Tales of a Drama Queen

by Lee Nichols

  When it arrives, Joshua pulls out his wallet. He flips through it with increasing concern, and turns to me. “This is so embarrassing, Elle—I just got new credit cards, and I forgot to put them in my wallet. Do you have a card? I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! “Of course!” I look through my miniscule purse, but I know there’s no card. I don’t even own a card anymore. I stuck a twenty in there for emergencies, though, and I suppose this qualifies. “Oh, no. No card. I’ve got twenty dollars. How much is the bill?”

  “Ninety-eight, before tip.”

  “Um, how much have you got?”

  “Fourteen and change.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Give me yours,” he says. I do, and he tosses it on the table. “There’s the tip. Now we leave before the waiter gets back.”

  “What?” I look furtively around the restaurant. “We’re in Citronelle!”

  “Not for long.”

  “What if the waiter sees?” I bleat in panic as we stand.

  “Shhh. Act natural. I’ll come back tomorrow to pay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Now kiss me—we can pretend we were too caught up to notice we shorted the bill.”

  He kisses me. It’s gorgeous. We kiss our way downstairs and out the restaurant. We kiss on the sidewalk and are still kissing when we hear someone yelling: “Hey!”

  “Run,” Joshua whispers in my ear.

  And you know what? I can run in heels.

  We catch our breath two blocks later, leaning against each other, laughing and kissing. God, this is fun. My heart is hammering and I’m wired from running and being kissed by Joshua. Louis—either Louis—would flip if he knew I’d skipped out on Citronelle.

  I am mesmerized by the gorgeous exciting thrill that is Joshua. So when he suggests that we take the party back to the trolley, I enthusiastically agree.

  We have sex. And once I stop worrying about how I look naked, it’s fantastic. Strange to be with a man who isn’t Louis, of course. And whose body I don’t know. Well, strange to be with a man who I don’t know at all, really. I mean, he doesn’t know what rings my bell, and vice versa. So it’s mostly just strange.

  Still, we go through three (!) of my leftover Planned Parenthood condoms. I think I’m falling in love. Can’t help but wonder, though, as I bask in afterglow, if I should ask him not to yell “Joshua is coming!” when he climaxes.

  The phone rings. At first, I hope it is Merrick. Then I remember, and hope it is Joshua. I pick up and hear: “Elle Medina.”

  “Carlos! Hi. How are you? Beautiful day here, in Santa Barbara.”

  “Elle…do you want to hear the bad news, or the bad news?”

  “I’m in love, Carlos.”

  “Since last week? Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man?”

  “Just the most gorgeous man ever. We had dinner. Then we, um, had breakfast, too. At Cajun Kitchen, for under fourteen dollars, so don’t worry. And then…”

  “What?” Carlos sounds genuinely interested.

  “Well, you know how men are.”

  “I consider myself an expert.”

  “And do you call women after you—” I realize I’m making an assumption. “You’re not gay, are you?”

  “I’m straight,” he says. “Thanks for asking.”

  “So, do you call women after you, you know. The day after?”

  “Depends.”

  “You dog, Carlos,” I say. “Joshua called the next afternoon. And again yesterday. And Thursday we have another date! He has a surprise for me.”

  “A surprise? Like he’s married?”

  “No-no-no! Nothing like that.” I checked his ring finger while he slept. No marks, no tan line.

  But I guess Carlos hears uncertainty in my voice. He says, “You want me to run a credit report on this guy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The surprise will be flowers or something. I’m just so…happy.”

  “Why do you do this to me? You know I have a job, here. If you start miserable, it makes my life easier. Okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I never got that check, Elle.”

  “No, I never actually sent it, because I only have $102. But I’m gonna sell my—” I look desperately around the trolley; I must not mention IKEA furniture “—Tahari dress.”

  “For four hundred dollars?”

  “And my shearling coat.” Too warm to wear it in Santa Barbara anyway.

  I swear I can hear him shaking his head over the phone. “Four hundred dollars, Elle.”

  “I’ll get it to you. I promise.”

  “And then we’re gonna put you on monthly payments.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.”

