Tales of a Drama Queen

by Lee Nichols

  “You should play up the Santa Barbara thing,” I tell him. “I mean, when you’re in New York. Go sub-casual. They’ll be amazed how confident and cool you are.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, not sub-casual. But you know…go like you are.” He’s wearing a charcoal-gray long-sleeve tight-fitting sweater, and gray wool pants. Sort of a Ben Stiller look—but with freak-red hair. “You live in Santa Barbara, you ought to remind them you’re a visitor from a faraway, and far better, place.”

  He appears to be considering this as we continue walking. “That actually makes sense. What do I owe you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “For the consultation. You never told me what kind of consultant you are.”

  “Eclectic,” I say, as we stop at another light.

  “Spare any change?” a homeless guy asks me. He’s fidgety and wiry, with curly gold hair and intense blue eyes, and I love him for interrupting.

  Merrick and the other people at the light watch to see what I’ll do. I want to give him money. But I don’t want to give him money with an audience of light-waiters. Still, I am a princess, and do what I please. I open my wallet, and it’s empty. I’m trying not to carry too much cash, so I don’t waste it on trivial items such as food and drink.

  “Oh, Jeez,” I tell the guy. “I’m sorry. I have maybe—” I check the coin-pocket “—almost a dollar in change.”

  I try to give it to him, but he won’t take it. “Even I have ten bucks,” he says, and we laugh.

  Merrick gives him a five and the light changes and we cross. I expect him to say something about the guy. He doesn’t. The original Louis always bragged about how generous he was to “charity cases.”

  “Thanks for that.” I gesture behind us. “My money’s in my other wallet.”

  He gives me an indecipherable look. “No problem. I see him downtown sometimes. He’s one of my favorites. One time I was eating lunch in that little park, outside the News-Press, and saw him asking people to pick up after their dog. Respectful, but firm. I liked that.”

  I like that he likes that. I like that he has a favorite homeless person. I end up telling him my own personal dog story, including the punch line about it being a no-kill shelter.

  He has a nice laugh. He tells me about his childhood dog, Bounder, who was afraid of awnings and wheelbarrows. I tell him about my childhood imaginary friend Pebbles, who was afraid of nothing.

  We stop outside our house, sorry the excuse for conversation has ended. Well, at least I’m sorry. I don’t know what he’s thinking, except he says, “You’re so calm about having gone to court.”

  “I had an imaginary gerbil, too,” I say.

  “I’ll probably never go to court in my life.”

  “You were just at the courthouse.”

  “I mean in court. A lawsuit.”

  “What about jury duty?”

  “That’s not a lawsuit.”

  I shake my head. “It was just small claims.”

  “But…how do you do it? Get yourself into trouble all the time?”

  “I’m not in trouble,” I say. I got off easy at court. Of course, there’s no denying I do attract a certain amount of contention.

  “Elle, I heard that guy threatening you.”

  “He’s just mad because he thinks the suit looked better before I decorated it.” I show Merrick the purple stain.

  He shakes his head in disbelief as we enter the foyer.

  “Anyway, the Dingle’s mostly harmless.” I hope.

  “Sure, that’s why you were so happy to see me. What’s a jelly-vendor?”

  “A what?”

  “A jelly-vendor. You called him a jelly-vendor.”

  “I did?” I shrug. “I dunno. It just slipped out.”

  “Slipped out? Jelly-vendor.” He runs his fingers over his forehead like he’s got a headache. “Let me get this straight. You have a job as an eclectic consultant. You were taken to small claims court for ruining a weightlifter’s suit. You’re a fake bartender, a wannabe loser-Oprah, and a shoplifting store detective. You go on dates for the doggie bags.” His eyebrows move upward. “You waterbomb your landlord. Is there anything you won’t do?”

  “Settle,” I say. I give him the swing in the backyard again, on my way upstairs. This time, when I turn on the landing, he’s still watching.

  Chapter 29

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Janet? Janet Taluga?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Elle Medina. From Psychic Connexion. You called a while back.”

  “Yes, I—I did. But how—how did you get my number?”

