Tales of a Drama Queen

by Lee Nichols

  “He’s a smart guy,” I say.

  Fucking Joshua. I probably knew all along. He did pretend to shoplift Super 9, so he could sue. And he probably never paid Citronelle. Poor Meeshell Reesharrrd.

  And now I’m the kind of woman who has one-night stands with high school boyfriends? No. So I abruptly escort Todd downstairs, the better to shove him out the doors and out of my life.

  At the bottom of the stairs: Merrick. Dressed casual, expression cool. He looks good. And more than that, he looks like he knows what he’s about. He looks like a man, not a grown-up boy. He looks like the man you wish were single, you wish were interested (and maybe you wish would dye his hair), but never is. I am abruptly aware that I’ve fucked up big-time.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “Merrick,” I say, my throat dry.

  “You must be Joshua,” he says to Todd. “I’m Lou—Merrick.”

  “Joshua?” Todd blinks. “No, I’m Todd.”

  “Right, Todd.” Merrick nods politely, and I am going to be sick. “Sorry, I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “I know the feeling,” Todd says. “I can hardly walk without caffeine and I need to be on the ball. We’re having the semi-annual shoe sale at Nordstrom’s today. Good selection of men’s—you ought to stop by.”

  He moves to kiss me, and I dodge.

  “Have a nice sale,” I say.

  “Nordstrom?” Merrick says. “The shoe department?”

  “Yeah,” Todd says. “Nice meeting you.” And he’s out the door.

  Merrick turns to me—the words the shoe department echoing in the air.

  “We knew each other in high school,” I say.

  There’s silence.

  “We were in chemistry class together.”

  Another pause.

  I can’t stand it. I can’t stand always being clumsy and wrong and stupid, always being the butt of every joke. My humiliation turns to something like rage. “Okay. Alright, goddammit. He’s the one who caught me shoplifting. Except I wasn’t. And Joshua ripped me off for like three thousand dollars, and all he wanted from me was help with some scam, okay? And I got fired again. From the only job I was ever any good at. From the only job I ever liked. From the only thing I, I… Okay? Are you happy now?”

  “Elle, I don’t—”

  “No! Shut up, Merrick!” I run upstairs and slam my door. Then I pretend I don’t hear when Merrick knocks. Which, you know, is a great way to show how grown-up and good-natured I am. Then I finish the second coconut cake.

  So that happened.

  And tell me, what can I do? What am I supposed to do? I’m in a downward spiral, circling the drain. I can’t get out of my own head, I can’t think of anything beyond what an utterly unrelenting failure I am. I can’t think of anything but the rejection and humiliation and mistakes and stupidity.

  I hate myself. Even the one thing I was good at was fake. Being a phone psychic, without being psychic. Without a single fucking clue. Adele was right.

  Well…but Adele thought I did good work. She said I was great with callers. And I was. People get so caught up in their own crisis they can’t see that anything is better than nothing. That’s what the tasks were all about. Break the cycle, get them moving. Get them doing something, anything, for themselves or someone else. Get them out of their own head and into—

  I sit up.

  I need a task. I know exactly what to do.

  I speed to Goleta, frantic with anxiety. What if she’s gone? Let her still be there, please God let her still be there. I need her. She needs me.

  I screech to a halt in the parking lot and bound inside. Nobody behind the desk. I sprint to the kennels. Past cages of healthy, glossy, barking dogs. Past cute dogs and easy dogs and pedigreed dogs.

  To her kennel. Scab. My Scab.

  She’s gone.

  An eerie sort of calm descends. I was going to adopt her. I was going to love her and heal her, and put her needs above my own. I was going to stop looking for someone to rescue me, and rescue her, instead. But she is gone.

  I walk, dazed, toward the car. And she is there. My hairless jowly lizard-rat dog, being walked—if you could call it that, the way she hobbles at the end of the leash—by a volunteer.

  I kneel and open my arms, the volunteer drops the leash, and Scab staggers toward me like a toddler taking her first steps. I hug her gentle and close. She smells of illness. She is birdlike in her frailty. Her skin is warm and pebbled and she exudes a six-inch slug of ectoplasm from her jowl to my knee. I can’t remember ever being so happy.

