Tales of a Drama Queen (7 page)

M
y first job interview: 10:00 a.m. at Planned Parenthood.

I dress in a lavender silk Armani suit Louis accidentally bought me in New York. Do my hair and makeup, and am ready in under fifty minutes. Which is quite good. I have fifteen minutes to get downtown. Then—and this is the shocking part—I make it to my car with no mishaps. The car starts. I find a parking space directly outside the clinic. And I'm inside, with five minutes to spare.

I beam at the beautiful Latina girl behind the little glass window—not my natural reaction to beautiful teenagers—and tell her I have an appointment. She nods and hands me a clipboard.

I sit on one of the sticky couches, next to a wicker basket filled with condoms, and pretend to concentrate on the application while checking out the competition. Another woman is filling out the same form. Her suit is royal blue,
and appears to be a polyester blend. I feel sorry for her, and when our eyes meet I give her an encouraging smile and turn to my clipboard.

 

This is way more personal than I expected. I guess they're looking for someone who really believes in Planned Parenthood. Someone open with her sexuality. I can be open. Maybe I'm too open. Is seven a lot of partners? Or pathetically few? I mean, six of them were between the ages of sixteen and twenty—they don't ask about that. They should have a question about average number of partners per year. I ought to get credit for being monogamous between twenty and twenty-six.

I hand the clipboard back to the receptionist, expecting her to comment on my speediness. I definitely filled it out far faster than the competition. I can see her pen still poised halfway down the first page.

“I've always been fast at forms,” I tell the girl behind the counter. I have been. I'm very fast at forms.

She doesn't seem impressed. “Have a seat. They'll be calling you.”

I return to the sticky couch until my name is called by a hatchet-faced woman in the white doctor's coat. I offer a professional-type smile and my hand. “I'm Elle Medina. Nice to meet you.”

She cocks her head and ignores my hand. “Pleeze. Come theez vay.”

“Oh, are you from Germany?” I ask. Trying to make confident, career-woman chatter as we head into a spare examination room.

“No.”

It's the shortest “no” I've ever heard. Any shorter, and she would have said nothing. “From where, then?”

“You vould not know it.”

“Is it smaller than Rhode Island?” I ask.

She glares, and I remember Rule One of job interviews: Do not alienate scary European prospective co-worker.

“Pleeze sit, and remoof your jacket.”

The only place to sit is the examination table. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“I vill be unable to take your blood prezure if you do not remoof ze jacket.”

“My blood pressure?” I know they make you pee into a cup for some jobs, but this is ridiculous. I try to convince myself that blood pressure measurement is how they weed out high-stress candidates. I fail. “I think there's been a mistake. I'm here for the development job. I want that position. Not—” I point to the stirrups extending from the table “—this position.”

The nurse is not amused. Happily the doctor arrives and finds the situation quite funny. He's a short, roly-poly man and we hit it off immediately.

When we finish chuckling about the misunderstanding, he gives my résumé a cursory read: “For the job?” he says. “No. We're looking for someone, um, qualified.”

I tell him I'm a fast learner. I ask him to please give me a chance.

He agrees to interview me, and flips through my paperwork more carefully. “Well, I see you haven't had a pelvic exam in three years?”

 

I call Maya as soon as I get home. “There's good news and there's bad news.”

“You got the job?” she asks, incredulous.

“You have to promise not to tell PB.”

She refuses.

I consider hanging up, but then I'd just have to call back. Besides, even if she promised, she'd still tell him.

“Fine,” I sigh. I explain how the receptionist mistook me for a patient, the nurse was an Albanian Cruella De Vil and that the doctor rejected me very kindly.

“So what's the good news?”

“Well, the doctor read my file.”

“And…”

“And it'd been three years since my last exam.”

“So you're saying—”

“I had my annual GYN checkup while he interviewed me.”

There is an incredulous pause. “How
do
you do it?”

“It's a gift.”

“At least the interview must've been memorable. How'd it go?”

I grunt. “It's a little hard to appear competent and charming when you've got a speculum stuck up your—”

“Pap smear?”

“He said I looked normal. He'll call me if there are any problems with the results.”

“Well, that's good.”

I brighten. “Yeah. And you know that kid whose been tormenting me? I stuffed my bag with condoms from the free condom basket, on my way out the door. I'm gonna fill 'em with water and peg the little bastard.”

 

Telephones can turn hot, just like slot machines. I hang up with Maya, and the phone rings immediately. I offer a distracted “hello,” still trying to figure out exactly what Maya meant by “Oh,
that's
how you do it.”

“Is this Elle?” For a sublime moment, I think it's the mysterious Carlos, but the accent is all wrong.