  “I’m a psychic, Janet.” Plus, Perfect Brad searched online for her name. “But the question isn’t how, it’s why. I have a feeling you need to talk to someone.”

  “But you called…I mean, how much is this costing?”

  “Don’t worry about the phone bill. I’m calling from work. Oh, costing you? It’s free, Janet—except I’m asking you to speak with me.”

  A long pause. “About my husband?”

  “About whatever’s on your mind.”

  Another pause. “He doesn’t mean to hurt me. He’s always awfully sorry. It’s the drink makes him do it.”

  “Janet.”

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  “I won’t yell at you. I just want you to talk to the right people about this. I have a few numbers. You have a pen and paper?”

  “Yes.”

  I can hear that she’s lying. “Go get a pen and paper, Janet.”

  Rustling. She returns. “I love him, though. I really do.”

  “That’s okay. That doesn’t matter. I’m not telling you what you should do, or feel, anything like that, except call and chat with these people who understand what it’s like, going through what you’re going through. They won’t make you do anything. They’ll just listen, which I think is what you need. You don’t like what they say, hang up.”

  Another pause. “Okay. What are the numbers?”

  Am next to Ian Blue Hair again this afternoon. Trying to read Vogue, but the sex talk distracts me. I shift in my seat. Might be getting slightly turned on. How can this be? He’s a man I’m not interested in, pretending to be a woman I’m really not interested in, talking to a man who thinks he really is a woman. Hence, I cannot be turned on. I must be ovulating.

  Possibly just missing Joshua. I left three messages with him, and was finally rewarded with a message of my own: “Hey, Elle—I miss you, too. I’ve been swamped, but we’ll get together soon.”

  And I should make it soon. Because Ian Blue Hair, without interrupting his description about how hard he wants it, and where, gives me a knowing grin. Like he can tell I’m getting turned on. He can’t tell, can he? God knows what sort of extra-sexual-perception you get, talking filth on the phone eight hours a day.

  Darwin spots me and hurries over from his cubicle, sipping from a venti Starbuck’s cup. “Adele,” he calls. “Break time?”

  She pops up from two aisles over, runes in her hands. Looks from him to me, and nods. They crowd over my desk for a whispered conference.

  “They check the outgoing calls, Elle,” Darwin says.

  “Who does? What outgoing calls?”

  “Like a twenty-seven minuter to someone in Georgia this morning?” Adele says.

  “Ohmigod. They check those?”

  “They check everything. It was a client?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean—she called here, first.”

  “Shit, Elle,” Darwin says. “That’s grounds for termination.”

  “Don’t be a worrywart,” Adele tells him. “We caught it.”

  “What do you mean, caught it?” I ask. My phone rings, but we all ignore it.

  “The comptroller thought it was my account,” Adele says. “I told her it was a private call, and I thought it was yours, but I didn’t know. Worst they’ll do for a private call is subtract it from your paycheck. They won’t fire you, like they will for poachin
g.”

  “Poaching? What the hell? Did I sneak into the king’s forest and kill a fucking deer?”

  “Don’t tell us,” Darwin says. “We’re on your side. But management…it’s policy to shitcan poachers.”

  “Policy,” I hiss. “Policy is just another word for—”

  Adele straightens as a man from another department walks past. “So that’s how the crop circles work,” she says loudly. “Is that your phone ringing?”

  I pick up, and it’s Nyla.

  She says, “I’m thinking of going off the pill.”

  I take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm. Fired for poaching. I can’t get fired. I need this job. I like this job. God bless Adele and Darwin.

  “You’re thinking of what?” I say.

  “If I’m pregnant, he has to marry me.”

  “Nyla, did you make your list of careers? Your five careers?”

  “I was going to, but this pill thing…”

  “No excuses. We can’t talk until you make your list. Call me after you’ve done it. I’ll be here all day tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “And don’t go off the pill. Think how you’d look in Roberto Cavalli with a bloated hippo body.” I hang up.

  Darwin and Adele stare at me. Adele’s mouth is open wide enough for me to see her back teeth are capped.

