by Lee Nichols
“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.”
Chapter 13
Bread 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 c
hamomile 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 suspect 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.”
Takes a surprisingly long time to fill the condoms with water, but I eventually get the hang of it. Consider filling some with glue, ink or wine, but am too mature to stoop to Eddie Munster’s level.
Still, wine sounds good. Half a bottle of Prosperity Red later, and I am curled weepily under my duvet. What kind of twenty-six-year-old woman has never had a real job? Even women in the 1940s were gainfully employed. Rosie the Riveter and such. Possible I would enjoy riveting?
If the wedding had gone as planned—or even if it had gone disastrously, just as long as it had gone—I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d be in a lovely apartment, and half of everything Louis made would be mine, and I’d spend my days shopping for lovely things, bored out of my fucking mind and so lonely that I slept fourteen hours a day.
I’m suddenly sober. Where did that come from?
Because it’s not true. I was happy. I was happy-ish. I was as happy as can be expected. I was quite happy. I shopped and went to shows and exhibits and had lunches. I mean, I didn’t even have to clean house; we had a nice Ecuadorian woman, named Columbia, come in once a week. I always liked that, and wondered if there was a Colombian woman named Ecuadoria, somewhere. Of course, I always vacuumed and dusted and straightened before she came, but that’s just polite.
Instead of counting sheep, I count names of places which are also names of people. I am not thinking at all about the Planned Parenthood disaster, the condom disaster, the tenkey disaster or any of the other assorted disasters. I fall asleep to thoughts of Jordan (as in Michael), Paris (as in Hilton), Georgia (as in O’Keeffe) and Chicago (as in Merrick).
Chapter 14
Get Paid to Shop!
Apply in Person
Anacapa Building
Suite 202
The address listed in the classifieds is an old office building just off the main drag. I stumble through hallways which house various small businesses—a mediator, a barter network, a tailor—until I reach Suite 202. The plaque on the door reads James “Spenser” Ross, Investigative Services.
Inside, I discover Tony Danza’s doppelgänger. He introduces himself as Spenser and I tell him I’m Elle, here about the ad. We sit down at the avocado-green Formica kitchen table he uses as a desk.
“So,” he says. “Think you got what it takes to be a private dick, do you?”
“Well, I saw your ad, and…” And I didn’t know it was a private detective firm. I thought it’d be a private shopping firm, and I will ignore his use of the word dick. “…and I’m good at shopping. Really good.”
“Shopping? You think they come to Spenser for shopping? You think it’s about the shopping, you might as well walk out that door, ’cause this business ain’t one inch about shopping.” Any resemblance to Tony Danza is fading fast.
“Maybe I’ve made a mistake.” I hand him my newspaper with the advertisement circled.
“Is it a misprint?” I ask. Please don’t let it be a misprint. When I’d spotted it this morning, wedged between ads for a Machinist and a Line Cook, it’d been like a religious experience. I could get paid to shop!