Tales of a Drama Queen (3 page)

S
o crossing off “apartment” on my little list isn't so easy. But a car's a car. Unless the license plate says 666 or there are dismembered body parts in the trunk, you get what you pay for. Besides, I think Maya's getting a little sick of carting Brad to work every day.

I've decided a Passat is the way to express my new self. Elegant, but not flashy. High-quality, but not ostentatious. That's the New Elle.

The VW dealership is downtown, and it's where I make my first new Santa Barbara friend. Bob, the car salesman. He's instantly smitten with me. I can always tell. And truth is, he's not bad. I mean, he's a used car salesman, which is hardly a Prince Charming job. But he's tall enough, and has a good smile and nice eyes. I fill out a form—which, I notice him noticing, includes my home phone.

I decide that when he calls, I'll tell him I just want to be
friends. Because that's the sort of thing the New Elle does. No reason to jump into a relationship with the first cuteish guy to come around.

I tell Bob I'll settle for the bottom-of-the-line GLS model, but he says everyone who bought one wishes they spent a little more for the GLX.

Well! I love it when a salesperson gives you their personal opinion. It means they like you. We start in a Black Magic GLX with black velour interior. A quick drive, and Bob and I know it is too masculine for me, so we take the Mojave Beige with beige velour interior for a cruise to the beach.

“You look good in it, Elle,” Bob says.

“It feels a little soft,” I say. “Like I'm a soccer mom, Bob.” Bob.
Bob.
It's a funny syllable.

I'm beginning to wonder if I'll be happy with a Passat, when I see it across the lot. Silver. Curvy. Beautiful.

“That's the W8,” Bob says. “Top of the line. Eight cylinder engine, leather interior, sunroof, five-CD changer…”

The minute I sit in it, I know. I'm like Goldilocks. This one is
just
right.

It's late, and the dealership is closing, so I give Bob my information and he promises me he'll put a deal together tomorrow morning. He smiles, and I mentally rehearse:
I really like you, Bob, but I just want to be friends.

 

When I get back to Maya's I check my little list:

The problem with my employment history is I have none. My mom sold real estate while I was growing up, and made tons of money, so I never got an after-school gig. It wasn't until she bought her vitamin-and-runes store that she started getting tight. Plus, my dad sent her money for my upkeep when I was a minor. Now I'm a major, and I've never had a job.

Well, there was a brief period the summer after my second year at Georgetown. My roommate, Angela, convinced me it would be fun to join the team at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in Virginia. I got hired as Martha Washington in a historical reenactment, while Angela got stuck with wench duty at one of the taverns. After two weeks, the administrators decided the public preferred a white-haired Martha to a young bride, and I was ousted by a retired flight attendant. I was a better Martha, though. At least I refrained from pointing out the emergency exits to George. Angela kept wenching while I slunk back to Washington. That's when I moved in with Louis. I spent the rest of the summer womanning phones for EMILY's List, but that was volunteering, not employment.

I'm home alone, halfheartedly scanning the want ads, when it hits me: What I need is a starter job. Preferably a starter job that pays well. And that's not too demanding. Like, say, being a bartender. The neat thing is, I have this friend who owns a bar. Maya
has
to hire me, right?

“I need help,” I say when Maya answers the phone at the bar.

“What? The remote stopped working?”

“No, it works fine.” I click off
Entertainment Tonight.

“So what's the problem?”

“This job-hunt thing…”

“Yeah?”

“I don't quite know how it works.”

“Oh. What part don't you understand?”

“Um…” I look at the paper. “Take this one, for instance. Development Director wanted for World of Goods, a nonprofit organization dedicated to sending relief supplies to countries in need. Qualified candidates will have demonstrated experience managing others, working with board members, facilitating meetings, monitoring budgets and in all aspects of development.” I give Maya a moment to take it in. “What is
development,
exactly? Developing what?”

“It means fund-raising.”

“How hard can that be? It's just asking for money. I did that all the time with Louis. It pays forty thousand a year. And it's in tune with my values.”

“Louis ever find out how much of his money you were giving to the ASPCA and NOW?”

“Not yet—pledge cards don't come 'til the end of the month. Anyway, World of Goods also gives you a housing stipend.”

“I suppose that's what attracted you.”

“A little,” I admit.

