Tales of a Drama Queen (4 page)

I
'm never going to be Oprah until I take control. I have to stop coasting and make it happen.

So this morning, I'm awake at 7:00. I roll out of bed. Take a shower. Fix myself. Choose an outfit in record time. Make coffee. Buy the paper, and sit down, pen in hand, determined to find a job. Because finding an apartment in Santa Barbara is clearly impossible, and we Highly Efficient people don't waste time on clear impossibilities.

I circle an ad for a Mental Health Worker and one for a Literacy Volunteer, and glance at the clock. It's 11:45.

Almost noon! I woke up
five hours
ago. I swear I did nothing more than the above listed. I didn't even turn on the TV. Not once. And five hours have passed? I'm temporally challenged. It's chronological-ADD or something. Am I having blackouts? Do I sit, slack-jawed, staring at walls? In five hours, Oprah could have launched ten
books to the bestseller lists, and all I've done is shower and dress.

So I stop coasting. I take control. And two normal hours later, I'm back. I didn't launch a single book to the bestseller list, but I did spend $389 on a cashmere throw and fancy tin dog bowls.

I don't want to talk about it.

I hide the bags behind the couch so Maya won't scold me, and bury the now, uh,
modified
bowls deep in my luggage. Take an extended nap, dream of Louis scolding me for wasting postage and wake cranky. Why is everything suddenly so hard? It's not as if I have such high hopes. I want a non-plywood apartment, a job that doesn't require I pee into a cup, a running car and—eventually, though I'm rethinking this one—an adequate man. And some gorgeous new things. And a small thermonuclear device for Iowa.

Is that too much to ask? I watch TV, I read the magazines. Women everywhere are living
my
life. They have jobs like “public relations coordinator” and “fashion features editor.” Their Upper East Side apartments have huge windows overlooking Central Park, and they all stopped wearing pashminas two weeks before a certain person finally bought hers.

I pull the covers to my chin and try to work myself into a genuine clinical depression. Then it'd be a brain chemistry thing, and I could courageously fight it—unable to leave the apartment, waited on hand-and-foot, but admired by all. They'd probably profile me in the
Santa Barbara News-Press,
and the local network affiliate would pick up the story.

In two minutes, the daydream fades and I'm bored feigning depression. Possibly it's more fun with an audience. My problem is, I'm surface-y. Not shallow, I didn't say that. I'm quite deep, actually. It's just that I like the surfaces of things. Surfaces are important to me. And depression's not really a surface affliction. You have to burrow deep into your head for a good depression.

I'd rather burrow into the Neiman Marcus catalog. Which I do. And after an hour, I magically feel better.

My problem, I realize, is I'm not cut out to be Sarah Jessica in
Sex and the City
although I do have similar hair, if not darker and longer. I don't need a Manhattan loft and sleek, underfed fashion-friends. I'm more Sandra Bullock, small-town-girl-makes-good. I can work as a bus driver or subway-token clerk, and it'll be okay. Except not a bus driver or a subway-token clerk, because those are disease-ridden careers, but you know what I mean.

Cheered, I take a hot shower and toss on a Sandra Bullock, small-town-girl-makes-good outfit, and head for Shika. Things happen in bars.

 

Things don't happen in Shika. Maya's behind the counter, the sharp-dressed old man is perched on a stool. A middle-aged couple is leaving as I enter, and that is that.

“Oh, Elle,” Maya says. “I'm glad you're here.”

It's been a few days since I've heard Maya say anything other than: “How's the apartment hunt? Job?” I perk up at this lavish greeting and tell her how pleased I am to be here.

“Do me a favor,” she says. “Watch the bar? I've gotta go to the bank.”

“The bank?” I'm honestly baffled. Do they actually make money here? “Why?”

“The bank's a place you put money you're not spending, Elle. I'll explain later.”

“Ha-ha,” I say, in my razor-sharp witty way. “So just…watch the bar?”

“Stay away from the blender.”

“But I mean—what if someone asks for a Slippery Nipple on the Beach or something?”

Maya looks around the empty bar. “Monty's good for a while. There's a group that comes in, but usually not 'til later.”

“A group?”