“This is she,” I say.

“Oh, hi. It's Louis. We—”

“Louis!” I hiss like an angry cat. “I don't want to talk to you. Not now, not ever.”

“What? What did
I
do?”

“Fuck you! I heard about Venice. I know
all
about Venice.”

“Venice? I think you have me mistaken for… We met at Shika? You served me a Chicago?”

My stomach drops. The
architect
Louis. “Oh! Oh. Oh.
Merrick.
” I cannot bring myself to call him Louis. “I've
been getting…crank calls. I think it's the kid next door. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounds like he regrets having phoned. “Maybe this is a bad time?”

“No—no. I'm happy you called.” That sounds too eager. “Long as it's not a crank call, right?” Stupid, stupid, stupid. I press my fingers to my temple.

“Right.”

There's a long awkward silence, and I feel bad for the guy. He's just being nice, he doesn't expect to be dragged into my emotional morass. On the other hand, why is he being so nice? As far as he knows, I'm just a desperate bar-wench who can't mix a drink. And now he's trying to figure how to avoid asking her on a date. I should put him out of his misery. “Listen, I have to go,” I say.

For some reason, he laughs. “Go where?”

“Umm…out?”

“Do you want to have coffee with me? Maybe tomorrow?”

“Coffee?”

“Tomorrow morning. Is ten all right?”

“Ten? Tomorrow morning?” Must stop repeating everything he says.

“There's a place called Bread and Water, down on Haley.”

I manage not to say “Bread and Water?” I say: “Sure. Bread and Water. On Haley.”

“Ten o'clock, then? I'll see you there?”

I tell him he will, already wondering what I'll wear. This is a morning coffee date? Do men
do
this? Make a woman put herself together before noon, for a date? You'd think someone would tell them it's not a good idea.

“Great,” he says. “Oh—and just so you know? I've never been to Venice.”

B
read and Water is far more stylish than you usually see in Santa Barbara. The countertop, windows and walls are all a bit askew, giving it a Cubist feel—but not unpleasantly so. The colors are muted greens and grays that match the natural wood of the tables and beams. A showy yellow orchid sits on the counter in a jade green planter. It's lovely.

The architect—Merrick, whom I will not call Louis—is wearing a celedon linen shirt and khakis, which match the decor perfectly. Except his red hair clashes horrifically, of course. I've never seen him in full daylight and I'd not have thought it possible, but his hair looks even more like something out of a special effects department.

He's chatting with a young blond waitress when I approach. I'm only a few minutes late, maybe ten, and he's already hitting up another woman? Waitresses and barmaids: I detect a pattern.

We smile hellos, and both order lattes, and Merrick asks the waitress if she could tell him what, precisely, they put in their lattes.

She's a wholesome-looking girl in jeans and sneakers and a T-shirt that says “Meet the Breasts.” I wonder if Merrick has met them. “The usual,” she drawls. “Espresso and steamed milk. Unless you want something sprinkled on top?”

We both say no and she and her breasts swing off. He says: “Boring. If you were making them, they'd have ice cream and cherry syrup, sprinkles.”

“Or hundred-year-old scotch.”

“Cognac,” he says, smiling.

“I guess those Cosmopolitans were pretty bad, huh? I don't really work there.”

He asks what I really do.

“I'm looking for something in non-profit development. I spoke to the people at Planned Parenthood, but I'm not sure the position is right for me.” Certainly the stirrup position was wrong.

“Really? I have a friend who works for an NGO out of L.A. He does mostly estate-planning in conjunction with the development board. Living trusts, endowment funds, that sort of thing.”

“Sure. Endowments.” I'm in way over my head, so I say, “I'm also thinking of starting my own magazine.”

“Your own magazine?” He gives me the crinkly eyes again. If only I didn't have to look above his forehead, he'd be really cute. I want to ask about the carrot freak-hair, but I'm beginning to suspect it's a vitamin deficiency or genetic disorder, and I don't want to embarrass him. But from the forehead down, he's sexy, especially the crinkly thing with the eyes. “Have you worked in publishing?”

“Not in publishing,
per se.
I just moved back to town. I haven't fully explored all the facets, the implications, the, um, and so forth, of starting a magazine.” Please God—shut me up. “I'm going to call it
L,
” I hear myself saying.

“Elle, isn't that already taken?”

“Isn't what already taken?”

“
Elle.
I thought it was a fashion magazine.”

“Oh! I thought you were saying, like,
Eleanor, isn't that already a magazine?
But you meant it more,
Elle
—” I make a pausing dash with my hand “—
isn't that already a magazine?
”

He nods solemnly. “Right. I meant it with one of these.” He makes a pausing dash. It looks good when he does it, though—more of a dashing pause.