“They offer a company car, too? That, a company charge card and a company boyfriend, and you'd be able to cross everything off your list.”

I make a rude noise.

“Forget anything with the word ‘director' in it, Elle. Do you know how to type?”

“I know all the letters are on the keyboard and you push them to make words.”

“How did you get through college?”

“Hunting, pecking and oral presentations.”

“So secretarial, and basically all office work, is out. What else appeals?”

Ah, now we're getting somewhere. “What I need is something that uses my natural charm and vivacity. Dealing with people, you know, in a sort of social setting.”

“Prostitution won't work for you, Elle—you'd hate the dress code.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I have demonstrated experience as a mistress.”

“Don't even start. Seriously. What do you like?”

I decide against saying alcohol, and instead go for the real truth. “I like shoes. Maybe I could design shoes.”

Maya doesn't say anything.

“I like people. And animals. You know how I like animals. Maybe I could be a vet or something.”

“You know who became a vet?” she says. “Anna Van der Water.”

“Yuck!” Anna Van der Water is this creepy girl we knew in high school. She wore cheap plastic barrettes in her hair—before Drew Barrymore made it cool—and her calves were bigger than her thighs. “Anna Van der Water, a vet. You know, I think maybe she was smarter than me.”

“I. Smarter than I. And are you kidding?” Maya says, loyal to the end. “Twice as smart.”

I hear glasses clinking at the bar, and am wondering how to get the conversation moving in a maybe-you-can-work-here direction when she says, “Listen, why don't you come down and have a drink. My treat.”

See? A little patience, and it falls into your lap. “I'm kind of busy,” I say. I don't want to sound desperate.

“Elle,” she says.

“Be there in twenty minutes.”

 

The bar's located a block off State Street on one of the lower downtown side streets. There are no front windows, just a closed door with the name of the place in neon over it.

Shika.

The bar has never done well, and I blame the name. Well, it's one of many reasons. It means “drunk” in Yiddish, I guess, which is Mr. Goldman's little joke. (He once explained it's actually “shiker,” not “shika,” but he went phonetical. I like Mr. Goldman.) Problem is Shika looks Japanese, and people find it disconcerting when they expect saké and rice-paper screens, but get photos of old Jews and every conceivable flavor of schnapps.

Inside, two men perch at the bar. Mr. Goldman is one of them, and the other is a man a decade older, dressed to kill. Other than them, and Maya behind the bar, the place is empty.

Maya offers me a margarita as I give Mr. Goldman a hug.

He doesn't look good—his health has been bad since Maya's mom died—but it's still good to see him. As Maya mixes the margarita, we chat about my return to Santa Barbara, and my apartment and job hunt. I keep waiting for Maya to jump in and explain that I'll be working at the bar, but she plays it coy.

Mr. Goldman and I cover the weather in Santa Barbara vs. D.C., and our conversation dwindles to nothing. So I turn to Maya. “I was thinking about my career. I think I'd be good in a service-industry-type position.”

She looks skeptical. “You're more served than serving, Elle.”

“I've served!” I protest. “Does the name Martha Washington mean nothing to you?”

Maya explains my previous employment to her father and the other man, including some details I don't remember telling her, and I realize maybe this isn't the best time to discuss the bartending job.

“How about this?” I say. “I'll start my own magazine, like Oprah. I'll call it
E.
”

“Like the
Entertainment
network?”

“Oh, no. Well, I can't call it
Elle.
” This stumps me. The best thing about the magazine idea is calling it
E.
I like the letter
E.
Plus, it has the bonus benefit of standing for e-mail
and other electronic stuff: very
now.
“How about
L
—just the letter
L.
”

Maya makes the “
L
is for Loser” sign on her forehead.

Enough said.

“Want another margarita?” she asks.

I look down, mine is somehow empty. I have a flash of genius. “Let me make it,” I say. “I'm a whiz with blended drinks.”

“I usually just mix them,” she says.

“See that's where you're wrong. Where's the blender?” I eagerly pop behind the bar.

All I want to say is: I
know
the top was closed firmly before I turned the blender to pureé. Must have been some kind of malfunction. Anyway, it was just a couple ice cubes and strawberries. And Maya
was
standing too close. A pity she was wearing white, that's all.

