by Lee Nichols
We walk side by side, arms clasped, and my elbow knocks her bare tit as she leads me towards the bar. Doesn’t seem to bother her, so I pretend it’s not happening.
“Maybe we can even work on an act together. Joshua loves girl-girl shows.”
“I, um…Joshua what?”
“Wesley—the owner—he doesn’t come ’til later,” she says. “Tony usually takes the first look.”
At the bar, she introduces me to Tony, the white version of Mike Tyson. He’s wearing a summer seersucker suit with black dress shoes. Not a good look.
“Elle’s looking for a job,” Jenna says.
“I can see that,” he growls. “Get back to work.” He talks like he’s way too fond of The Sopranos.
“Don’t mind him,” she says. “His bark’s bad, but his bite’s worse.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I stammer, as she disappears into the greasy gloom.
“Step back. Let me take a look at you,” Tony says.
In a daze, I step back. Because that’s what I always do—what I’m told. What if I hurt Tony’s feelings by saying there’s been a mistake, I don’t really want a job?
“Turn around.”
I obediently turn. But I will not remove any clothing. This is not Planned Parenthood. I’ll tell him, when he’s finished gawking, that I’ve changed my mind. Worse comes to worse, I take the job and never show up. I’m sure it happens all the time.
“All the way around,” he says. “Okay.”
I stop turning, desperate to invent an excuse to be gone. I’m here doing a research project? I’m actually a man? I have two wooden legs?
“You’re way too old for this,” he says.
“What?”
“You are too old, baby.”
“I am not. I’m only twenty…one.”
“Sure you are. You oughta try the Screen Actor’s Guild.”
“The what?”
“Screen Actor’s Guild. The S.A.G.”
Is he telling me I ought to be in pictures? “Why?”
He eyes my breasts disdainfully. “Because they SAG, baby.”
The greasy gloom turns red as my rage rises. I humiliate myself, and he insults me?
A topless wonder passes by with a tray.
A glass of cranberry juice. A splash and a bellow, and I start running.
Heels, don’t fail me now.
PLAINTIFF’S CLAIM
Defendant owes me the sum of: $ 700.00, not including court costs because (describe claim):
She threw cranberry juice at my suit.
This claim is against a government agency, and I filed a claim with the agency. My claim was denied by the agency, or the agency did not act on my claim before the legal deadline. (See form SC-150.)
I have asked defendant to pay this money, but it has not been paid.
I have NOT asked defendant to pay this money because (explain):
Seemed like I’d get more money if I sued.
I understand that
a. I must appear at the time and place of trial and bring all witnesses, books, receipts, and other papers or things to prove my case.
b. I may talk to an attorney about this claim, but I cannot be represented by an attorney at the trial in the small claims court.
c. I have no right of appeal on my claim, but I may appeal a claim filed by the defendant in this case.
d. If I cannot afford to pay the fees for filing or service by a sheriff, marshal, or constable, I may ask that the fees be waived.
I have received and read the information sheet explaining some important rights of plaintiffs in the small claims court.
No defendant is in the military service except (name):
I declare under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of California that the foregoing is true and correct.
Anthony Dingle
(SIGNATURE OF PLAINTIFF)
I haven’t left the trolley for three days. Hair in knots. Eyes puffy. Pajamas beginning to stink. Am reminded of country-western song I once heard on AM radio—She Walks Like a Woman, But Smells Like a Man.
I’ve spent a total of nine hours, give or take a few, standing in front of the mirror with my pajama top raised, wondering if my tits do sag. I turn this way, and that way. Maybe. Definitely not. A little. No way. Still haven’t decided.
Joshua has not called. Has not returned my calls. Is he with Jenna, who is unafraid to appear in public in all her gynecological glory?
Merrick hasn’t called, either. I almost feel worse about that. I mean, sure I had a trolley full of crapwater, and I threw condoms at him and he disapproves of my getting fired from Super 9, but he…I don’t know. I thought he’d call.
