Tales of a Drama Queen (5 page)

“Manhattan,” Redhead deadpans, flashing me a glance.

“Yeah, a Manhattan,” Neil says. “So what you think is a Cosmo is really a Manhattan. That's epistemology, baby! The limits of knowledge in—”

“That's just crap,” one of the extra men says.

“It's not
just
crap,” the other extra man says. “It's utter crap.”

Which sets Neil bellowing again. “Utter crap? I'll tell you what's utter crap! The fact that George W was
appointed
president—”

Maya bounces over from the front door, and they all greet her with great relief. “I see Elle got you started,” she says. She smiles at them, and at me, and I feel I've been anointed. Then her gaze settles on my Cosmopolitans and her smile settles into a frown. “What are those?” she asks.

“Chicagos,” Redhead says.

“Well, I
ordered
a Cosmopolitan,” the woman says.

Maya looks at me.

“Cosmopolitans?” I say firmly.

“You don't know how to make Cosmos, Elle.”

“They're pink.”

“I'll make fresh ones.” Maya takes the woman's glass, and reaches for Redhead's, but he stops her.

“I like it,” he says. “It's unique.” He looks at me. “Sweet.”

“What are you talking about?” Neil the teddy bear says. “It's awful. You can't drink that. It's not even a Cosmo.”

He's shouted down by a volley of derisive hoots. Redhead sips triumphantly, and winces.

I scurry back to the bar as Maya fixes two Cosmopolitans. As she puts the bottles away, she pauses over the brandy I've pulled from the top shelf. “What's this doing out?”

“Umm…”

“Tell me,” she says, fixing me with a horrified glare. “Tell me you didn't use it in the Cosmopolitans.”

“Well…it's not
all
I used.”

“Elle, this is de Fussigny—it's a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of cognac. It's sitting on the top shelf so nobody opens it.” She doesn't look mad so much as really disappointed.

“I'll pay for it,” I say, wanting to shrink into nothing. “You know I have that monster stack of cash.”

“It doesn't matter,” she says, though I know it does. “We might as well drink it now. You want a glass?” She pulls out some brandy snifters.

“I'll have a glass,” Monty says.

“You have to pay for it,” I snap. “It's expensive.”

“Elle,”
Maya warns.

But Monty laughs. “How much?”

“Fifty bucks. It's d'Fussy. Worth every penny.”

“Ellie,” Maya says.

“Hit me up,” Monty says, and lays a crisp hundred on the bar. “And one for the lady.” Meaning me. He's now, officially, my idol.

“I'll take a glass, too,” this lovely, deep voice says from three inches behind me, and Redhead is there for his Cosmos.

“Just one?” I say. “What about your friends?”

“Don't push your luck,” he says, and takes the drinks back to his table.

Maya looks harried. “It's not worth fifty dollars a glass. I can't charge—”

“Oh, shush,” I say, and clink my glass with Monty's. Maya snorts—trying not to laugh—and clinks her glass and we drink.

From the booth, Neil the teddy bear bellows something
about us all living in a pentarchy while getting redder and redder in the face.

“What's the deal with him?” I say. “Cute, but kind of argumentative.”

“That's what they're here for.” Maya sips her cognac. “Neil has a problem with rage. His wife said she'd leave him if he didn't deal with it. He wasn't beating her or anything, she was just sick of all the yelling. So he started this club. They come every Tuesday night and argue.”

“Does it work?” I ask. “Is he less rageful?”

“I don't know,” Maya says. “I'm afraid to ask him.”

Maybe it's the cognac, but we all laugh, and Maya tells me to watch the bar again for a sec, while she runs out back.

I panic. “No! Don't leave me—I'm not ready!”

She ignores me, so I take my post and consider wiping the bar until it shines, but decide it isn't worth the effort. Shika needs major renovation before cleaning will make it look any better. The booths are brown vinyl, the walls are painted dirty beige. The yellowing photographs of the Lower East Side of New York are fun, but better suited to a funky deli than a happening bar.

