Tales Of A Drama Queen

“That’s what they’re here for.” Maya sips her cognac. “Neil has a problem with rage. His wife said she’d leave him if he didn’t deal with it. He wasn’t beating her or anything, she was just sick of all the yelling. So he started this club. They come every Tuesday night and argue.”

“Does it work?” I ask. “Is he less rageful?”

“I don’t know,” Maya says. “I’m afraid to ask him.”

Maybe it’s the cognac, but we all laugh, and Maya tells me to watch the bar again for a sec, while she runs out back.

I panic. “No! Don’t leave me—I’m not ready!”

She ignores me, so I take my post and consider wiping the bar until it shines, but decide it isn’t worth the effort. Shika needs major renovation before cleaning will make it look any better. The booths are brown vinyl, the walls are painted dirty beige. The yellowing photographs of the Lower East Side of New York are fun, but better suited to a funky deli than a happening bar.

There are some good architectural details, though. The floor is hardwood, worn to a soft golden honey color. The ceilings are taller even than ZZ’s garage in Goleta, there are four skylights half-hidden by dingy fluorescent lighting fixtures and the bar itself is a great old art deco piece.

I happen to glance toward Redhead—only because I’m thinking we can paint the bathrooms a lovely deep red, and want to remember what shade of red I don’t like—and notice that he’s doing what I’m doing. Looking around the room, his eyebrows raising slightly at the good bits, and lowering at the ratty booths and walls. I wouldn’t mind renovating him. Shaving his head would be a first step, and—he catches me staring.

I’m not usually so weepy and pathetic. It’s the wedding, the engagement, Louis. Being left at the altar does things to your self-esteem. Plus, starting from scratch, back in the town where you went to high school—and realizing that you’ve accomplished nothing since then, except maybe what you thought was a nice, committed, six-year relationship, and even that fell apart, and there’s a man who catches you staring and he’s lovely except for being a ginger freak-head, and you don’t know what you want and barely know who you are, and what if he likes you and expects to see you naked, and dating is supposed to be this utter nightmare and you don’t know—

Long story short: I run away. I am a blur, fleeing out the front door.

I hear Maya’s voice say, “Elle?” but I don’t slow down. I am gone.

Wish I’d waited one more second, though. To see which direction his eyebrows went when he looked at me.

Chapter 9

Perfect Brad comes home at ten. He helps with my résumé. We finish at 10:07.

The next morning, memorizing sections A through D of the newspaper and putting off the classifieds as long as possible, I find this headline: Prize-Winning Bitch Missing.

I ponder the gratuitous use of the word bitch. You hear it on Friends and Will & Grace now, where calling any woman a bitch provokes screams of laughter. I don’t get it. Why aren’t they calling men assholes? Now that’s funny.

But no. The article’s actually about a female dog.

Prize-Winning Bitch Missing

A prize-winning golden retriever puppy was stolen from local breeder, Sally Ameson, last Wednesday. Ameson believes that a man claiming to be interested in purchasing one of her older dogs was responsible.

“I went into the back room to run the guy’s credit card,” Ameson said. “But he was gone when I returned, and Holly-Go-Lightly was nowhere to be found.”

The Santa Barbara Police Department ran a credit check, which revealed the Visa card to be stolen. “I never would have sold Holly. She’s unbreedable,” said Ameson.

After winning a blue ribbon at this year’s Santa Barbara Dog Show, the puppy was diagnosed with Clay Pigeon Disease, a rare disorder affecting a dog’s nervous system. The five-month-old bitch can live a normal life, but requires regular medication. “Without it,” said Dr. Van der Water of Riviera Veterinary, “she has little chance of surviving the next several months.”

If you have any information about this missing bitch call the Send Holly Home Hotline at 555-5658.

Figures they’d quote Anna Van der Water. Little chance of surviving the next few months—what does she call that, bedside manner? At least there wasn’t a picture of her with those stupid barrettes.

I enjoy fifteen minutes of revenge fantasies, deciding how Anna should be punished for having found a lucrative and reputable career, then force myself to read the classifieds.