T
he next day, desperate for an apartment, Maya (who's in an uncharacteristic tizzy: probably fighting with Perfect Brad) persuades me to relax my standards and see a place in…
Goleta.
The ad promises a “one bedroom charming garden paradise with fourteen-foot ceilings,” and the price is too good to dismiss—$650 a month.

“But it's
Goleta!
” I wail. A suburb fifteen minutes north of Santa Barbara, teeming with strip malls and big box stores.

“There are nice parts of Goleta,” Maya says.

“Where?”

“People like it there,” she replies, vaguely.

“Who?”

“Oh, stop being such a snob, Elle, and look at the place.”

Well, it does say “garden paradise.” I will be the consummate country party hostess. Fabulous friends, whom I've yet
to meet, will escape the city late Friday night to my oasis in Goleta. I'll serve negronis and martinis—anything but margaritas—and prepare fabulous fresh meals from my kitchen garden. Olive trees and lavender will dot the rolling hills, and all for the pittance of $650 a month!

By the time I arrive at the house, I've persuaded myself that I'm on my way to Provence. I'll be garden fabulous.

Then I turn into the dirt driveway. Dust billows into the car, and through watery eyes, I see the house. Bluish, with water marks streaming from the windows, giving it the appearance of a weeping cartoon house.

I put the car in Reverse, and a man bangs my hood in greeting.

He has long hair and a longer beard, à la ZZ Top. He wears black jeans on his stick-skinny legs, over which is an enormous belly not quite covered by a tank top.

“Here about the apartment, right?” he says. “It's around back.”

I want to ask what happened. I want to ask why his house is crying. I want to ask if he needs help, if there's anyone I should call. Instead, I obediently follow him toward the backyard.

ZZ stops in the garage. The concrete floor is partially covered with bronze carpeting—a deep, oil-stained shag. The walls are unfinished, revealing two-by-fours and assorted wires and pipes.

“So,” he says. “Any questions?”

“Well, one,” I say. “Where's the apartment?”

“You're standing in it.” At least ZZ had not lied in the ad. The ceilings are indeed fourteen feet high.

 

I'm describing my garage-for-rent experience at ZZ's to Perfect Brad and Maya, only slightly crowing that I was right about Goleta, when the phone rings. Maya answers. “For you,” she says, a little incredulous.

My very first call in Santa Barbara! Possibly a job offer,
though I haven't actually applied for anything yet. Still, stranger things have happened.

“Hi, Elle. This is Bob. From the Volkswagen dealership?”

“Bob! Hi! How are you?” Oops, don't want to be too nice. Think
just friends.
“I mean, um, hello.”

“Well, I ran your credit report and you don't qualify for the Passat W8.”

“Oh, no.” I'm not too surprised, though. I mean, I do have
some
concept of reality. “We'll have to settle for the GLX, then? A softer image isn't such a bad thing.”

“Not the GLX.”

“Oh. The GLS?”

“Not even close.”

“Um…a Jetta?”

“No.”

“A Bug? They're pretty cute. And I don't need four doors. After all, I can only use one at a time!” I laugh in a bright and charming fashion, and notice Maya and Brad watching me as if I am a seven-car pile-up.

“Nope.”

“How about an, um…like a Focus or that other one. The Echo?”

“Those aren't even VWs.”

“Right. VWs. Well, a Golf?”

“Not even a used Golf.”

“So…?”

“So I told you I'd call. I called.”

“I see. Yes. Thanks for calling. And is there, um, anything else you want to ask?” Because I may not qualify for a car, but I know when a man's interested.

“Actually, there is.” His voice becomes a little warmer.

I smile and give Maya a look. The kind of look that says,
Here we go again, I'm gonna let another one down easy.
For some reason, Maya responds by passing me a box of Kleenex.

“Don't be shy,” I say. “Ask away.”

“If you have any friends who can actually afford a car, would you give them my name?”

“Oh, sure.” I wait for it, and wait for it…
I like you too, Bob, but I think it's best if we try being friends, first. Dinner where? Piatti? In Montecito? Well, if you insist…

“Well, good speaking with you,” he says, and hangs up.

I try to be bright and charming as the dial-tone sounds. “That's very flattering,” I say. “And you seem like a really nice guy. But I don't think so, thanks.”

I pretend to listen as Maya gives Brad a happy-couple signal that sends him running to the safety of their bedroom. She takes the phone from my hand, hangs up and hugs me tight. I reach for the Kleenex.