  “Liar.” He laughs. “And, Elle—an IKEA card? That was a big mistake.”

  Chapter 21

  Life is a blur of Joshua. Granted, we only had one date and two phone calls, but I have spun a gossamer web of daydream and fantasy. We have been to Bali and Paris, and to Venice twice. Our wedding was spectacular, despite the paparazzi. Our children have his eyes and hair and features, and they have me for…well, the uterus and womby stuff. Hadn’t really thought what they’d have from me. Possibly my ability to fill out forms with remarkable speed.

  But reality encroaches. Joshua daydreams have fully occupied days, as I’ve unsuccessfully searched for new job and apartment. “Man,” however is on my list. So I haven’t failed my duties completely.

  Tomorrow is big date. I read in Glamour that the second date is the most important, as we have passed Stage One and are now in serious territory. (Was slightly concerned to discover that sleeping together is actually Stage Four.) I am frantic with anticipation and anxiety. What if he realizes he doesn’t like me? What if my toilet explodes, or condoms or dead squirrels erupt from my tote, or if he realizes what a pathetic and unlovable person I am? Far easier to date carroty freak-heads. Carroty freak-heads who do not call after trolley shitwater incident.

  I want to buy something new and gorgeous to wear, so Joshua will know we are meant for each other, but my monster stack is officially in the double digits. In effort to end cash-flow woes, I dream about moving in with Joshua, and never having to apply for another low-pay, no-status, not-hiring-me-anyway job in my life.

  Maya thinks my love—she cruelly calls it infatuation—for Joshua is cute, in a giggly, elementary-school way. She also thinks I’m a total loss, and will soon be living in a van. She will be less amused when I convince PB to loan me money.

  So, this morning, I fling open my closet to wrestle my money problems into submission. I am ruthless. This pile to keep, this pile to sell.

  Four hours later: sell pile is miniscule, but there are a few items that have always added ten pounds. I drive my poor unwanteds to a shop on upper State which sells preowned designer clothes.

  Utterly horrible, watching the beady-eyed woman run her bony fingers over my lovelies. I almost snap, but do not. I stand, smile pasted firmly on my bloodless face, and await judgment.

  “One hundred and twenty dollars,” she says, folding a DKNY skirt.

  Shit. I was hoping for one-fifty. The New Elle, however, haggles: “That’s less than I expected. How much for the faux crocodile boots?”

  She eyes me queerly. “That’s one hundred and twenty for the lot.”

  “What? I paid that for the belt alone! One hundred and twenty is a crime. This is runway robbery.” I whine and cajole until she agrees to look over the clothes again.

  “The Theory blouse is stained,” she says, when finished. “One hundred even.”

  Joshua and I have dinner at Downey’s, which is sort of staid and stately and très expensive. I brought my $100, just in case. The food smells delicious. I don’t know how it tastes, as, despite being ravenous, I only order salad. To make a good impression. Maya scoffed when I told her my plan. She said this only works on other women, and even they hate you for it. But she’s in a relationship, she doesn’t know what
it’s like.

  Best part of dinner? He pays!

  I am aglow with pleasure.

  Then it gets better. He slides me an envelope. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Open it.”

  I do, and it’s full of money.

  “Count it,” he says.

  “One hundred and seventy-three dollars. For what?”

  “Count it again,” he says. “This time without eyeing the dessert cart.”

  “I have a thing for dessert carts.” I say, and remember I am the New Thinner Elle. “I wouldn’t touch the desserts, of course, but they’re always so well-presented, aren’t they? Anyway. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one.” I flip through the bills. “One hundred ninety-eight.”

  “Two-eighteen,” he says. “And it’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “From Nordstrom’s. The BCBGs. I spoke to the manager about your fall, and the store’s liability. He thought refunding the purchase was the wisest course.”

  I squeal and tell Joshua exactly how wonderfully perfectly gorgeous he is. I ask for details about the Nordy’s triumph, but he humbly says there was nothing to it. “But to celebrate,” he says. “Let’s go for a drink, shall we?”