  “What?” I ask. “I won’t call anyone again, I promise.”

  “You hung up on a client,” Darwin says.

  “Oh, that. It’s part of my plan.”

  “You’re not suppose to hang up on clients, Elle,” Adele says.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. Just talking isn’t enough. Talking gets you nowhere. Task Orientation, that’s where it’s at. Give them a list of tasks to perform, and when they’re done they call in to report.”

  “Despite what you’ve heard,” Darwin says, “talk isn’t cheap. Not at four bucks a minute. Talk pays the bills, Elle.”

  I turn to Adele. “Are we in the bill-paying business, or the intuitive consulting business?”

  “That’s a good question.” Adele straightens her rainbow-colored crocheted vest, and I avert my eyes in horror. “And the truth lies within. We are both a service industry, with, um—” She pretends she can hear her phone ringing, two aisles away, and holds a finger up like she’d rather talk to me, but has to answer the call. As if I don’t recognize that ploy.

  I don’t care what they think. I know I’m right. I’ll be the star of Psychic Connexion. They’ll put a picture of me next to the front door. C. Burke will shower me with praise and bonuses.

  And speaking of tasks and C. Burke…

  Five minutes later. I am in the inner sanctum. C. Burke’s office. I am aware that the ghost of Calamity Jane haunts me, so am incredibly careful. I close the door silently behind me. My stomach aches. I flip through his files.

  Merrick’s in the hall when I get home. Neil, the enraged teddy bear, is with him, wearing a tool belt and hammering at a doorway. Maya told me he’s a carpenter, and does a lot of work for Monty. And is Merrick’s best friend.

  What is it with men and their best friends? Even the most normal guy in the world will have this utterly bizarre best friend. It doesn’t matter that they’re from different planets. They don’t even notice. You see it all the time. A fairly regular guy whose best friend is a Wall Street sleazebag, or a partially homeless juggler, or a depressive night clerk, or something. It’s plain weird.

  Of course, Maya’s best friend is me.

  Anyway. Merrick sits on the stairs, a bottle of beer between his legs, wearing a green cotton button-down and jeans.

  “I’ll hide them behind the palms,” Neil is saying. “You’ll never know they’re there.”

  “Never know what’s where?” I ask.

  “Beehives,” Merrick says. “At my place.”

  “Here?”

  “My other place.”

  “They’re great for pollination,” Neil says. “And all the honey you can eat.”

  “The hives are ugly, Neil. They’ll ruin the view.”

  “I believe they’re called apiaries,” I say

  Merrick ignores me. “And I’m allergic to bee stings.”

  “You are not,” Neil says.

  “Not usually. But if your bees are anything like you, they’re killer bees.”

  “Africanized. Africanized bees. Not killer bees. That’s a media creation—and not only is it incorrect, it’s stupid. Think about it! African varieties interbreed with local varieties, right? Right?”

  “Neil. We’re not at Shika.”

  “Sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d like some variety in the honey is all. I put them at your place, I’ll call it Honey from the Sea.”

  “You live at the beach?” I ask.

  “You haven’t shown her your house?” Neil says, oddly surprised.

  “And if you really do have a house, why don’t you live there?” I ask.

  Merrick gives Neil a look. “It isn’t finished. I told you I’m having problems.”

  Neil chuckles and starts hammering again.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Merrick says. “Nothing’s funny. How was your day? How’s the consulting business?”

  “Fine.” It’s like I’ve been taking lessons from that nurse at Planned Parenthood. Any shorter a fine, and I would’ve said nothing.

  He gives me a once-over. I’m in jeans, an oatmeal sweater and flip-flops. I look chubbier in jeans than any other item of clothing. I’m becoming a real slob, working at Psychic Connexion.

  “No dress code at the consulting thing, huh?”

  He thinks I look fat. At least I have normal hair. “No.”

  Neil stops hammering. “What kind of consulting?”

  “Eclectic,” Merrick says. “Like you and carpentry. No job too large or small.”

  “Yeah?” Neil says. “What do you specialize in?”

  “Is that my phone?” I say. “I think that’s my phone.”