There are some good architectural details, though. The floor is hardwood, worn to a soft golden honey color. The ceilings are taller even than ZZ's garage in Goleta, there are four skylights half-hidden by dingy fluorescent lighting fixtures and the bar itself is a great old art deco piece.

I happen to glance toward Redhead—only because I'm thinking we can paint the bathrooms a lovely deep red, and want to remember what shade of red I
don't
like—and notice that he's doing what I'm doing. Looking around the room, his eyebrows raising slightly at the good bits, and lowering at the ratty booths and walls. I wouldn't mind renovating
him.
Shaving his head would be a first step, and—he catches me staring.

I'm not usually so weepy and pathetic. It's the wedding, the engagement, Louis. Being left at the altar does things
to your self-esteem. Plus, starting from scratch, back in the town where you went to high school—and realizing that you've accomplished nothing since then, except maybe what you
thought
was a nice, committed, six-year relationship, and even that fell apart, and there's a man who catches you staring and he's lovely except for being a ginger freak-head, and you don't know what you want and barely know who you are, and what if he likes you and expects to see you naked, and dating is supposed to be this utter nightmare and you don't know—

Long story short: I run away. I am a blur, fleeing out the front door.

I hear Maya's voice say, “Elle?” but I don't slow down. I am gone.

Wish I'd waited one more second, though. To see which direction his eyebrows went when he looked at me.

P
erfect Brad comes home at ten. He helps with my résumé. We finish at 10:07.

The next morning, memorizing sections A through D of the newspaper and putting off the classifieds as long as possible, I find this headline: Prize-Winning Bitch Missing.

I ponder the gratuitous use of the word bitch. You hear it on
Friends
and
Will & Grace
now, where calling any woman a bitch provokes screams of laughter. I don't get it. Why aren't they calling men assholes? Now
that's
funny.

But no. The article's actually about a female dog.

Figures they'd quote Anna Van der Water.
Little chance of surviving the next few months
—what does she call that, bedside manner? At least there wasn't a picture of her with those stupid barrettes.

I enjoy fifteen minutes of revenge fantasies, deciding how Anna should be punished for having found a lucrative and reputable career, then force myself to read the classifieds.

There's a new ad, for a “unique living opportunity in Mission Canyon.” And it is—get this!—only $500 a month. Unique? If $650 pays for a garage in Goleta, what can $500 possibly get you in Mission Canyon? I'm thinking a carport. With housemates.

I draw a dark blue
X
through it with my pen, and browse on. But it keeps nagging at me. Maybe what's unique is that it's a stunning one-bedroom apartment, for only $500. Doesn't get more unique than that. I decide to chance it.

Mission Canyon lies just beyond the Santa Barbara Mission, towards the foothills. At sunset, the Mission's peach walls glisten with falling light and the sky blushes a pink glow behind it. Across the street is the public rose garden. As I drive past, the scent of roses is thick in the air, and all is right in the world—if you ignore, for a moment, your little list.

I park in front of the house on Puesto Del Sol, next to the iron gate the woman on the phone mentioned. There's a kid who looks like Eddie Munster—but without the formal attire and widow's peak—tossing pebbles at a tree trunk across the street.

“You parked on my stick,” he says.

I look. There are any number of sticks on the ground. It's true that I parked on some of them. “Sorry.”

“You broke it.”

“Oh. Which one is yours?”

He points to a stick exactly like every other stick, except broken. “See?”

It occurs to me that this is some new juvenile prank, the current equivalent of asking someone to page Mike Hunt. I smile weakly, and take a step toward the gate, and wave away a bug that whizzes by my ear. Take another step, and a second bug stings me on the shoulder-blade. Another step, another bug—on my butt.

I spin, and Eddie Munster is still tossing pebbles toward the tree trunk. Not the slightest sign of a smirk on his face. Little fucker.

I take five quick steps and close the gate behind me. Think I'm safe until a half-dozen pebbles sail though the bars and pelt my back. Briefly consider cracking Eddie Munster's head like an egg on the rim of a bowl, but the New Elle rises above. Plus, I don't have the firepower.