Even Maya hasn’t called. Her desertion hurts the most. She knows I’m falling apart. But I’m afraid to call her, because she hates me. We got along great in high school, then for years when we didn’t live in the same town. I know she loves me, but a couple months of the real Elle, up close and personal, is enough to turn anyone against me. I don’t know what to do. It’s not going to be much fun moving back in with them if they hate me.
It’s finally time to admit I’m beaten. No money. No job. Bad credit. No man. Possible sagging tits. Pending lawsuit. And due out of the trolley in five days.
I call my mother.
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Who?”
“Elle. Your daughter.”
“Oh, hi, honey. How are you? Did you get a job?”
“No.” I can’t tell her the truth. She’ll just tell me it’s all my fault. And she’s right. “No job, no apartment…”
“Well, keep trying. I’m sure you’ll find something. I saw on Oprah the other day a woman who’d made a career organizing other people’s closets. You know how much you love closets. I remember saying, when you were still in grade school…”
For once I’m able to tune her out because there’s a clicking on the phone. “Do you hear that?” I interrupt.
“What?”
There’s silence on the line. “Oh. Nothing. Um, Mom, I was thinking about your offer? To let me come and stay? And, well—” The clicking starts again. “There! That clicking.”
“Your call-waiting, you mean? You really ought to get Caller ID. I saw a segment on Maury, and this woman was being stalked by an ex-boyfriend, who was a cop, she said if she didn’t—”
Call waiting! In a burst of optimism I’d ordered it along with my voice mail. I forgot I had it. “Hold on, Mom. Back in a sec.”
It’s Sheila from Superior.
“Sheila, hello! Sorry it took so long to pick up. I was just doing a little ten-key practice.”
“Of course you were. I’m calling because I think I’ve got the job for you.”
“A job? For me?”
“The pay isn’t great, ten an hour, but it’s fun work.”
“Well, I was hoping for more.”
“Don’t push it, dear.”
“No, I’m sorry. What’s the job.”
“You’re going to work as a telephonic metaphysical counselor.”
“Um—a what?”
“A phone psychic, dear!”
“A phone psychic,” I say, reverently. My future flashes before me: the humble beginnings, the slow rise, and finally the nation-wide infomercial which makes me a household name. “You are a genius, Sheila. I won’t—I won’t let you down.”
“Please don’t, dear. Oh, but I must ask you one question before I send you to them—do you feel you have been blessed with the Gift? The correct answer is ‘yes.’”
“Since I was a child,” I say. “My mother always insisted I was an intuitive. She’s a counselor herself—in Sedona. The red rock country, you know. It’s a nexus. I come from a…a long line of psychics.”
“And…?”
“Um, what? Oh! And the answer is, yes.”
“Very good, dear.” She spends five minutes giving me the job information. I’m about to hang up when I remember my mother�
�s on the other line.
I hit the button, and hear: “…Cub Scout leader! Well, Dr. Laura had a thing or two to say about that, believe you me. She told her to—”
“Mom? Mom!”
“Yes, dear?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve been on the other line this whole time. “The reason I called, Mom, is that—”
“I heard, you want to come live with me.”
“No. I got a job.”
“You just said you didn’t have a job.”
When did she suddenly start paying attention? How can she talk for ten minutes without knowing I wasn’t there, but have heard everything I said before that?
“I’ve got one now,” I say. “And I wanted you to be the first to hear. I’m going to be a phone psychic.”
“A phone psychic? That’s wonderful! Latoya or Dionne?”
“Neither, Mom.”
“Not Cleo?” she says with awe. “I heard she was shut down.”
I laugh. “I don’t really know, Mother.”
I am so pleased, I let her tell me about the advice her customers have gotten from various phone psychics over the years, as I go through my wardrobe. I wonder what the other psychics will be wearing.