“Anyway,” I say. “Mine would just be the letter
L.
You know—” I make the Loser sign on my forehead. “It'd be like Oprah's magazine, except not so relentlessly upbeat.”

“So you're going for depressing and hopeless. For people who identify as losers.”

I smile. “It's a big market.”

We fall silent as the waitress brings our coffees, so I ask if he's from Santa Barbara.

But he doesn't want to talk about himself, which flies in the face of everything I've heard about dating. Instead he asks more about me, and I tell him I grew up here, went to college back east, and in about two minutes I'm utterly bored with myself. I wind it down: “…then I broke up with my fiancé, and here I am.” Manage not to mention that my ex-fiancé's name is Louis.

“Did you leave him at the altar?”

“No, no. It was one of those mature, adult, mutual-type breakups. We're still good friends. So anyway, I'm back and in the market for a new job.” I stress the word
new
like I had a job before.

“Until you start your magazine,” he says.

“Right. Until then. Or get a development gig. But actually, I'm looking for anything right now. To pay the bills while I do the career search thing.”

“Oh, yeah? I'm looking for an assistant.”

“An assistant?” I don't know much about blueprints, but I suspect I could design a villa or two.

“More of a receptionist. To make appointments, keep the office organized.”

I think about the apocalyptic mess I've created in the trolley. “Organization happens to be one of my
fortes.
”

“Fort,”
he says.

“What?” I say.

“Apparently it's pronounced fort. Not fort-tay. One syllable, as in Knox.”

What a jackass. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, with a smile that redeems him from jackass-hood. “I pronounced it fort-tay on a conference call to New York last year, and haven't heard the end of it. They say they're gonna take me to court-tay for my sins.”

“So, organization is my
fort?
I don't know if I like the sound of that.” Chastened, I sip my latte and ask him how long he's been an architect.

He tells me about his work. He's amusing and charming, and despite the early morning hour, I realize I'm having a good time. Then he checks his watch, says he had fun, but should be going.

He stands. I stand. And I think:
who's gonna pay for the lattes?

I open my rank and fetid tote extremely slowly, and he says, “Don't worry about that. I have a deal with the owners. They still owe me for designing this place.”

“You designed the café?”

“Yeah.”

“No way!” It's gorgeous—and entirely devoid of bright orange.

“You like it?”

“Get out. You did
not.
”

He smiles. He actually did.

“It's beautiful. Wow. Maybe I'll stick to—whatever—instead of designing villas. I could never compete.”

He steps closer to me and touches my arm. “Listen, if you
want, you could do a little temp work at the office. Phones and filing…?”

I want to haughtily refuse, to tell him filing is not my fort. But I also want to have more than $500. “Well, I do have my résumé with me…”

I dig in my tote for a résumé, and yank it out. Five tea-bags burst out with it. Tea-bags? I don't even drink tea. They hang suspended in mid-air as it hits me. They are not Earl Gray. They are neither chamomile nor Irish Breakfast. They're condoms.

Little plastic squares, hovering above my tote like a swarm of mortification. The condoms from Planned Parenthood—yellow and blue and gold and red, their jagged edges catch the light, they spin and twirl in the air between me and Merrick.

Time kicks back in, and three condoms skitter across the floor. One lands with a
plunk
in the dregs of my latte, and one bounces off his celadon linen shirt.

I die.

Merrick casually hands me the condom that hit him in the chest. “Ribbed,” he says.

Being dead, I cannot respond.

Rigor mortis sets in, freezing me with one hand in my tote—this would not have happened, by the way, if I'd had the Fendi satchel—and the other suspended useless in the air, having managed to catch not one of the cavorting condoms. I wait for a white heavenly tunnel to appear or, failing that, a fiery chasm to open in the earth.

Instead, Meet the Breasts suddenly reappears. Still blond, still young, still wholesome…and wanting to remove our empty lattes. In a frantic attempt to keep her from taking the cup with the floating condom, which for some reason seems the worst possible thing, I lunge forward. My hell-tote slings from my shoulder to my wrist and upends.

A rainbow eruption of multicolored rubbers spews forth. Dozens of them, in every flavor, texture and tip. Hundreds.
Thousands. Like I'm a malfunctioning condom vending machine. Like I've hit the biggest jackpot in Vegas history, and am being paid in prophylactics to the accompaniment of shrieking sirens and flashing lights. In an instant, I am up to my knees in condoms. Children and small dogs are lost in the torrent. A house floats by.

Silence descends upon the too-hip café. All eyes are upon me. Merrick says something, but I cannot hear over the deafening thrum of humiliation.

