by Lee Nichols
I lose some casual callers, but such is life. Can’t please everyone all the time. I know, because I told Darlene from Baton Rouge that very thing.
When not on the phone, I spread the Task-Oriented word among my co-workers. They look dazed, and try to avoid me. I don’t care. This works. I write a pamphlet. Darwin starts calling me “comrade.” I am having a fairly fantastic time. At work, at least.
The phone rings. A man’s voice: “Elle… Can your psychic powers divine who this is?”
The voice is familiar. Not a repeat caller, though. Not Carlos, thank God. “Joshua? I’m so glad you called!”
“Joshua? No. It’s Louis.”
“Louis? How the hell did you get this number? If this is about your fucking stamp collection—”
“Merrick. It’s Merrick.”
“Oh. Merrick. Oh. Hi. What do you want? How did you get this number?”
“Maya gave it to me.”
Must kill Maya.
“So are you going to give me a reading?” he asks.
“Sure. Let me lay out the cards.” I flip through my magazine. “Hmmm…I see trouble. Trouble at home. It appears your apartment will be flooded when the person upstairs plugs her bathtub and leaves the water running all day.”
“No—for real, Elle. Pretend I’m a regular client. What would you tell me?”
“First, I’d get your address for our free psychic newsletter.”
“You know my address.”
“Let me fill this out…” I’m done in a jiffy, because I’m good with forms. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned it. “Done.”
“Now what?”
“Whatever you want. You’re the client.”
“Well…shouldn’t you tell me something about myself?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I know you. It only works with people I don’t know.”
He laughs. “You don’t know me that well.”
“Well, ask a question,” I say. “We’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay. Will you have dinner with me this Friday?”
“Oh. Wow. You know, I’m actually kinda seeing someone.” I am, too. Maybe Joshua’s machine is broken. Or he’s out of town on business—whatever that may be. Or cavorting with Jenna. No. No, he’s not with Jenna.
“Seeing someone for real, or seeing someone like you’re consulting?”
“I am consulting,” I snap. “In fact, I’ve developed a whole new theory for the business. It’s called Task-Oriented Readings.” I tell him how it works. “The only problem is people are making fun of me for writing a manifesto.”
“Like Das Kapital.” He laughs again. “Das Krystallball?”
I grunt at him. It annoys me, for some reason, that he’s being charming.
“So what’s my personal task?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I grumble.
“I think it’s to persuade Elle Medina to have dinner with me.”
“I told you, I’m seeing someone.” Why won’t he believe me? Is it so hard to believe that I have a boyfriend? And I do. Have a boyfriend. He’s just busy. “His name is Joshua. He lives in Montecito.”
“You call him that? Joshua?”
“I know, I know. It’s lame he doesn’t go by Josh. But he’s not gay. That I know for sure.”
“I meant,” he says a little stiffly, “do you call him Joshua, or by his last name?”
“Oh. Yes. Joshua.”
“So how’d you meet?”
“At work,” I say, all innocence.
“He’s a phone psychic, too?”
“Not here. I met him at Super 9.”
“He works at Super 9 and lives in Montecito?” There’s a slight pause. “Elle, please tell me you’re not dating the shoplifter who got you fired.”
“Well, technically…yes. But he didn’t actually shoplift—” I stop speaking because I don’t want to interrupt Merrick’s unattractive whoops of laughter. “I don’t see what’s so funny—”
“You…you’re…”
“He’s gorgeous. And he knows all about Prada.” Sort of. “And he’s a great cook, and he’s spontaneous—”
“Spontaneous how?”
“Spontaneous like I never know when he’ll call, or stop by or, er…”
“Yeah?”
“And we went to Citronelle for dinner, and neither of us had enough money, so we stiffed the bill and ran out! And he lives in this huge mansion, and we’re thinking of, um, living in Montecito and…and we’re going to Venice.”
There’s a long pause as I catch my breath.
“Uh-huh,” he says.
“What?”