I step out of the line of fire and am hit with two bullets of fur. Much yapping ensues, and between barks one of the little black pugs tries to nibble my toes. After I realize this is not part of Eddie Munster's evil plan, I pat the dogs, setting their pig-tails wagging delightedly.

“Penny! Pippin!” a woman's voice scolds, and the beasts retreat. The woman is a schoolmarm, with withered cheeks, a sticklike body and white hair pulled into a bun. She wears a tailored cotton blouse and a full pleated skirt. And is that a cameo at her neck? I move in for a greeting and get a closer look. No, just an ugly piece of agate.

“Hi,” I say. “I'm Elle. We spoke on the phone?”

“It's this way. I'm Mrs. Petrie.” And before I have a chance to worry about what I'll find, she's off at a canter, the dogs and me trotting behind.

The walk is through a well-loved, well-tended California-English-style garden. Roses, hydrangeas, lavender and Mexican sage are all in full bloom. “Unique” is looking better and better—and I start thinking the guest house will be a delicious little truffle of a cottage. Tiny, considering the price. But the garden! And it's in Mission Canyon. There's nothing shameful about telling people you live in Mission Canyon.

There is, however, something shameful about telling people you live in a trolley. Not a carport, a trolley. It squats, sans wheels, just beyond the garden.

“That's a trolley,” I say.

“Water and trash are included,” she answers. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the door.

I enter behind her, and the trolley teeters a bit from our combined weight.

“Light switches, bathroom. Bed. Kitchen. I will return in five minutes for your answer.” She opens the door to leave, but pauses on the steps. “There is dirt on the back of your blouse. And your skirt.”

I start to explain Eddie Munster, but she interrupts with a glacial nod and leaves.

I sigh and look around, and it is still a trolley. It's carnival red, except where the paint has chipped off to reveal a coat of mustard yellow. Half the floor is covered in green carpet, the other half, brick linoleum. In the “kitchen” is an all-in-one stove/sink/refrigerator unit. It's 1950s—futuristic, and kinda cute.

The toilet, however, is less than cute, and sits directly next to the stove/sink/fridge. I'm talking ten inches away. A showerhead protrudes from the wall three feet above the toilet tank, and a drain is planted in the floor under it. There are brown curtains over the windows, and the roof is maybe two feet above my head. I've seen SUVs with more living space.

I need money. Not millions. I'm not asking for millions. I just don't want to have to choose between ZZ's garage and a converted trolley. My real apartment, I mean the apartment Louis and I lived in, has two bedrooms and…and it hits me. Louis is living in
my
apartment with his new wife. His
wife.
He
married
her. In a week. After six years with me, he married a stranger. He's married. He's somebody's husband. He has a wife. What if he hears I'm living in a garage or a trolley?

I am suddenly thrilled with the drain in the floor, because I'm gonna throw up. I make a noise like a sick cat and bend over the toilet, and Schoolmarm Petrie knocks and enters.

Apparently she thinks I'm inspecting the toilet, because she says something about the plumbing and the pipes, and sternly warns against flushing “feminine napkins.”

“Well?” she finally says.

I straighten in a dignified manner. “I'll take it.”

 

Leave messages for Maya and PB regarding my rental triumph. Do not offer specifics, due to theory that once I'm
there, it will look less like a trolley and more like a gatehouse cottage à la the Cotswolds.

Have a private ceremony to officially erase “apartment” from my list. Wake up two hours later suffering from a sugar-crash and surrounded by the crumbs of a celebratory Anderson's Butter-Ring—butter pastry, marzipan and white icing baked into sugary goodness. But the New Elle does not stop while on a roll. The New Elle continues rolling. The New Elle will apply for three jobs today, three tomorrow and three more each day until she is gainfully employed.

I look through my job folder—actually a stack of clippings stuffed in my mildewed, hateful tote. Over the last week, I've cut out every job that mentions “development” or “boutique” or “team leader” but not “director” (grand total: seven). I pick one at random, and in a burst of efficiency write a cover letter, stuff it in an envelope with a résumé, and place it on the kitchen table so Maya will remember to stamp and mail it.

