where I started.

“You wouldn't believe these places,” I tell Maya one evening before she heads to work. We're in the bathroom. I'm sitting on the toilet, downing a beer. She's applying makeup.

“Like what?” she asks.

“Like a shack, with a toaster oven for a kitchen, mildew
in the bath and heinous red carpet. Guess what they're asking.”

She shrugs. I tell her she needs more eyeliner.

“I don't know,” she says. “$700?”

“No, they want…well yeah—$700. It's insane. Remember that set we built for the school play?”

“We didn't build a set. We built one doorway.”

“That doorway was architecturally sounder than this place. I'd pay $700 a month for that doorway and be getting a better deal.”

“It was a nice doorway.”

“Then I saw a fantastic place in Hope Ranch.”

“Oh?” She lifts a brow. Hope Ranch is home to Santa Barbara's nouveau riche—the old riche live with Oprah, in Montecito.

“A guest house. Beautiful white couches. Landlady wearing JP Tods. The ad was a misprint—they want $2,600 a month. Then there's the place that smelled like cat pee, and the one where I'd have bathroom privileges. Since when is sharing a bathroom with two teenage boys a privilege? And all the places that won't rent to you if you're unemployed—which I'm not, I just don't happen to have a job. And the places that won't accept dogs and the—”

“You don't have a dog.”

“Not yet.”

“Ellie…” she says, washing her hands and leaving the bathroom.

“Well, how can they hold my future dog against me, but not give me credit for my future job?” I follow her to the front door. “Seriously, I don't think I can find a place.” I point to the mess I've made of her living room. “I may be permanently ensconced.”

She looks slightly alarmed. Possibly at my vocabulary. “Maybe you need a roommate. Then you could afford something better.”

“I don't know, living with a stranger. It's too bad you don't have an extra bedroom here.”

“Yeah,” she says, as she closes the front door behind her. “Too bad.”

 

That evening, with Maya at the bar and Perfect Brad working late, I decide to clean their apartment. Because I'm a good houseguest. Plus, if I clean I can snoop in their drawers.

I do the kitchen before the bedroom, to establish my noble intentions. But washing dishes by hand always makes me think. If my world had flashback wiggles like in old movies, they'd pop up every time I did dishes by hand.

I wasn't flashing back to falling in love with Louis: walking hand-in-hand on a cherry-blossomed path at the Jefferson Memorial, going on our first real date to Emily's, greeting him in an apron and stilettos after he took the Bar (See? I
used
to be a
Cosmo
girl!). No, I was thinking of that shack-landlady, her hollow voice reverberating in my memory, “first, last and security…first, last and security.” And she wasn't the only one, it seems everyone requires obscene amounts of money before they let you move in. I'm not sure my monster stack is going to cover first and last…and security? I wish.

I dry my hands and call my mother.

“Hi, it's me,” I say, when she picks up.

“Me who?”

“Me, your daughter, Mom.” She never recognizes my voice. Sometimes I make her guess who it is. She got it right on the first try, once.

“Elle, thank God. I was worried. I got your message. I don't understand. I called yesterday and Louis told me you'd already left. Santa Barbara? You'll be back before the wedding, won't you? I've already made my plane reservations. I still don't—”

“Mom.”

“—know what I'm going to do about the hotel. The cheapest one you suggested charges one-fifty a night! That's too expensive. Why can't I stay with—”

“Mom—”

“—you and Louis. I won't be in the way. You know the store takes every spare penny, and I—”

“Mom! Listen to me.”

“I
am
listening, darling. What do you think I'm doing?”

“Louis and I broke up.”

“Yes, that's what he said. But I already made my plane reservations. The tickets, darling—they're nonrefundable. I told the girl—”

“Mom—focus, please!”

“Well, you and Louis have broken up before.” Which is utterly untrue. She thinks that because we weren't speaking after the Mizrahi couture incident, we were broken up. “It's only pre-wedding jitters. You'll just have to go back and make up.”

“It's a little late for that. He married someone else.”

“He did
what?
”

“An Iowan.”

“He married an Iowan? When did he—how did he?” She pauses for a fraction of a second, which means she is truly shocked. “Well, are you gonna kick her ass back to the corn fields?”

Mom watches a lot of daytime TV. I often wonder what her New Age customers would think if they knew. She owns a crystal and herb shop in Sedona—she moved there when I went to college. She gives off an Earth Mama vibe, and a lot of her customers come in to ask for advice. Little do they know that the wise and evolved spirits she's channeling are Montel Williams and Jerry Springer.

“Mom, I haven't even met her.”

“Well, maybe you should. I was watching
Ricki Lake
this morning—you know she's lost weight again—and there was a woman on who'd never confronted her mother when she stole her brother's girlfriend…”

And she's off. Why do I bother? She always makes me feel like this. Like the people on
Judge Judy
are more important than me. I don't know why I called, why I—oh, right. Security. As in deposit. She marks up those crystals four hundred percent.

“Mom! Louis dumped me, and I'm living on Maya's couch, and I don't have an apartment or a job or a car or anything. I don't care about intergenerational love triangles.”

I must sound desperate, because she actually responds. “Oh, Elle, honey. You should have come here, where I could take care of you.”

I feel my eyes water. “Yeah, I sh-should have…”

“I would've made you scalloped potatoes and Boston cream pie.”

I wipe my nose with the wet dishcloth. “B-better than chicken soup.”

“Hop on the next plane, darling. The red rocks here cure everything. Broken hearts included.”

She sounds so sympathetic, I'm almost tempted. Cake and sympathy and reversion to childhood. But it wouldn't be like that. Ten minutes after I got there, everyone would know it was my fault that Louis married someone else. Which it
wasn't
. And she'd rope me into her shop for horoscopes and palm reading; she decided when I was eleven that I had the Gift, even though I always thought Capricorn was the bull.

“In fact, I wrote a letter about that to Oprah,” she says. “She should do her show from here. In Sedona. For the healing energy. It's a nexus, Elle—and Oprah's a wise woman, like the wise women of old, imagine if she tapped into the—”

“Mom!” I cut in. “I need to borrow some money.”

Silence.

“I didn't realize how expensive things are, when you don't have any money. And my credit cards…well, Louis was going to pay them off after the wedding. But now…”

“Are you in trouble with credit again?”

“I am not in trouble!” And I'm not. Because I've moved. How are they gonna find me in Santa Barbara? “I just need a little cash.”

“You're welcome to stay with me,” she says. “The café next door is looking for a busboy.”

“Thanks, Mom. But couldn't you at least…”

“Why don't you try your father?”

Bad sign. She never mentions him. Her friends in Arizona think I was an immaculate conception.

“You know how Dad is…”

“I do know. I saw a segment on
Jerry Springer
about deadbeat dads, and just because your father never missed a payment doesn't mean he's not a deadbeat. There was this man, a yacht repairman, something with yachts, maybe a designer, I don't know, and he had seven kids—well his wife did, but he said only one of them was his—but
she
said at least four of them—”

I hang up, mid-story. That's just ducky.