  “Drinks are on me,” I say grandly. “Let’s go to Shika. I know the—”

  He laughs in disbelief. “Shika? You mean—Shika? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course! Not Shika. Ha ha.” I feel sick for betraying Maya.

  “I know the guy who owns The Gothic,” Joshua says. “We’ll go there.”

  See? We even have that in common—we both know bar owners. And once I know Joshua better, I’ll insist we go to Maya’s.

  The Gothic is a tragically hip bar that specializes in expensive martinis and quasi-pornographic art. The place is packed at ten on a Wednesday. Shika doesn’t even get this busy during Fiesta or Solstice.

  We sit at the bar with the owner, drinking twenty-year-old Armagnac. He’s almost as good-looking as Joshua—except that his face is florid from drinking too much. They’re discussing whether the Bahamas or Mexico is more fun. I’ve never been to either, so I keep quiet. Which is probably a good thing—I don’t want to fuck up in front of the beautiful people.

  Joshua keeps rubbing my back and running his fingers through my hair, so evidently I’m doing fine. Until a pair of feminine hands covers his eyes. A brunette stands behind him. She leans close enough to lick his ear, and whispers, “Guess who?”

  She is my nightmare. She’s in a bar, so she must be twenty-one, but she looks nineteen. She’s five-two. Wearing a black deeply cut unitard which showcases her spectacular figure and caramel-colored skin. A red sweaterette is tied around her middle—a false attempt at modesty which only serves to make her waist look even smaller. She manages to be both tiny and voluptuous at the same time, like Salma Hayek.

  “Joshua thinks it’s Jenna,” Joshua says.

  I am too busy staring at Jenna’s buoyant breasts, straining for release from the unitard, to be horrified at Joshua’s referring to himself in the third person again. She has such sweet cleavage it makes me want to convert.

  “Oh, Joshua!” Jenna pouts. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Your scent. Obsession, right?”

  I hate Obsession. I’ve always hated Obsession.

  “Of course, darling.” She kisses him.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “Exhausted. I worked two shifts at the café yesterday, and one today. I just want to relax and have a good time.” She eyes Joshua at this last bit, which makes me want to humiliate her for being a waitress. I may be unemployed, but if I did have a job, it’d be better than that.

  “Where do you work?” I innocently ask.

  “Café Lustre.”

  “Never heard of it—is it new? I’ve been away, in D.C.”

  “The strip club,” she says.

  “You wait tables at the strip club?” Yuck. “Are the tips any good?”

  She laughs, beautifully. “I don’t wait tables. And yes, the tips are excellent.”

  I hate her. I want to punch her sex-kitten little face.

  “Jenna’s a dancer, Elle,” Joshua says.

  “Oh. I’ve considered doing that.” I close my eyes, tightly. What am I saying?

  “Right,” Jenna says. “Men line up to see you naked.”

  That’s it. I might as well go home right now. There’s no way I’m going to win a sexpot contest with a girl who belongs on the cover of Maxim. But Joshua leans into me and kisses me, long and hard. “I’d pay to see you strip.”

  My heart bursts through my chest and does a victory lap around the bar. Joshua pulls me to my feet, and puts his arm around me. “In fact, I’m ready for a private showing. We’ll see you guys later.”

  I’m officially in love.

  Chapter 22

  I’m quite gratified that skills learned from “Stripping for Your Virtual Boy-Toy” article pay off. Joshua is so overwhelmed by my wanton-harem-girl-in-a-trolley erotic display, that he interrupts the dance routine for main course. Am happy to serve it up.

  The sex is even better than last time. Wonderfully gorgeous. Extremely nice. At least the “Joshua is coming” doesn’t bother me so much.

  Joshua leaves during the night. I suspect I’m supposed to be offended, but am only pleased. Now I don’t have to worry about my morning face, hair, breath and personality.

  Stage Two is officially successful. Cannot remember Stage Three, but suspect it’s clear sailing from here.

  The next morning, in celebration of utter good fortune, I decide to treat myself to a latte and a blueberry muffin. The sun is shining, the day is warm. I buy a paper and bring it with me to the Brown Pelican, the restaurant at Hendry’s Beach, and sit at one of the tables overlooking the ocean.