I would run away, but my wallet and Chanel lipsticks are scattered among the condoms. I drop to my knees and shovel everything back into my purse. If I were not dead, I would no doubt hear the comments of amused onlookers.

I stand and turn to Merrick. He holds his hand out to me. For comfort, for support, in a gentlemanly gesture of solidarity?

No. His hand is full of condoms.

I flee.

 

Lunch with Maya to lick my wounds. She invites Perfect Brad. Why? Because they are a happy-loving-couple.

I hate them. But because I'm a friend, I will not stick my fork into the back of PB's neck; it's not his fault he was born with the X chromosome. Or the Y. Whichever it is.

Besides, I'm fairly certain that Maya came through, and didn't tell him about the Planned Parenthood Fiasco. So I fill them in about the debacle
du jour,
and after spurting their iced teas over the table, they are quite sympathetic.

“Men are off the list,” I say. “But what am I going to do about a job?”

“Just don't apply at an orthodontist's office,” Maya says. “You'd look silly in braces.”

“And beware of jobs at a tanning salon,” Brad says knowingly. “Go in for an interview, come out glowing orange.”

“And watch out for tattoo parlors.”

Okay, so she told him. I glower, but it
is
funny, and I sus
pect they're only trying to cheer me up. This works, until I realize that not only is my sure-thing job (Shika) not going to happen, but I have precisely zero prospects.

“How many résumés have you got out?” Maya asks. Should I lie? I hesitate a fraction too long, and Maya says, “Just the one, huh?”

“I wore my Armani,” I say.

“Hey, you know what you should do?” Brad says. “Go to a—what's it called?”

“A therapist?” Maya asks.

“No, no—an employment place.”

“A temp agency,” she says. “That's a great idea. There's got to be a temp job for you, and once people know you they'll want to hire you permanently.”

“Maybe reception?” I say. Because, now that I've considered Merrick's offer, it seems a good starter job. I can answer phones and take messages and look sleekly attractive behind a massive mahogany desk at an upscale entertainment lawyer's office. Only not a lawyer. Or an architect. Maybe a Hollywood producer…

Maya says this is a good idea. Brad says he'll ask if they need anyone at SoftNoodle, though I inwardly cringe at the thought of spending my days saying, “Good morning, Soft-Noodle, how may I direct your call?”

After lunch, I head back to the trolley and iron my Armani, which got a tad wrinkled at Planned Parenthood. It's 4:00 before I make it downtown to Superior Employment. Had to wash hair, apply makeup and listen to latest message from Carlos, mysterious Latin admirer, over and over again.

I clump upstairs to the office, thinking about my new career. Reception is fine, but the New Elle shouldn't set her sights too low. I should aim for a position I really love. Such as interior designer. I have a flair for design. Or maybe
I
should be a therapist. I love other people's problems.

“I'd like to apply for a job,” I tell the receptionist.

She hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers attached. “You can start by filling this out.”

“Sure, thanks.” I start towards one of the chairs before hesitating. “Um—this is a job application, right?”

“What else would it be?”

“You'd be surprised,” I murmur.

Pen in hand, I quickly complete the application. Least I haven't lost my touch with forms. The
previous employment
section does not take long, though it turns out that Martha Washington did ten-key, reception, filing and artistic development. In addition to managing others.

The receptionist tells me I'll be working with Sheila, and introduces me to a woman with an uncanny resemblance to my grandmother, with tawny hair teased into a bun, and a nice camel sweater set on over a matching three-quarter length skirt. We sit in her office while she goes over my application.

“Not a long employment history, is it dear?” she says.

I love being called dear. “I've been in school, mostly.”

“Well, at least your duties were varied. We'll go ahead and give you the ten-key and typing tests, shall we?”

They
test
you?

Sheila leads me to a small room with a computer and an adding machine, then leaves me alone to struggle valiantly.

She reappears in five minutes. “All finished dear?”

I've barely had time to adjust the seat. I glance at the clock. It's been fifty minutes.

She checks my work with a subtle sigh. “That's all right, dear. Everyone exaggerates a little on their application. We'll put down you recognize an adding machine. And how manyw. p.m.?”

“Umm…?”

“Words per minute.”

“Oh.” I glance back at my typing score. “Sixteen. That's not
too
bad, is it?”

“Yes, dear. It is.” She leans conspiratorially towards me. “I
shouldn't really ask this…but have you considered marriage? I know young women feel differently these days, but a pretty girl like yourself, without any job skills…” Her voice trails off as tears spring to my eyes. She pats my hand. “I'll see what I can find you, dear. But honestly…don't hold your breath.”