  I race upstairs. I think I hear one of them say mmm-hmmm at my huge ass. But it’s an mmm-hmmm like you say to a chocolate milk shake, so it’s all good.

  Chapter 30

  “How about him, instead?” I let a black-and-white Australian shepherd mutt lick my fingers through the fence. I’m at the County Animal Shelter; a more permissive organization than the Humane Society, they don’t have a perimeter-security policy. They do, however, insist upon matching you with an appropriate dog. The volunteer, a nice-looking woman in her early sixties, asks about my life and house, and directs me toward what she considers the best match. Sort of like a personal shopper. But I’m more interested in this shepherd than in her pick.

  “Too much working dog in him,” she says. “He needs someone who’ll really spend the time—not just loving him, but working him.”

  Well, that makes sense. “This lab here, then. What’s her name? Pixie! There’s a sweetie…oooh, who’s my sweetie?” Pixie is a hyperactive ball of kinetic energy, ricocheting in her cage like a pinball.

  “Not Pixie. I really think the first dog we saw would be—”

  “How about this little guy?” I say, eyeing a cute tan and white dog. “He’s darling!”

  “He’s a rat terrier.” The way she says it clearly means no.

  I sigh. “So it’s the first one or nothing?”

  “She’s the staff’s favorite. She’s a doll.” We make our way back to the first dog, who watches with sad brown eyes. “Look at that face,” the volunteer says. “How can you not love that face?”

  She’s a purebred boxer. And if you ignore the three-inch string of drool escaping one of her jowls, she does have a dear black-masked face. The problem is her fur. She has none, from the back of her ears to the base of her tiny stub-tail. Her skin is black and scaly, and you can count her ribs at a distance of twenty feet. I can’t decide if she looks more like a lizard or a rat—either way, she appears to be three days from being buried in the backyard.
“Scab” is written at the top of her information card.

  “You call her Scab?” I ask.

  “When she came in, we picked a cup and a half of scabs off her. Frank started calling her Scab, and it stuck. You can name her anything you want, though.” She smiles at me. “This little girl wants to go home with you. Should I start the paperwork?”

  I’m sorry. I know I should say yes. I know that’s the right thing to do. But adopting a depressed, hairless, scaly, drooling dog is not wise. Not for me. I’m surface-y, and this dog’s surface is truly wretched. Plus, there are definitely plenty of boxer lovers who will adopt her.

  “No,” I say, and I swear the dog’s eyes grow sadder. “No.”

  Back at home, I call Joshua. We should be able to talk about these things, right? Feeling like a bad person for rejecting a scaly dog, I mean. And about other things, too, like not wanting to steal papers from the office.

  I get his machine. “Hi, Joshua! It’s me. You’re never in. Well, I was about to get those papers and stuff, but actually, when I think about it, I’m kind of uncomfortable taking them, actually. If you see what I mean. Anyway, I went to the pound again, but didn’t adopt a dog yet. I thought maybe we could go together, and you could help me pick one. Umm…so give me a call? Love you.”

  He didn’t call back that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

  He is not going to call.

  I attempt to drown my sorrows in work. Task-Oriented Reading has taken root, and is bearing fruit. Flowering, blossoming, flourishing, etc. Assorted one-time callers being converted to repeaters, bread-and-butter calls now result in more than watered-down New Ageism and sympathy.

  The cards tell Ann from Sacramento to ask her shy, handsome co-worker out herself. She calls back in two days—he said no. He’s got a girlfriend. But he also has a buddy….

  The auric shift informs Steph from Dubuque to keep her knees together until Stage Four. She lasts until Stage Two. It’s a start.

  The numbers and the signs, the runes and crystals and the Gift—they have tasks for just about everyone: walk to work, buy yourself flowers, go to a movie alone, tell him how you feel, don’t tell him how you feel, put aside fifty bucks a week, ask her which she prefers, stop calling a 900-line, there’s a lovely dress in the Shapely Woman’s department at Super 9 for only $49, wear the garter belt if it’ll make him so happy, join a bird-watching club.