Chapter 23
Morning. First day of new job—no, new career. Have planned the definitive phone psychic outfit. My ankle-length, Indian print skirt, bought cheap last year at import store in Virginia, with a linen peasant blouse. I tie a purple silk scarf around my head like a gypsy. My curls hang loosely from underneath the scarf. I check the mirror. Is it too much? Maybe a few less bangles. I remove half the silver clanging bracelets and look again. Perfect.
Psychic Connexion is located in Goleta—not far from ZZ’s place. Inauspicious, but somehow comforting. I picture a ramshackle-yet-healing place: high ceilings with dusty skylights, pale-wood floors slightly scratched, the smell of incense and herbal tea, white walls covered with violet tapestries.
Or not.
The lobby of DRM Incorporated—which is the name of the company that owns Psychic Connexion—has all the charm of an airport lounge. It’s gray and bland and professional. The receptionist waves me to the back. I walk through a midsize cubicle farm, featuring institutional colors, furniture and even scent.
DRM is into more than psychic counseling. I pass signs for other departments: Business Advice, Sports Line, Bear Buddies, Threesomes and More, Cross-Dressing and so on. The sex stuff makes me feel I’m back at Café Lustre. I half expect to see a naked woman writhing on one of the desks. But there are only dreary people talking on phones.
I spot the Psychic sign, check out my compatriots and realize I’ve worn absolutely the wrong thing. Everyone else is in jeans and T-shirts. Not even cute T-shirts—they all have slogans. I despise slogans.
I pull up the shoulder of my blouse in an attempt to make it look less peasantlike. I hate feeling fashionably out of place. I don’t even like if I’m wearing a sweater and everyone else is in short sleeves.
I hover near a middle-aged guy’s desk. He’s balding, with a blond bushy beard. A bright pink expanse of stomach bulges out between his Chuck Norris T-shirt and his blue jeans.
He says thanks for calling, hangs up and looks at me.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m new today, from Superior. I’m suppose to be working here.”
“You sure you’re in the right place?” he asks. “Look’s like you’re ready for a costume party, Madame Zelda.”
I snatch the bandana from my head. “At least my chub of a stomach isn’t hanging out my shirt.”
He laughs and pulls down his shirt. His bright blue eyes almost disappear when he smiles up at me. “What’s your name?”
“Elle.” I grin at him, oddly pleased I’ve made him laugh. “Elle Medina.”
“I’m Darwin. Good to meetcha. C. Burke’s not in, he’s out for—”
“C. Burke?”
“Christopher C. Burke. Our manager. He’s overfond of his middle initial. He’s on paternity leave, I don’t know who’s supposed to train you….” He shrugs. “It’ll have to be on-the-job training. Sit there. I’ll call the switchboard and tell them you’re accepting calls.”
“With no training?” I squeak.
“What do you need to know?”
“Um…everything?”
This stumps him for a moment. “Well. Most of the network are call-ins, people who work from home, but they like to have some people in the office, and temps can’t telecommute. So you’re stuck here. The switchboard knows when you’ve hung up, and automatically sends you more calls. The phone’s easy to work. Headset. Accepting, not accepting.” He prattles on about the phone, and the sheet of emergency numbers, and what sort of place it is to work.
“But, um…what about being psychic? Aren’t there exercises, or meditations, or something?”
He grins. “Didn’t they ask if you have the Gift?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
He pulls a pack of tarot cards from his desk. “Use these to start.”
I have no idea how to read tarot. “Um…tarot’s not really my strength.”
“No? Well, palm reading’s not gonna cut it, Zelda.” He laughs again, and his phone rings.
“But what if I tell someone’s future wrong?”
“Psychic Connexion,” he says. “Why am I laughing? Because your grandfather knew you’d be calling, and he gave me a joke to tell you.” He pauses to listen to the caller. “That’s right, Grandpa Brenner.”