“I don’t know, Elle. You—” He sounds tired and disappointed. “I never know what’s the truth with you. Well, this has been enlightening. You do a great job. You really answered my question.”
“Merrick…”
“I’ve gotta go,” he says.
“Go where?”
He hangs up. My face hurts. I stare at the phone.
Five minutes later, it rings again.
“Psychic Connexion. This is Elle.”
It’s Nyla. Doing really well. “You were right about being a magazine editor,” she says. “But you know what? Bookstore clerk sounds pretty good. I know they don’t make any money, but I don’t need money—not if we stay together. And we will, too, if I get out of the house and start doing something. And I like books—I mean, I spend almost as much time in Barnes and Noble—are you crying?”
“N-no.”
“What’s wrong, Elle?”
“Nothing. I just—I saw a sick dog at the pound, and I have my period, and I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading on you.”
“No, that’s okay.”
But it’s not. She’s paying, I’m the professional. I take a deep breath: “Just needed a little weep. Better now. Listen, Nyla, I have one last task for you. It’s a biggie. Are you ready for it?”
I can hear the smile in her voice when she says: “I’m ready for anything.”
“You have to stop calling.”
“What?”
“It’s expensive, and it’s his money. And more important, you don’t need me anymore. You can do it yourself. You can only do it yourself. We both know it. You’re a…you’re really great, Nyla. I like you a lot. If you lived here, I think we’d be friends. But you have to do the rest by yourself. Most of all, you have to know you can do it yourself. I believe in you. Your next task is this—believe in yourself.”
I hang up, breathless and light-headed. I take my headset off for a brief break, and feel someone standing behind me. I swing in my chair, and a harried-looking guy in a mediocre suit is standing there.
“Elle,” Darwin says from his desk. “This is Christopher Burke. Back from paternity leave.”
“Christopher C. Burke,” Burke says.
“Oh!” I pop out of my chair and offer my hand. “It’s great to finally meet you.”
“You hung up on a client.”
Ouch. Well, nothing to do but explain: “It’s all part of my plan. Task-Oriented Readings. Clients have to complete a task before calling back—I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read my pamphlet?”
He nods in understanding, and I thrill with possibility of my first convert to the cause. He smiles softly, and says: “You’re fired.”
Spend twenty minutes weeping in the Psychic Connexion parking lot, too upset to drive. This is far worse than being fired from Super 9 shoplifting patrol. I was good at this. I liked it.
Now I’m afraid to go home. How will I face Merrick? What will I tell Maya? And Sheila, and Monty, and Carlos and my mom…
What should I do? Where should I go?
Only one thing occurs to me: picking up the Dingle’s dry cleaning. Am already humiliated and defeated, there’s no reason not to complete my disgrace.
I drag my tear-stained face into the dry cleaner’s. The pretty, forty-something Asian woman behind the counter wants $28.95.
“What?” I say. “That
’s a little high. The suit itself wasn’t worth forty.” I should’ve bought one of those home dry-cleaning kits. Could have saved twenty dollars—which, now that I’m unemployed again, I desperately need.
“The stain was cranberry,” she says. “On seersucker. And look now—not a shadow.”
She’s right. The stain is absolutely gone.
“Twenty-eight ninety-five, then,” I say, with an attempt at a smile.
“Tell your boyfriend, be more careful—it’ll save a lot of money in the long run.”
My boyfriend. I fork over the cash, and look away while she counts the change, afraid I’m going to start crying again. A framed article on the wall says Local Dry Cleaner Awarded Environmental Award, and the picture shows the woman holding a wedding dress while smiling into the camera. I may be unemployed and unwed, but at least I’m not killing the earth.
“Bag or no bag?” she asks.
“Is that how you got the environmental award?”
“Partly.” She smiles.
“Then no bag, I guess.”