  I croon to her. I tell her I don’t care what she does or how she looks, I don’t care if she ever grows fur, I don’t care if she is ever healthy or happy or anything—she is mine and I am hers.

  In the office, the volunteer who matched us tells me Scab needs to stay two more days, for another mange dip. There’s only a fifty percent chance her fur will grow back. I tell the woman I want to take her home today, but she convinces me to wait. For the dog’s health, she says. Plus, I can visit tomorrow. As I kiss her—the dog, not the woman—goodbye, a male volunteer asks, “Oh, you’re adopting Scab?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m adopting Miu Miu.”

  Because she may look like Scab, she may look a mess and a failure and a pathetic huddled creature, but I know her for what she is: a gorgeous jewel of a thing.

  When I pull into the parking lot at home, Neil is putting some sort of power tool into the back of his pickup truck.

  “Hey, Neil,” I say. “I just adopted a dog! She’s a boxer. She’s bald, though, with mange. Her name’s Miu Miu.”

  “A pound dog. Way to go. You know what I can’t stand?” he asks me.

  “You mean besides politics, people, places, popcorn…”

  He makes a face. “I can’t stand people adopting foreign babies. What’s up with that? Like it’s fashionable to adopt a Chinese or Romanian baby—you can’t adopt a local child? These people buy local produce, for fuck’s sake, they can’t adopt local? I mean, it’s a trend? Adopting a kind of child, like it’s a poodle. You have a Jack Russell? I have a Korean, and I’m considering getting a Czech or Albanian.”

  “Neil,” I say. “I’m adopted. From Canada.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry—I just start talking and—” he eyes me, then chuckles. “Oh, bullshit! From Canada.” He gets in his pickup and slams the door. “I hate Canadians, too.” He starts the engine. “Oh, there’s some old woman looking for you. She’s inside.”

  “What woman?” I ask the back of his truck as he pulls away.

  So I creep to the front door and peer inside. Sure enough, there’s an old woman in the foyer. Wearing a canary-yellow Chanel suit. I try to think how this can possibly be good news—like maybe a rich uncle I’ve never heard of died or something—but fail.

  So I browse at Anthropologie and Borders, and come back in two hours, and she’s gone. Ha.

  The next morning, I sell every bit of designer clothing I own, except for two outfits. Possibly three. Or four, depending on what you mean by “outfit.” But definitely almost everything.

  I drag three suitcases to the consignment shop. I’m wearing jeans and a ratty Limited T-shirt. I’m sweaty and determined, and the beady-eyed woman behind the counter greets me with a smile, and tells me how well I look. She also gives me $2200. The clothes cost Louis almost ten times that, over about four years.

  I loved those clothes, but it strikes me that that’s an awful lot of money. And having parted with the outfits, I feel light. Light-headed, maybe…but unburdened, too. Those were clothes from a different life, and they were gorgeous; but they no longer fit.

  I pack all my IKEA furniture in the original boxes. Except for the stained chair and the kitchen stuff and two accent pillows. I send it all back, with a note. I will pay for what I kept. I don’t know when, but I will.

  I buy a huge bag of dog food. Solid Gold, it’s called. Holistic doggie health food. It has lamb and yucca and blueberries and comes
in a shiny gold shrink-wrapped bag. I can get by on rice and beans; I have hair. But Miu Miu needs all the help I can give her.

  I send Carlos four hundred dollars.

  I go to Shika.

  “Billy the,” I greet Kid. “What’s shaking?”

  “Martini,” he says, and he serves it to Mr. Goldman. He’s sort of literal.

  I slip onto the stool next to Mr. Goldman and Monty. “Lost my job again,” I tell them. “Who’s buying me an iced tea?”

  “As a psychic person?” Mr. Goldman asks. “Maya told me you were talking on the phone, but I never really understood….”

  I tell them the whole story, except for the bits about Joshua. I’m not sure if Mr. Goldman understands what the job was, but when I finish, he says, “You’re a good girl, Elle. Helping those people.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I tried. Anyway—if either of you hears of a job, let me know. I don’t care what it is. Anything. And Monty…this is for you.” I slide him an envelope with next month’s rent. So I have another month free and clear.

