Tales Of A Drama Queen

“He did what?”

“An Iowan.”

“He married an Iowan? When did he—how did he?” She pauses for a fraction of a second, which means she is truly shocked. “Well, are you gonna kick her ass back to the corn fields?”

Mom watches a lot of daytime TV. I often wonder what her New Age customers would think if they knew. She owns a crystal and herb shop in Sedona—she moved there when I went to college. She gives off an Earth Mama vibe, and a lot of her customers come in to ask for advice. Little do they know that the wise and evolved spirits she’s channeling are Montel Williams and Jerry Springer.

“Mom, I haven’t even met her.”

“Well, maybe you should. I was watching Ricki Lake this morning—you know she’s lost weight again—and there was a woman on who’d never confronted her mother when she stole her brother’s girlfriend…”

And she’s off. Why do I bother? She always makes me feel like this. Like the people on Judge Judy are more important than me. I don’t know why I called, why I—oh, right. Security. As in deposit. She marks up those crystals four hundred percent.

“Mom! Louis dumped me, and I’m living on Maya’s couch, and I don’t have an apartment or a job or a car or anything. I don’t care about intergenerational love triangles.”

I must sound desperate, because she actually responds. “Oh, Elle, honey. You should have come here, where I could take care of you.”

I feel my eyes water. “Yeah, I sh-should have…”

“I would’ve made you scalloped potatoes and Boston cream pie.”

I wipe my nose with the wet dishcloth. “B-better than chicken soup.”

“Hop on the next plane, darling. The red rocks here cure everything. Broken hearts included.”

She sounds so sympathetic, I’m almost tempted. Cake and sympathy and reversion to childhood. But it wouldn’t be like that. Ten minutes after I got there, everyone would know it was my fault that Louis married someone else. Which it wasn’t. And she’d rope me into her shop for horoscopes and palm reading; she decided when I was eleven that I had the Gift, even though I always thought Capricorn was the bull.

“In fact, I wrote a letter about that to Oprah,” she says. “She should do her show from here. In Sedona. For the healing energy. It’s a nexus, Elle—and Oprah’s a wise woman, like the wise women of old, imagine if she tapped into the—”

“Mom!” I cut in. “I need to borrow some money.”

Silence.

“I didn’t realize how expensive things are, when you don’t have any money. And my credit cards…well, Louis was going to pay them off after the wedding. But now…”

“Are you in trouble with credit again?”

“I am not in trouble!” And I’m not. Because I’ve moved. How are they gonna find me in Santa Barbara? “I just need a little cash.”

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” she says. “The café next door is looking for a busboy.”

“Thanks, Mom. But couldn’t you at least…”

“Why don’t you try your father?”

Bad sign. She never mentions him. Her friends in Arizona think I was an immaculate conception.

“You know how Dad is…”

“I do know. I saw a segment on Jerry Springer about deadbeat dads, and just because your father never missed a payment doesn’t mean he’s not a deadbeat. There was this man, a yacht repairman, something with yachts, maybe a designer, I don’t know, and he had seven kids—well his wife did, but he said only one of them was his—but she said at least four of them—”

I hang up, mid-story. That’s just ducky.

Chapter 6

So crossing off “apartment” on my little list isn’t so easy. But a car’s a car. Unless the license plate says 666 or there are dismembered body parts in the trunk, you get what you pay for. Besides, I think Maya’s getting a little sick of carting Brad to work every day.

I’ve decided a Passat is the way to express my new self. Elegant, but not flashy. High-quality, but not ostentatious. That’s the New Elle.

The VW dealership is downtown, and it’s where I make my first new Santa Barbara friend. Bob, the car salesman. He’s instantly smitten with me. I can always tell. And truth is, he’s not bad. I mean, he’s a used car salesman, which is hardly a Prince Charming job. But he’s tall enough, and has a good smile and nice eyes. I fill out a form—which, I notice him noticing, includes my home phone.

I decide that when he calls, I’ll tell him I just want to be friends. Because that’s the sort of thing the New Elle does. No reason to jump into a relationship with the first cuteish guy to come around.

I tell Bob I’ll settle for the bottom-of-the-line GLS model, but he says everyone who bought one wishes they spent a little more for the GLX.

Well! I love it when a salesperson gives you their personal opinion. It means they like you. We start in a Black Magic GLX with black velour interior. A quick drive, and Bob and I know it is too masculine for me, so we take the Mojave Beige with beige velour interior for a cruise to the beach.

“You look good in it, Elle,” Bob says.

“It feels a little soft,” I say. “Like I’m a soccer mom, Bob.” Bob. Bob. It’s a funny syllable.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be happy with a Passat, when I see it across the lot. Silver. Curvy. Beautiful.

“That’s the W8,” Bob says. “Top of the line. Eight cylinder engine, leather interior, sunroof, five-CD changer…”

The minute I sit in it, I know. I’m like Goldilocks. This one is just right.

It’s late, and the dealership is closing, so I give Bob my information and he promises me he’ll put a deal together tomorrow morning. He smiles, and I mentally rehearse: I really like you, Bob, but I just want to be friends.

When I get back to Maya’s I check my little list:

Apartment. Not living in moss-walled shack or sharing toilet with teenage boys, so I’m ahead of the game.

Man. Will reject Bob with grace and tact. Apparently the streets of Santa Barbara are paved with eligible bachelors.

Car. Gorgeous Silver Passat! Will be stunning with new, employed-Elle wardrobe, and new, Antonio-Banderas-looking boy toy. It’s a W8, too. I like the sound of that, but must remember to ask Bob what it stands for.

Job.

Job.

Job…

The problem with my employment history is I have none. My mom sold real estate while I was growing up, and made tons of money, so I never got an after-school gig. It wasn’t until she bought her vitamin-and-runes store that she started getting tight. Plus, my dad sent her money for my upkeep when I was a minor. Now I’m a major, and I’ve never had a job.

Well, there was a brief period the summer after my second year at Georgetown. My roommate, Angela, convinced me it would be fun to join the team at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in Virginia. I got hired as Martha Washington in a historical reenactment, while Angela got stuck with wench duty at one of the taverns. After two weeks, the administrators decided the public preferred a white-haired Martha to a young bride, and I was ousted by a retired flight attendant. I was a better Martha, though. At least I refrained from pointing out the emergency exits to George. Angela kept wenching while I slunk back to Washington. That’s when I moved in with Louis. I spent the rest of the summer womanning phones for EMILY’s List, but that was volunteering, not employment.

I’m home alone, halfheartedly scanning the want ads, when it hits me: What I need is a starter job. Preferably a starter job that pays well. And that’s not too demanding. Like, say, being a bartender. The neat thing is, I have this friend who owns a bar. Maya has to hire me, right?