Tales Of A Drama Queen

“I’m sure. Thanks, Brad—you’re a prince.”

He stammers endearingly, and spots the bureau I assembled last night. He fixes the bits that were uneven, and puts the drawer-pulls on. He knocks together the sides and adjusts the two drawers that had refused to close.

I consider being insulted by the implication that I’m not capable of doing it myself. But honestly, men enjoy this sort of thing. Why ruin their fun? It’s like shopping. Men think it’s a chore, and can’t understand why we like it. He can fiddle, I can shop, and we’ll both be happy. Maybe I’ll repay Brad by buying him a new pair of shoes.

Then I realize I have a bigger treat for him. I am forced to wheedle and whine slightly, as he wants to get back to his office. But it only takes Perfect Brad fifty minutes, and I own the Beemer for one thousand, flat. Including taxes and registration and all that. Apparently fifteen hundred was far too much.

Don’t tell Andrea Dworkin, but it’s good to have a man around. I consider getting weepy about Louis, and how much I miss him. But frankly, PB is better at the manly stuff than Louis ever was. And I do have PB around, even if he’s just a loaner. So it works out fine.

I swing by to take Maya for a Beemer joyride and ask if she’s interested in a time-share agreement.

“There’s plenty of Brad to go around. Plus, I’ll cancel out all the non-Jewish parts.”

She laughs. “Don’t get any Big Chill ideas. I draw the line at furniture assembly and car shopping.”

“That is so bourgeois,” I say. “If you were young and hip, you’d share.”

“And if you were young and hip, Elle, you’d get a bunch of your tender places pierced, and sleep with girls. But, if you’re still interested in men…”

“What?” I say, thinking: Carlos? Is he a friend of Brad’s? I bet he’s a coder, too—exactly like Brad, but Latino. “What man?”

“You know the guy at the bar the other night?”

Redhead! I pretend to have no idea. “Neil? Monty?”

“The one who kept going on about Chicagos? He asked about you.”

“What did he ask, if I was taking my meds?”

“General stuff. He’s an architect. Wondered if I’d ever consider remodeling.”

I know she wants me to beg for info, so I play it cool. “Yeah, I saw him looking around.”

“I told him I couldn’t afford it. And Dad would pop a vessel if I even repainted. It’s the only reason I haven’t taken down the shtetl gallery. I’m thinking of having the lights removed, though. The ones blocking the skylights. And—”

“Okay, okay! What did you tell him?” I shift roughly, going up Carrillo Hill. “I mean about me!”

“Hmm?”

I glare.

She smiles. “Guess what his name is.”

“Theodore Bundy.”

“Here, he gave me his card.” She pulls it from her purse and hands it over.

I glance down. It’s a classy card. White linen, and embossed black sans-serif font, with his name, the word “Architect,” and a phone number.

His name is Merrick. Louis Merrick.

“Watch the road!” Maya yells, as car wheels shriek.

It’s a good thing Beemers are the ultimate driving machines.

After I convince the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.

“So?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”

“It’s…really a BMW,” she says.

“1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.

“Great,” she says, unimpressed.

Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.

“It’s great,” she repeats, with a little more enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”

“Thank you.”

“And the color doesn’t bother you?”

Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.