There’s a new ad, for a “unique living opportunity in Mission Canyon.” And it is—get this!—only $500 a month. Unique? If $650 pays for a garage in Goleta, what can $500 possibly get you in Mission Canyon? I’m thinking a carport. With housemates.

I draw a dark blue X through it with my pen, and browse on. But it keeps nagging at me. Maybe what’s unique is that it’s a stunning one-bedroom apartment, for only $500. Doesn’t get more unique than that. I decide to chance it.

Mission Canyon lies just beyond the Santa Barbara Mission, towards the foothills. At sunset, the Mission’s peach walls glisten with falling light and the sky blushes a pink glow behind it. Across the street is the public rose garden. As I drive past, the scent of roses is thick in the air, and all is right in the world—if you ignore, for a moment, your little list.

I park in front of the house on Puesto Del Sol, next to the iron gate the woman on the phone mentioned. There’s a kid who looks like Eddie Munster—but without the formal attire and widow’s peak—tossing pebbles at a tree trunk across the street.

“You parked on my stick,” he says.

I look. There are any number of sticks on the ground. It’s true that I parked on some of them. “Sorry.”

“You broke it.”

“Oh. Which one is yours?”

He points to a stick exactly like every other stick, except broken. “See?”

It occurs to me that this is some new juvenile prank, the current equivalent of asking someone to page Mike Hunt. I smile weakly, and take a step toward the gate, and wave away a bug that whizzes by my ear. Take another step, and a second bug stings me on the shoulder-blade. Another step, another bug—on my butt.

I spin, and Eddie Munster is still tossing pebbles toward the tree trunk. Not the slightest sign of a smirk on his face. Little fucker.

I take five quick steps and close the gate behind me. Think I’m safe until a half-dozen pebbles sail though the bars and pelt my back. Briefly consider cracking Eddie Munster’s head like an egg on the rim of a bowl, but the New Elle rises above. Plus, I don’t have the firepower.

I step out of the line of fire and am hit with two bullets of fur. Much yapping ensues, and between barks one of the little black pugs tries to nibble my toes. After I realize this is not part of Eddie Munster’s evil plan, I pat the dogs, setting their pig-tails wagging delightedly.

“Penny! Pippin!” a woman’s voice scolds, and the beasts retreat. The woman is a schoolmarm, with withered cheeks, a sticklike body and white hair pulled into a bun. She wears a tailored cotton blouse and a full pleated skirt. And is that a cameo at her neck? I move in for a greeting and get a closer look. No, just an ugly piece of agate.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Elle. We spoke on the phone?”

“It’s this way. I’m Mrs. Petrie.” And before I have a chance to worry about what I’ll find, she’s off at a canter, the dogs and me trotting behind.

The walk is through a well-loved, well-tended California-English-style garden. Roses, hydrangeas, lavender and Mexican sage are all in full bloom. “Unique” is looking better and better—and I start thinking the guest house will be a delicious little truffle of a cottage. Tiny, considering the price. But the garden! And it’s in Mission Canyon. There’s nothing shameful about telling people you live in Mission Canyon.

There is, however, something shameful about telling people you live in a trolley. Not a carport, a trolley. It squats, sans wheels, just beyond the garden.

“That’s a trolley,” I say.

“Water and trash are included,” she answers. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the door.

I enter behind her, and the trolley teeters a bit from our combined weight.

“Light switches, bathroom. Bed. Kitchen. I will return in five minutes for your answer.” She opens the door to leave, but pauses on the steps. “There is dirt on the back of your blouse. And your skirt.”

I start to explain Eddie Munster, but she interrupts with a glacial nod and leaves.

I sigh and look around, and it is still a trolley. It’s carnival red, except where the paint has chipped off to reveal a coat of mustard yellow. Half the floor is covered in green carpet, the other half, brick linoleum. In the “kitchen” is an all-in-one stove/sink/refrigerator unit. It’s 1950s—futuristic, and kinda cute.

The toilet, however, is less than cute, and sits directly next to the stove/sink/fridge. I’m talking ten inches away. A showerhead protrudes from the wall three feet above the toilet tank, and a drain is planted in the floor under it. There are brown curtains over the windows, and the roof is maybe two feet above my head. I’ve seen SUVs with more living space.