“Don't look so surprised. They're a bunch of people Monty knows. Just make sure nobody steals the—” she looks around trying to decide what someone might steal “—walls.” She waves a bank pouch at me, says something about a night deposit, and heads for the door.

I realize this is my job interview. Maya won't make me actually
apply
for the job, so what does she do? Casually makes a night drop, leaving me in charge!

“It's all under control,” I tell her confidently, heading behind the bar.

Maya hesitates at the door, an unreadable expression on her face.

I wave brightly, and she sort of squares her shoulders and leaves.

I slip behind the bar and glance at the sharp-dressed man sipping his drink. He's wearing a beige linen suit with a light-blue silk tie. It's rare to see a man so nattily dressed in Santa Barbara. Most of them slouch around, subcasual in stained T-shirts and shorts.

“Need a refill?” I ask.

We both assess his drink. It's seven-eighths full.

“Not quite,” he says.

Pretending to be cleaning, I forage through the cabinets under the bar. Nothing of note, except a half-eaten bag of Fritos. I bet Mr. Sharp-Dresser would like some Fritos. I pour them into a small bowl and carefully set them in front of him.

I smile and gesture at the Fritos, like I've presented him with foie gras. Under my steely eye, he deigns to take a chip, and pops it into his mouth. Takes a single bite, and stops, Frito suspended midchew.

“What?” I say. “They're better than popcorn.”

He shakes his head.

I try a chip. It has the consistency of moist cardboard. I choke it down. “Sorry. This is my first night.”

He swallows and tells me not to worry—he needs the
fiber. He says he's Monty, and I tell him I'm Elle, and I'm starting the bartendress chatter when two men enter the bar.

One is paunchy, with dark hair and laugh-lines around his eyes. Sort of an approachable, teddy bear of a man. The other is tall, trim and would be sexy-handsome if he weren't a redhead. Red hair is silly on men. I mean, he looks good, walking toward Monty, a white button-down over blue jeans. But red hair? The other guy, the teddy bear, he doesn't walk so well, but he looks the sort who'd remember to put the seat down.

“You joining us tonight, Monty?” the redhead asks.

“Not tonight,” Monty says. “My ulcer's bad enough.”

“Ulcer?” the teddy bear says. “There's only one thing to do about the ulcer, and that's—Fritos?”

“Help yourself,” Monty says, and looks to see if I'm going to object.

“Umm…” I say.

“Not the ulcer theory again,” the redhead says.

“It's not a
theory,
” Teddy bear says as they move to the large booth in the corner.

“Should I see if they want drinks?” I ask Monty, to cover my embarrassment about the stale Fritos.

“Wait 'til others show up,” he tells me. “Or they'll come to the bar.”

“I know stale, baby, and these are not stale.” Teddy bear's voice easily carries to the bar. “These are fresh. Factory fresh.”

“Fresh from the factory that makes stale Fritos.”

The teddy bear gets louder. “They're not stale!” He grabs a handful, shoves them in his mouth.

The redhead cringes. “Okay, okay. Because you ate them, that proves they're not stale.”

“Actually, they are stale,” I say, from across the room. “Monty and I both thought so. Three to one. Stale.”

Teddy bear shakes his head, but can't speak for all the chewing he's doing.

“Wisdom, beauty and common sense,” the redhead says, indicating Monty, me and himself in turn. “All say they're stale. Doesn't that prove it?”

I think: I'm
beauty!

The teddy bear manages to swallow; beaten, but unbowed. “How long you think stale Fritos stay in your colon?”

“Jesus, Neil.”

“Not as long as maraschino cherries,” Neil says. “But way longer than beef jerky.”

The redhead gives me a look, and smiles. And red hair isn't that bad, actually. Plenty of attractive men have red hair. Howdy Doody. Carrot Top. I return the smile, and the door opens again.

Three men and a woman enter and head for the booth with Neil and the redhead. I watch as they sit, wondering if I should wait on them. What would Maya do? Will they want margaritas?

“Don't worry,” Monty says. “One of them will come to the bar.”

And as if summoned, the redhead is here.

“Two IPAs,” he says, and I even know an IPA is a kind of beer. “And two Newcastle Browns.”

“Great!” I say, dripping with relief that I haven't been asked to make a Grateful Dead, Hold the Jerry, or something.