I take the suit and am about to leave when she says, “Oh, wait. This was in the pocket.” She hands me a matchbook, three lollipops and a bunch of receipts. The matchbook says Café Lustre, and features three topless girls in lurid poses. “Tell your boyfriend,” the woman says, “he doesn’t need that sort of place. He has a pretty girlfriend, and she picks up his dry cleaning, too.” She pauses a moment, and I think she’s going to ask if I cook and wear sexy underthings and give the Dingle time in his cave. “But the one in the middle?” She means the picture on the matchbox. “She’s cute. Almost makes me want a lap-dance.”
I look closer. The one in the middle is Jenna.
Saturday morning. Haven’t left the apartment in two days. I wake to knocking at my door. Roll out of bed wearing the red Daryl K pants and white T-shirt I had on yesterday. Fell asleep watching Conan O’Brien interview supermodel Giselle Bundchen. She was complaining about how hard it is to be Giselle Bundchen. She must die.
I open the door, and it’s Joshua. He looks extra Ga-Ga Gorgeous, there’s a nimbus of heavenly light around him. Plus, he’s bearing a bag of bagels and an egg-crate tray that holds two cups of coffee.
Love is rekindled in my heart. “Joshua!” I say. “I didn’t expect—the place is a mess.”
He’s supposed to say that it doesn’t matter. He says: “What happened to your hair?”
Aack! It’s in braids. I look like Swamp Thing. I loosen the braids and twist my hair into a knot. “It’s um…for conditioning. You brought me coffee!”
“And cinnamon raisin bagels.”
Always wondered who ate raisin bagels. “My favorite.”
“There’s something I want from you,” he says over his coffee cup. “I think we should go into business together.”
Ga-Ga wants to go into business with me. We’ll be Time’s couple of the year, profiled in Fortune. Maybe I’ll even get into the gossip section of W! Elle Medina was seen at Oprah Winfrey’s sprawling Montecito estate—
“…and with your contacts,” he’s saying, “we’ll be unstoppable. Remember Philip Michael Thomas?”
“Used to be on Miami Vice with Don Johnson?” I say absently, thinking that I most want to be seen attending gala fund-raisers.
“He got three million bucks in a settlement, for his phone psychic commercials. Big money. You have to trust me, love. DRM is the key.”
“What?” Takes me a moment to remember DRM is the company that owns Psychic Connexion. “DRM?”
“It’s totally understandable, being reluctant to lift this paperwork we need, Elle,” he says. “But we have to be bold. We have to overcome all obstacles. Together, you and I, we can—”
“I got fired.”
He flicks me an exasperated look. “This isn’t about Super 9. It’s about DRM. Focus, honey. The 900 number racket is open season. With your inside information, and my—”
“I mean, I got fired from Psychic Connexion.”
“You what?”
I emit a nervous giggle. “It’s sort of a funny story. I was working on my Task-Oriented Readings…”
“Your what?”
I tell him.
“Un-fucking-believable, Elle. Hanging up on paying customers?”
“It was all part of my plan,” I say in a small voice. “I was helping a lot of people.”
He stands and grabs the raisin bagels.
“Where are you going? Don’t you want to have breakfast?”
“Not anymore,” he says, and closes the door behind him.
“I hate raisin bagels!” I scream at him and throw my cup of coffee at the closed door. Which turns out to be a bad idea because it takes me half an hour to get the stain out of the carpet. And I could have really used the coffee.
Chapter 31
Back to memorizing the Help Wanted section every day. Back to composing bright, hopeful, misleading cover letters. Back to calling Sheila at Superior. Today, she recommends I try another employment agency.
The phone rings. Stupidly hoping it is good news, I pick up.
“Eleanor Medina,” he says.
“Hi, Carlos. You got my check?” I sent a hundred dollars, even though I promised four.
“Elle, I like you. But this is serious. This can screw your credit for a lifetime. No credit cards. No home loan. No car loans. No job that requires a credit check. This can—”
“I got fired again.”
“—mess up your…again? What happened?”
I tell him.
