Tales of a Drama Queen

by Lee Nichols

  I think it was a slam. It definitely wasn’t a tree branch. It could have been a knock. Schoolmarm Petrie seems the sort who’d make one sharp rap on the door, like the smack of a ruler down on an errant pupil’s knuckles.

  I crack the door and peek out. Nothing but menacing swampland. And something brown at the bottom of the steps.

  It’s a dead squirrel.

  I clutch my throat in horror, like some prim Victorian lady who accidentally wandered into the Vagina Monologues, and debate the various merits of fainting and screaming.

  A motion sensor light illuminates the Schoolmarm’s gate, and I see the shadowy form of a pudgy boy recede into the darkness. Eddie Munster.

  “Hey!” I yell. “You little creep!”

  I’d track him down and kill him, but that would mean leaving the relative safety of my trailer. Trolley. My trolley.

  “Squirrelly, aren’t you?” he yells.

  I respond with a well-reasoned string of curses, and slam the door. On TV, Samantha has black lines painted on her face. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder what’s happened to me.

  Chapter 11

  The telephone rings at 9:12, waking me from a Swamp Thing nightmare.

  It’s Bob from the VW dealership. And when you think about it, being a car salesman isn’t so bad. Plus, he’s actually seen my credit report, and still he calls.

  “Bob,” I say. Bob. Bobbing for apples. “Robert. Robbie. Rob. That’s a lot of possible nicknames.”

  Silence on the phone.

  I think of saying Bobby?

  “Well, I just go by Bob,” he finally says. “I’ve been thinking about you since last week.”

  “Oh, have you?” The New Elle plays hard-to-get.

  “Yeah, I got this…borderline trade-in. My boss doesn’t want me to put it on the lot. And I know you’re looking for something affordable.”

  “Borderline?”

  “It’s a BMW, though. A Beemer. 1974. It’s virtually a classic luxury automobile. Plus, it’s not worth sending it down to L.A. for auction.”

  “So you’ve got a car you can’t sell, and thought of me?”

  “Yeah, you interested?”

  This is insulting. “How much?”

  “I’ll let it go cheap. Fifteen-hundred.”

  Fifteen-hundred! That’s a huge chunk out of my monster stack. But I do need a car. “Can I come see it this morning?”

  “This morning isn’t good. I’ve got real clients coming in. How about two this afternoon?”

  Real clients. “Two is fine.”

  “Actually, three would be better.”

  I sigh. “Three, then.”

  I hang up, and immediately check my voice mail to see if anyone called while I was on the phone…and I have a message! It’s not even Maya. It’s a smooth, masculine voice.

  “Eleanor Medina,” the smooth, masculine says. “You’re a hard one to find. This is Carlos Neruda. We haven’t met…yet. But I’ve heard all about you, and I really want to talk. My number is—” he pauses, and I realize he has Antonio Banderas’s voice and I’ll coolly wait ten or eleven seconds before returning his call “—no, on second thought, I’ll call you back. Take care, Eleanor Medina.”

  Ha! Take that, Bobby! You’re not the only car on the lot.

  IKEA furniture delivered precisely on time. Perfect Brad, too, precisely on time. Perhaps Brad is Swedish. Perhaps he is Bräd.

  I bought a white linen chair. Am very pleased with the mature, adult decision to choose white. I was worried it would be like a white T-shirt: a magnet for chocolate ice cream, tomato sauce, coffee, mystery stains. I’d stared at it drooling, like a dog at a barbecue, until Maya found me. To prove her wrong, I decided the New Elle was adult enough to take care of white linen. Am pleased with the decision—it’s pretty against the chipped carnival-red of the trolley walls.

  “You’re sure that’s where you want it?” Brad says, after relocating it several times. If he weren’t perfect, he’d be exasperated. But he is, so I don’t worry.

  “I’m sure. Thanks, Brad—you’re a prince.”

  He stammers endearingly, and spots the bureau I assembled last night. He fixes the bits that were uneven, and puts the drawer-pulls on. He knocks together the sides and adjusts the two drawers that had refused to close.

  I consider being insulted by the implication that I’m not capable of doing it myself. But honestly, men enjoy this sort of thing. Why ruin their fun? It’s like shopping. Men think it’s a chore, and can’t understand why we like it. He can fiddle, I can shop, and we’ll both be happy. Maybe I’ll repay Brad by buying him a new pair of shoes.

  Then I realize I have a bigger treat for him. I am forced to wheedle and whine slightly, as he wants to get back to his office. But it only takes Perfect Brad fifty minutes, and I own the Beemer for one thousand, flat. Including taxes and registration and all that. Apparently fifteen hundred was far too much.

  Don’t tell Andrea Dworkin, but it’s good to have a man around. I consider getting weepy about Louis, and how much I miss him. But frankly, PB is better at the manly stuff than Louis ever was. And I do have PB around, even if he’s just a loaner. So it works out fine.

  I swing by to take Maya for a Beemer joyride and ask if she’s interested in a time-share agreement.

  “There’s plenty of Brad to go around. Plus, I’ll cancel out all the non-Jewish parts.”