  I can see the nooks and crannies on the Channel Islands, several miles off the coast. Can’t believe I ever lived in D.C. Did it for Louis, of course, and at the time it seemed right. He was in his third year of law school when we met. I’d just finished my sophomore year. He took care of me, and I of him. Felt natural to move in together when he finished school, and got hired at S, M & B. His apartment was much nicer than the dorms.

  I’d considered graduate school when I’d finished my B.A. in Psychology, and had even been accepted into the master’s program at American University. But by the time registration rolled around I’d lost interest. Was too busy playing wife to Louis. Besides, at twenty-two, I had plenty of time. But now, four years later, all I have to show for it is a way with silk throw pillows and the ability to pick the best dish on a lunch menu.

  Sitting at Hendry’s, the ocean sparkling at me, aching pleasantly from sex, I realize I don’t miss Louis at all. Six years, and I don’t miss him. Should I feel empty, or free?

  I finish my breakfast and force myself to look at the classifieds, hoping to find a job that requires competence with silk pillows and lunch menus.

  The ad stands out like a beacon:

  Earn $200/night

  Exotic Dancing

  Stop by Café Lustre

  2-4 p.m. weekdays

  $200 per night! I can’t believe Jenna is making so much money. Why can’t I make 200 bucks a night?

  Because I don’t have that good a body. I have cellulite and a thick waist.

  Well, sure. But Joshua said he’d pay to see me naked. If someone who looks and fucks like he does wants to see me strip why wouldn’t other men? And $200 a night, just for taking my clothes off, well that’s easy enough. I’ll just close my eyes and think of… Money.

  Sure I will. There’s no way I’d ever strip in public. I get embarrassed dancing with my clothes on. And how old is too old to strip? I called a number for information about selling my eggs, and when I told them I was over twenty-four, they said thanks but no thanks. So stripping seems out of the question.

  Then the check comes. The latte and the muffin and the omelette and the mimosa comes to $23. Plus I had to fill the Beemer with
gas today—and have a new muffler put on. I pay the bill, and leave four dollars tip, and I have seventeen dollars left.

  Not on me. Not in my wallet. My total, overall, complete, entire and absolute wealth is: seventeen dollars. Carlos will be furious.

  That’s it. No choice. Today. Café Lustre.

  Not sure what to wear to stripping interview. I check my wardrobe, and the only thing remotely appropriate is a Vivienne Tam see-through net dress in red with embroidered flowers, that goes over a red satin slip. Convinced Louis to buy it for last year’s office Christmas party. Of course, if I get the job, I’ll have to lose the slip.

  The café is a windowless box of a building. I open the door and nervously step inside. Dark. Stuffy. And there’s a naked blond girl writhing on the stage to an old Foreigner song. Those can’t be real tits. How does she get them to stick up like that? Oh my God, she’s putting one of them in her mouth. I can’t do that. Am I suppose to be able to do that? I thought only dogs could do that.

  There are waitresses in skimpy porn-costumes and a topless girl is rubbing her tits in a seated guy’s face. He’s sitting on his hands, like he’s afraid to touch her, which seems odd. She turns and presses her “down there” (as my mother calls it) against his obvious hard-on (as my mother does not call it). Is that part of the job? I thought you only had to get naked, swing around the pole and you were done. This is all wrong. The little Jenna sexpot was right. I cannot do this.

  Must get out. Get out now. I turn to flee and—Jenna.

  “Oh hi, Jenna! I was just—” I want to say leaving, but cannot in the face of her superior expression “—here to apply for a job.”

  She’s wearing only a g-string. Well, this is awkward. I try to keep from looking at her breasts, but my only options are the dog-woman on stage and a couple of lap mushers.

  “You’re here for a job?” she asks.

  No! No! “Yes. Yes!”

  “You know what? Good for you.” She hooks her arm through mine and smiles. “A lot of women are all snotty and superior when they hear you dance, but they don’t have the courage to even try it.”