There’s a long pause. “Listen, Elle. I shouldn’t tell you this. But if you can get fired for trying to help people, so can I. There’s only one thing for you to do. Declare bankruptcy.”
“Bankruptcy?”
“Yeah. You’re not gonna get out from under this. You need to start over. It’s a bad option, but it’s the best one you have.” He tells me how it works. I won’t have to repay anything, basically, and his company is out six thousand dollars or whatever.
“And what about IKEA? They lose fifteen hundred dollars, for trusting me with a card?”
“That’s exactly what happens.”
Oh, God. What kind of person am I? I tell Carlos I’ll think about it, but as we hang up, I renew my determination to get a job, today.
I sneak downstairs to steal Merrick’s newspaper for the classifieds. This is nothing new; I’ve been doing so every morning for a week, too depressed to leave the building. I’m sure he knows it’s me pilfering his paper. I don’t think I care…until I meet him in the hall.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello.” He steps into his office and shuts the door.
Oh, God. It’s the way he says it. Indifferent and uncaring. I get halfway upstairs, my cheeks burning with mortification and his paper crumpled in my hands, before the tears start. I fall into bed weeping.
I am a failure. As an employee, as a credit risk and as a person. All I want is to be a child again, and have someone tuck me in and kiss me on the forehead and tell me it’s all okay. But it’s not.
I stay in bed for two days, sick of myself. Sick of my life. Just sick. What can I do? I mean—what can I do?
Then this happens:
Hunger drives me to Super Ralph’s. Where poverty leads me to inspect economy-size cans of kidney beans with great care.
Someone nudges my cart. I turn, ready to battle a pushy aisle-hog, and find Todd, manager at Nordstrom and high school date.
“Hey, Elle,” he says. “How’s it going? We never got a chance to catch up.”
“Oh, no. I—I’ve been busy.”
He looks at my cart: family-pack of recycled toilet paper; family-size frozen coconut cake; five-dollar bottle of Zinfandel; one banana; economy size Advil; backup auxiliary family-size frozen coconut cake; and, monster tub of chocolate ice cream, to go with coconut cakes.
“That’s my favorite vintage,” he says about the wine.
He’s sort of cute. Employed, presentable and he’
s not Joshua or Merrick. I’m sort of demolished. Plus, I’m unemployable and a fucking mess and I hate myself.
“Cheap Zin goes great with coconut cake and self-pity,” I say.
He humors me with a laugh, and says something bland. So I take him home and we have sex.
The good thing: we already fooled around ten years ago, so we’re past some of the awkward stages. The bad thing: I no longer have the body of a seventeen-year-old, and I’m pretty sure he notices.
I wake the next morning disgusted. I don’t especially like Todd. Hell, I don’t even care enough to dislike him. All I want is for him to be gone. I jab him with my elbow to wake him.
He yelps like a little girl. “Eee! Oh—oh. I was having a nightmare.”
Welcome to the club. “Rise and shine,” I say, afraid he’s going to start telling me his dreams. “You don’t want to be late for work.”
“What time is it? Oh, no.” He scrambles out of bed and searches for his discarded clothes. One of his socks is draped over a half-eaten piece of coconut cake, which is a terrible waste of good comfort food. “I’ll call you—maybe we can have dinner?”
“Sounds great,” I lie. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, probably. But…yech. A one-night stand? What am I doing?
His other sock is among my shoes. He gives my shoe collection a professional appraisal as he pulls the sock over his somewhat-unsightly foot. “Hey, where are the most expensive shoes in the world?”
“Huh?”
“The BCBGs. Three thousand dollars for a pair of shoes—I wish I could sell them for that much.”
“What? Three thousand? What are you talking about?”
He looks briefly puzzled as he fastens his belt. “You know. The settlement.”
“The what?”
“Three grand. For when the heel broke and you slipped in the store—that guy you hired to represent you was pretty convincing.”
Three grand? Three fucking thousand dollars, and Joshua gave me $200, and I loved him for it?