Tales Of A Drama Queen

Chapter 8

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…”

“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.

Chapter 9

Perfect 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.

Prize-Winning Bitch Missing

A prize-winning golden retriever puppy was stolen from local breeder, Sally Ameson, last Wednesday. Ameson believes that a man claiming to be interested in purchasing one of her older dogs was responsible.

“I went into the back room to run the guy’s credit card,” Ameson said. “But he was gone when I returned, and Holly-Go-Lightly was nowhere to be found.”