Darwin motions me toward my desk. “Grandpa Brenner says he misses you and is glad you’ve called Psychic Connexion for advice and guidance.” He mimes that I should open the desk drawer, and I do, and there’s a cheat sheet of sorts. “Oh, you want to hear his joke? Um…yeah. Let me see if I can recall. It was so funny how Grandpa Brenner told it.”
My phone rings. Darwin raises his eyebrows expectantly, so I turn the other way, pretending I don’t see him. The woman at the desk on my other side is the only other person not wearing jeans. She’s an Earth Mama, wearing a shapeless magenta tunic and blue leggings. An amethyst pendant hangs from her neck, and her long gray hair is twined into a braid in back. She should color her hair—she’d look much younger.
She hangs up, and looks at me and my still-ringing phone.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Oh. Is that mine?” I babble, hoping it’ll stop ringing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Yes. Answer it.”
Fuck. “Hello?”
“Is this the Psychic Connexion?” It’s a man’s voice.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you a real psychic?”
“Um—” Probably shouldn’t say no. I glance at the cheat sheet. “Thank you…for calling…the Psychic Connexion.” It’s kind of hard to read—looks like a copy of a copy of a copy. “Can…I have…your name…and birthdate please?”
“My name is James. Birthdate—ten-twenty-sixty-seven.”
“Oh, mine’s the twenty-first. What a coincidence.” Wait a minute, I can use this to good effect. “I mean, see, we already have a connection.”
“What year?”
I giggle. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He chuckles. “What’s your name?”
“Elle,” I tell him, then wonder whether it’s okay to use my real name. Or is phone psyching like stripping, and I need a stage name? Something exotic. Like Mathilde or Seraphina.
“So what’s my horoscope, Elle?”
“Um…” I’m suppose to give him his horoscope? I flip my cheat sheet over. Blank. “Well, let me get some other information from you. Then we’ll get back to that.” I continue reading from the crib. “Can I…have your…home address…so I can…send you our free psychic…newsletter?”
“I already get that. What’s my horoscope?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Horoscope isn’t really my area of expertise.”
“Oh? What is?”
“Tarot reading,” I say, brightl
y. “How does that sound?”
“Fine. Here’s my question: I’m thinking of sleeping with my brother’s wife. Will I get caught?”
“James! Shame on you.” I hate infidelity. How hard is it to keep your dick in your pants? I’d pretended it was no big deal Louis slept with another woman, but that was only because I wanted my wedding. On the other hand, it is only sex, not necessarily the melding of souls. Well, unless you’re me and Joshua. Of course he hasn’t called recently, so I guess his soul wasn’t melded. “I think there’s a better question than ‘will I get caught?’”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t normally…I mean, but she’s really sexy.”
I spread the cards into a mess onto the desk. There’s a picture of a dark-haired lass on one of them. “Brunette, is she?”
“Yeah,” he says, impressed.
“Um…” I strain at the cards. Nothing pops out. There are a lot of wands or rods or staffs showing, though. Quite phallic. “And you’re very…warm for her. I’m getting a sense of a really electric, um, sexuality.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sounds as if I’m telling him to go ahead and boink her.
I scan the jumbled cards for something negative. And find Death, a skeleton in a cape, holding a sickle in its right claw. “Death is in the cards,” I intone.
“He’s going to kill me,” James says.
“Your brother,” I say.
“So he will find out?”
“Definitely. And—ouch—are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes—yes—what does it say?”
“The progression is from the nine of staffs to the one of staffs. Nine is a powerful number. It’s, um, powerful. And staffs, of course, refer to male sexual energy. So if you do sleep with her…well, I’m afraid it will have an adverse effect on your sex life. Sort of reverse Viagra.”
He praises me for helping him avoid the close call, and I mentally thank my mother for all the nonsense she’s spewed over the years.
“Wow, Elle,” James finishes saying. “That was really helpful. A lot of readers don’t get that specific.”
I preen. I’ve actually helped someone, and it was easy. “Don’t thank me, James, thank the cards. But you know what you should do? Ask your sister-in-law if she’s got a friend for you.”