“And a Manhattan and a Cosmopolitan.”

“A Manhattan?” I grab a hank of hair and tug, keeping the smile pasted on my face. “I love Manhattans. Big Manhattan drinker.”

His gray eyes crinkle. They clash with his hair. “If you don't know how to make a Manhattan, that's okay. I'll just have—”

“Of
course
I know! I mean, what kind of bartender doesn't know how to make a Manhattan?” I've never heard of a Manhattan. “You want that…on the rocks?”

“On the rocks, yeah.” He looks suspicious. “Tell me—what, exactly, do you put in your Manhattans?”

“Liquor. The hard stuff.”

He smiles, and looks at me, and looks like he likes looking. And I like that he looks like he likes looking, and I hope that's what I look like.

I realize he just asked something that I didn't hear over the sound of my ovaries chiming like eager little bells. “The what?”

“The primary liquor. The backbone of the drink. The Broadway of the Manhattan.”

“Um… Gin?”

He starts to shake his head no.

“Right! That's a Chicago. I meant vodka.” I get the look again and continue: “Vodka is in the Brooklyn. You sure you don't want a Brooklyn?”

The teddy bear interrupts with a bellow about Texas grapefruit being better than any other grapefruit, and the redhead says, “Maybe you should give me the beers first. Pacify the natives.”

“Two IPAs and two Nukey Browns.” The Newcastles are on tap, and I overpour one, but remember in the nick of time not to clean the drippage with my tongue. Though that's gotta be a great way to get men interested. The IPAs are in bottles—thank the God of beer—and I plop them down.

“I've changed my mind,” he says. “I think I'll have a Cosmopolitan, too.”

“Two Cosmopolitans—coming right up.”

“And, of course, a Cosmopolitan has…”

“Vodka,” I say, because I actually know, and wave airily. “And the rest.”

He sort of cocks his head, grins and returns to the booth with the beers.

As soon as his back is turned, I lunge at Monty. “How do you make a Cosmo?”

“No idea. They're after my time. But a Manhattan is bourbon, bitters and sweet vermouth.”

“Monty! You could have told me!”

“Don't look now,” he says. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom, and Redhead is at the bar again.

“Problem with the beer?” I ask.

He smiles. “Just waiting for the Cosmos.”

“Won't be a second.” I reach for the vodka—and there are six bottles, all different. I grab the closest, aware that Redhead is watching me and I've never mixed a drink other than Kahlua and milk in my life. I ease two martini glasses from the rack. So. Vodka, check. Martini glasses, check. And I'm stymied. “You know what?” I tell Redhead. “Why don't you sit down, and I'll bring them to your table?”

“That's all right.”

“No, really.”

“I don't mind,” he says. “I like it here.”

“No, really.” I smile, baring my teeth.

He smiles, but doesn't move.

“Go sit down!” I bark.

He goes.

I turn toward the wall of liquor. Vodka, and…Schnapps? Cosmos are sort of pink, so I choose peach-flavored. And maybe brandy. That goes with everything, right? It's the basic black of liquors. There's a bottle on the top shelf that looks like brandy, all the way in back, like Maya's forgotten about it. I splash some into a silver shaker. Adjust until the color is right, add a couple of maraschinos, and ta da! Cosmos.

“Maya should be back any minute,” Monty says, taking his seat and eyeing the drinks.

“Yes, she should,” I say primly, and serve the drinks. One for Redhead, the other for the normal-haired woman with the tortoiseshell glasses. I hover nearby as they sip.

The woman gags. Redhead only coughs.

“A little stiff?” I ask. “That's how we like 'em, here at Shika.”

“This isn't a Cosmopolitan,” the woman says.

“Not entirely,” Redhead agrees.

“Let me taste that.” Neil grabs Redhead's drink and takes a slug. He shivers, a full-body expression of disgust. “That sure as shit
is
a Cosmo,” he says, suppressing a secondary tremor. “Never tasted better.”

“Have you ever
had
a Cosmopolitan?” the woman asks, and I'm just glad she's looking at Neil, not me.

“So what if I haven't?” he says. “That means I don't know one when I taste it? Let's say the first time you tasted a Cosmo, it was really a—I don't know, let's say it was a…”