Tales Of A Drama Queen

“I need help,” I say when Maya answers the phone at the bar.

“What? The remote stopped working?”

“No, it works fine.” I click off Entertainment Tonight.

“So what’s the problem?”

“This job-hunt thing…”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t quite know how it works.”

“Oh. What part don’t you understand?”

“Um…” I look at the paper. “Take this one, for instance. Development Director wanted for World of Goods, a nonprofit organization dedicated to sending relief supplies to countries in need. Qualified candidates will have demonstrated experience managing others, working with board members, facilitating meetings, monitoring budgets and in all aspects of development.” I give Maya a moment to take it in. “What is development, exactly? Developing what?”

“It means fund-raising.”

“How hard can that be? It’s just asking for money. I did that all the time with Louis. It pays forty thousand a year. And it’s in tune with my values.”

“Louis ever find out how much of his money you were giving to the ASPCA and NOW?”

“Not yet—pledge cards don’t come ’til the end of the month. Anyway, World of Goods also gives you a housing stipend.”

“I suppose that’s what attracted you.”

“A little,” I admit.

“They offer a company car, too? That, a company charge card and a company boyfriend, and you’d be able to cross everything off your list.”

I make a rude noise.

“Forget anything with the word ‘director’ in it, Elle. Do you know how to type?”

“I know all the letters are on the keyboard and you push them to make words.”

“How did you get through college?”

“Hunting, pecking and oral presentations.”

“So secretarial, and basically all office work, is out. What else appeals?”

Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. “What I need is something that uses my natural charm and vivacity. Dealing with people, you know, in a sort of social setting.”

“Prostitution won’t work for you, Elle—you’d hate the dress code.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have demonstrated experience as a mistress.”

“Don’t even start. Seriously. What do you like?”

I decide against saying alcohol, and instead go for the real truth. “I like shoes. Maybe I could design shoes.”

Maya doesn’t say anything.

“I like people. And animals. You know how I like animals. Maybe I could be a vet or something.”

“You know who became a vet?” she says. “Anna Van der Water.”

“Yuck!” Anna Van der Water is this creepy girl we knew in high school. She wore cheap plastic barrettes in her hair—before Drew Barrymore made it cool—and her calves were bigger than her thighs. “Anna Van der Water, a vet. You know, I think maybe she was smarter than me.”

“I. Smarter than I. And are you kidding?” Maya says, loyal to the end. “Twice as smart.”

I hear glasses clinking at the bar, and am wondering how to get the conversation moving in a maybe-you-can-work-here direction when she says, “Listen, why don’t you come down and have a drink. My treat.”

See? A little patience, and it falls into your lap. “I’m kind of busy,” I say. I don’t want to sound desperate.

“Elle,” she says.

“Be there in twenty minutes.”

The bar’s located a block off State Street on one of the lower downtown side streets. There are no front windows, just a closed door with the name of the place in neon over it.

Shika.

The bar has never done well, and I blame the name. Well, it’s one of many reasons. It means “drunk” in Yiddish, I guess, which is Mr. Goldman’s little joke. (He once explained it’s actually “shiker,” not “shika,” but he went phonetical. I like Mr. Goldman.) Problem is Shika looks Japanese, and people find it disconcerting when they expect saké and rice-paper screens, but get photos of old Jews and every conceivable flavor of schnapps.

Inside, two men perch at the bar. Mr. Goldman is one of them, and the other is a man a decade older, dressed to kill. Other than them, and Maya behind the bar, the place is empty.

Maya offers me a margarita as I give Mr. Goldman a hug.

He doesn’t look good—his health has been bad since Maya’s mom died—but it’s still good to see him. As Maya mixes the margarita, we chat about my return to Santa Barbara, and my apartment and job hunt. I keep waiting for Maya to jump in and explain that I’ll be working at the bar, but she plays it coy.

Mr. Goldman and I cover the weather in Santa Barbara vs. D.C., and our conversation dwindles to nothing. So I turn to Maya. “I was thinking about my career. I think I’d be good in a service-industry-type position.”

She looks skeptical. “You’re more served than serving, Elle.”

“I’ve served!” I protest. “Does the name Martha Washington mean nothing to you?”

Maya explains my previous employment to her father and the other man, including some details I don’t remember telling her, and I realize maybe this isn’t the best time to discuss the bartending job.

“How about this?” I say. “I’ll start my own magazine, like Oprah. I’ll call it E.”

“Like the Entertainment network?”

“Oh, no. Well, I can’t call it Elle.” This stumps me. The best thing about the magazine idea is calling it E. I like the letter E. Plus, it has the bonus benefit of standing for e-mail and other electronic stuff: very now. “How about L—just the letter L.”

Maya makes the “L is for Loser” sign on her forehead.