  She laughs. “Don’t get any Big Chill ideas. I draw the line at furniture assembly and car shopping.”

  “That is so bourgeois,” I say. “If you were young and hip, you’d share.”

  “And if you were young and hip, Elle, you’d get a bunch of your tender places pierced, and sleep with girls. But, if you’re still interested in men…”

  “What?” I say, thinking: Carlos? Is he a friend of Brad’s? I bet he’s a coder, too—exactly like Brad, but Latino. “What man?”

  “You know the guy at the bar the other night?”

  Redhead! I pretend to have no idea. “Neil? Monty?”

  “The one who kept going on about Chicagos? He asked about you.”

  “What did he ask, if I was taking my meds?”

  “General stuff. He’s an architect. Wondered if I’d ever consider remodeling.”

  I know she wants me to beg for info, so I play it cool. “Yeah, I saw him looking around.”

  “I told him I couldn’t afford it. And Dad would pop a vessel if I even repainted. It’s the only reason I haven’t taken down the shtetl gallery. I’m thinking of having the lights removed, though. The ones blocking the skylights. And—”

  “Okay, okay! What did you tell him?” I shift roughly, going up Carrillo Hill. “I mean about me!”

  “Hmm?”

  I glare.

  She smiles. “Guess what his name is.”

  “Theodore Bundy.”

  “Here, he gave me his card.” She pulls it from her purse and hands it over.

  I glance down. It’s a classy card. White linen, and embossed black sans-serif font, with his name, the word “Architect,” and a phone number.

  His name is Merrick. Louis Merrick.

  “Watch the road!” Maya yells, as car wheels shriek.

  It’s a good thing Beemers are the ultimate driving machines.

  After I convince the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.

  “So?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”

  “It’s…really a BMW,” she says.

  “1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.

  “Great,” she says, unimpressed.

  Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.

  “It’s great,” she repeats, with a little mo
re enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the color doesn’t bother you?”

  Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.

  “I love it,” I insist.

  “It’s charming,” she says, closing the door behind her. “And it’ll be October in no time. We’ll get you some black cat cutouts—”

  I put the car in First, and Beemer out of there. Through the open window, I hear her laughing.

  Scrooge-like, I return to my lair and count my money. I’m considering having the car painted. Not because I don’t like it, just to show Maya. I have $570, more or less. Which may not sound like a lot, but I have an apartment, sort of. I have a car, sort of. I have Maya’s man, extremely sort of. And I definitely have housewares. Sort of.

  And soon I will have a job. I called about a development position—and they want to interview me tomorrow. I’m not sure what I’ll wear, though. On the one hand, I don’t want to be overdressed. On the other, if development is fund-raising, they’ll probably expect me to hobnob with Montecitans, so I should look the part. On the third hand—

  On the third hand, there’s a horrific black splotch on my pristine white linen chair! Black as tar, a nasty Rorschach stain on the armrest. I lick a finger, intending to de-smudge it, and notice that my hand is covered in the same stuff. Black inky yuck. Oil from the Beemer? I check my shoes. There’s a smudge on one of the straps, but nothing on the soles.

  I retrace my steps to the front door. Check every surface. No other signs of black liquid. I open the front door, to check the car. And it’s there. On the doorknob. Coated in black ink.

  Not ink, I think. Anything but ink. Coffee, chocolate, red wine. Just not ink. And where did it come from? An exploded pen? I look skyward, as if expecting the heavens to leak ink, and hear a rustle in the bushes next door. I see a flash of juvie.

  That little fucking Eddie Munster coated my door handle with ink.

  I rocket after him. The little bastard may be roly-poly, but he’s fast. I snag his T-shirt, but he breaks away. I’m about to shove through the bushes after him, when I hear Mrs. Petrie call me from her kitchen window. She tells me there’s ink on my skirt…and get out of her juniper.

  Chapter 12

  My 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.

  Name: Elle Medina Date of Birth: 10/21

  Occupation: Future Developmental Coordinator at Planned Parenthood

  Marital status: Separated from fiancé.

  Occupation: He’s a highly-paid attorney.

  Current medications: None.

  Have you ever smoked cigarettes? Yes( X ) No ( )

  But just my first year of college.

  Current alcohol consumption:

  # drinks per week: Anywhere from 1 to 6/8/15

  Major injuries: broke wrist

  If any, describe: Wanted to prove to Jamie Erheart in sixth grade that she wasn’t the only one who could do back hand-springs.

  Are you on any special diets? Yes( X ) No( )

  If yes, describe: Sugar Busters, Zone, Not-Zone and The Famous Overnight Hollywood Celebrity Diet.

  Do you do breast self-exam regularly? Yes( ) No( X )

  Date of last Pap smear: 3 years ago

  Normal Yes( X ) No( )

  Are you sexually active at this time?

  Yes( ) No( X )

  Is your sex life satisfactory for you?

  Yes( ) No( X )q Would like to be sexually active at this time.

  How many partners have you had this year? 1

  How many partners have you had in your lifetime? IIII II

  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?”

&n
bsp; “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.