  He slides it back. “I can’t take this.”

  But I insist. It’s not for him, not really. “Besides,” I say. “Six hundred a month for that apartment? You can’t even pretend the market value’s less than eight hundred.”

  Monty and Mr. Goldman exchange a glance, and I get the impression they’ve been plotting behind my back. “Nine-fifty,” Monty says, pocketing the envelope. “But who’s counting?”

  “Not me. I couldn’t afford nine-fifty even when I was employed.” I finish my iced tea and ask when Maya’s coming in. She’s not due for a couple hours, so I call her from home and tell her how much I love her. She asks if I’m drunk. Yeah, I say. On iced tea and freedom.

  I have a month, with no expenses but food and gas. I have an empty apartment, an empty calendar, an empty social life and empty closets.

  I check the classifieds in Merrick’s newspaper, and dash off four letters. House cleaning, receptionist, retail clerk and even the home health aide job. If I have to stick a hose up someone’s butt, for $6.50 an hour, I’ll do it. Because it’s not about me. It’s about Miu. It’s about paying debts—not just to the credit card companies, but to the people who believe in me: Maya, PB, Monty, Mr. Goldman, even Carlos. And I guess it is about me. I’m ready to believe again.

  Chapter 32

  I spend the morning at the shelter, reassuring Miu that I’ll be back tomorrow, and telling her about the apartment. It’s Spartan, I tell her. Clean lines and surfaces. Uncluttered. A white linen chair for me, and a den in the corner for her, with a folded cashmere blanket and two throw pillows.

  I tell her about her exciting new bowls and her exciting new food and my exciting new job prospects. She doesn’t seem reassured. I kiss her goodbye on the forehead—one of the few patches with fur—and leave her in the capable hands of a vet who looks sixteen years old.

  I (speedily) complete applications at Manpower and Kelly Temporary services. In “previous employment,” Martha Washington has been joined by Spenser and Superior, which means I fill all three spaces. I’m absurdly pleased.

  Back at home, I’m famished. Fortunately, about thirty pounds of rice is left in the sack. I slip into something more comfortable—a gray Georgetown sweatshirt and DKNY leggings—grab the measuring cup and go downstairs. I pop my trunk, unfold the edge of the rice sack and dig inside.

  I am filling the cup to the three-quarters line when I hear footsteps. I don’t bother turning. It can’t be Neil. It can’t be Monty. It can’t be some anonymous person. It can’t even be the old lady who’s stalking me. It can only be Merrick.

  He has his portfolio and car keys. “That bag of rice,” he astutely observes, “is still in your trunk.”

  I hide my face behind my hair. I tried carrying the bag upstairs, but another rice eruption threatened. So I’ve been sneaking downstairs and carrying it up a cup at a time. It’s a system. “It seemed like a good place to store it.”

  “I see.” He beeps his car door open, and puts his portfolio on the passenger seat.

  Goodbye, Merrick. Drive away. Goodbye. I liked you.

  I stick my head in the trunk, eyes stinging, and nudge a few spilled grains into the measuring cup. I’ll have to sort it before cooking, but can’t afford to let it go to waste. I have a sense that I’ve let too many things go to waste already.

  Merrick’s car beeps again. I look, and he’s standing beside me.

  “Out of the way,” he says. He grabs the bag of rice and heads for the house.

  “What if I want it in the trunk?” I ask.

  He stands at the top of the front steps. “Open the door.”

  I do, and silently follow him upstairs, where the door to my apartment is already wide open. He places the bag on the kitchen counter and looks around.

  “I like what you’ve done with it,” he says.

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing. The place is empty, except for the chair and pillows, the three-wick candle and a few little accent pieces.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “I like it. It’s clean. Brings out the lines.”

  “Spartan,” I say, and risk a smile.

  He grins back, and I’m more relieved than I should admit. He raises an eyebrow at Miu’s corner, with the dog bowls and cashmere throw.

  “For my new dog,” I say. “She’s a boxer. She comes home tomorrow.”

  “You actually found a purebred at the shelter?”