Despite being exhausted from use of fiction-writing muscles atrophied since college, I have two more cover letters to write. I write “To Whom It May Concern” and am debating merits of following it with a colon or a comma when it hits me: I've no furniture, I've no silverware, I've no bedding, I've no gorgeous
objet;
in short, I've nothing at all for the new cottage.

This isn't optional, this is housewares. Thing is, I started with $5,100, right? Then gave $1,500 to Schoolmarm Petrie for first, last, security. Spent $300 on assorted shopping. Well, $400. Let's call it $500 on assorted shopping, to be safe. I do a little long-division and discover that $5,100 minus $2,000 is $3,100.

I count my money: $1,773.59. Must have it wrong. Even I cannot misplace $1,300 in cash.

I count it again: $1,612.59.

Again: $1,598.59. This rate of shrinkage, I'll have noth
ing left by midnight, except the fifty-nine cents I'm so sure about.

I panic. I call Louis, and hang up on the second ring. I call back, and hang up on the first. I take a deep breath, and call a third time. I get a message. In a woman's voice. I hear:
Hi, you've reached the Ferrises. We're not in right now—

I slam the phone down. The Ferrises? That is
my
fucking answering machine and
my
fucking fiancé. I call Maya at work and get the machine. I dial my mother and hang up before the call goes through.

Twenty minutes, and all the Butter-Ring crumbs later, I'm thinking more clearly: what I need is money, not comfort. I call my dad.

“Dad, it's Elle,” I say when he answers.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He sounds pleased to hear from me. “Guess what?”

“I don't want to guess. You got my message that I moved? I'm in Santa Barbara now. The flight was fine. I just rented an apartment.”

“I got married.”

That isn't my favorite sentence. I feel the throb of an impending migraine. “You already are married.”

“Leanne? We divorced months ago. I met Nancy in Panama in October. We tied the knot last week in Hawaii.”

I want to ask why he didn't invite me, but I know the answer: He's still upset because last time he got married I said I couldn't come
this time,
but would be sure to catch the next one. “Is she Panamanian?” At least that would be something new.

“She's a school teacher from Vermont. She quit her job and moved in last month.”

“She quit her job and moved across country to be with you,” I say. “Does she know there's no chance the marriage will last more than two years?”

“Eleanor, c'mon. That's a little hard on your father. Your mother and I were together seven years.”

“Longer than me and Louis,” I say bitterly.

My father perks up. “Oh! That reminds me. You're not going to believe this, but while Nance and I were on our honeymoon, we ran into Louis.”

“In Hawaii?” He never took
me
to Hawaii.

“No, no. That's just where we got married. We honeymooned in Venice.”

“Venice?” He never took
me
to Venice.

“Most romantic city in the world. Me and Louis were trying to hire the same gondolier. Small world, huh? Anyway, he's doing great. Got a huge bonus for some deal in Iowa. Gave him a corner office, too. He and his new wife were celebrating. Lovely girl. Have you met her?”

I can't respond, due to the red-hot poker that has been shoved into my left temple.

“Charming girl. Pretty. Reminded me of you. Except not so…you know.”

“No, I don't know. Not so
what?
”

He laughs weakly. “Oh, nothing.”

I take a deep breath. “Dad, I need money.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Louis said you took three thousand out of the household account. He thought that was very fair.”

“
Three
thousand?” I thought it was four. So I didn't misplace $1,300. Only $300. I'm oddly relieved: misplacing $300 is easy.

“That's what he said. Oh, and he asked about his stamp collection. Apparently got mixed in with your things.”

“I don't want to talk about Louis. I want to talk about me. I'm running out of money. I don't have a job. I just rented an apartment and I need a car.”

“Honey, I'd love to help. But you know how strapped I am.”

“You managed to scrape up the cash for Hawaii and Venice,” I shrill. “And to pay four alimony checks a month.”

“And that,” he says, “is why I'm strapped.”