  “Well…she’s a mess. She has mange. She’s bald and she’s twenty pounds underweight. She’s sick to death, but she has the sweetest little face, and she’s… I’m going to—” I shrug, embarrassed. “I like her.”

  He squats at her doggie den, and lifts one of the bowls. It’s covered in a sort of mosaic-design of stamps. “Pretty bowl,” he says.

  “I made it myself.”

  He looks closer. “Um…Elle? These look valuable.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a stamp-collector. Please, please don’t tell me.”

  “My nephew is. He badgers me for them, on birthdays. Where’d you get these?”

  “Ex-fiancé. He collected.”

  “Ah.” He nods.

  I prepare myself to be scolded, but he says: “Looks good.”

  Should I blurt something? Should I tell him something? I think I should, but I’m afraid.

  He puts the bowl down. “I was on the way to my house. You want to come?”

  He’s asking me to his house?

  “If you have a minute, I mean,” he says.

  I glance around the empty room. “I’m kinda busy with things here.”

  He smiles. “I can see that.”

  “Wait five minutes?”

  He nods and settles into my ink-stained chair. He looks good sitting there—plus he hides the spot.

  I race to the bathroom thinking about Merrick’s dream home. The key to his inner life. I can’t wait to see it. I put on mascara and lipstick, twist my hair into a knot, and change out of sweatshirt and leggings into a TSE sweater and Marc Jacobs denim mini. I emerge from the bathroom, flushed and excited.

  We take his car. Riding with him again reminds me of driving home after our date. We take Cabrillo Boulevard along the ocean, up to the Mesa, down a side street, through a bland neighborhood, to the ocean. His house is a charming little gem, perched on the cliff over the beach.

  “And you live in your office instead?” I say, as he parks in the drive.

  “The office is finished.”

  I look more carefully. The house is a soft gray two-story, with lavender and Mexican sage planted around it. The roof is covered in whimsical shingles, which remind me of the Moody sisters, these architects who designed fairy-tale cottages in Santa Barbara in the fifties or sixties.

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “Unfinished? Walls, a roof, windows…looks finished to me.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “If it has no kitchen, that doesn’t count,” I tell him. “I saw three pl
aces for rent without kitchens, and nobody seemed to care.”

  “It has a kitchen.” We walk up the stone entryway. A warm gust of wind swirls the scent of the ocean at us, over-laid with lavender and sage. I stop a moment, listening, and Merrick waits.

  “I can hear the surf,” I tell him. I love the sound of surf.

  “I love that sound,” he says, and leads me inside. “It’s why I bought here, I can barely afford it.”

  Windows span the ocean side of the house, floor to ceiling. Cream walls, accented with dramatic but unaggressive modern-type paintings. Oil pastels, Merrick tells me, by a local artist. Warm terra-cotta tile floors in the kitchen and bathrooms, with a light beige carpet in the rest of the house. An island in the kitchen, which opens into the living room. Open beams along the ceilings. Talk about clean lines—my mother would applaud the feng shui. The energy, the light and air, flows clean and sweet through the house. I can feel it on the back of my arms.

  “You like it?” he asks, a little unsure. The first lack of confidence I’ve noticed in him. I find it endearing.

  “You know I do. The outside reminds me of…do you know the Moody sisters?”

  He smiles. “The perfect thing to say.”

  “But the inside—”

  “I know. Everyone says I shouldn’t have carpeted.”

  “Not as elegant as wood floors, but that’s not what I was going to say. It’s comfortable. Livable.”

  “That’s what I thought. Carpet is more livable. With wood floors, you get dust stuck to your bare feet.”

  “I hate that,” I say. “Plus, you can’t roll around on wood like you can on carpet.”

  “Carpets are definitely better for rolling.”

  I’m sure I’m blushing. “I don’t see how you can say it’s not finished. Windows and doors. Two toilets. Running hot and cold.”

  “Let me show you.” He leads me to the master bathroom. The clawfoot tub is roughly the size of my ex-trolley. The window extends below the lip of the tub, so you can soak up a bath and the view at the same time. The walls are sand. I suppose it would be wrong to ask him to leave me alone for an hour so I could have a bath. Or he could join me. That would work, too.