Tales Of A Drama Queen

Enough said.

“Want another margarita?” she asks.

I look down, mine is somehow empty. I have a flash of genius. “Let me make it,” I say. “I’m a whiz with blended drinks.”

“I usually just mix them,” she says.

“See that’s where you’re wrong. Where’s the blender?” I eagerly pop behind the bar.

All I want to say is: I know the top was closed firmly before I turned the blender to pureé. Must have been some kind of malfunction. Anyway, it was just a couple ice cubes and strawberries. And Maya was standing too close. A pity she was wearing white, that’s all.

Chapter 7

The next day, desperate for an apartment, Maya (who’s in an uncharacteristic tizzy: probably fighting with Perfect Brad) persuades me to relax my standards and see a place in…Goleta. The ad promises a “one bedroom charming garden paradise with fourteen-foot ceilings,” and the price is too good to dismiss—$650 a month.

“But it’s Goleta!” I wail. A suburb fifteen minutes north of Santa Barbara, teeming with strip malls and big box stores.

“There are nice parts of Goleta,” Maya says.

“Where?”

“People like it there,” she replies, vaguely.

“Who?”

“Oh, stop being such a snob, Elle, and look at the place.”

Well, it does say “garden paradise.” I will be the consummate country party hostess. Fabulous friends, whom I’ve yet to meet, will escape the city late Friday night to my oasis in Goleta. I’ll serve negronis and martinis—anything but margaritas—and prepare fabulous fresh meals from my kitchen garden. Olive trees and lavender will dot the rolling hills, and all for the pittance of $650 a month!

By the time I arrive at the house, I’ve persuaded myself that I’m on my way to Provence. I’ll be garden fabulous.

Then I turn into the dirt driveway. Dust billows into the car, and through watery eyes, I see the house. Bluish, with water marks streaming from the windows, giving it the appearance of a weeping cartoon house.

I put the car in Reverse, and a man bangs my hood in greeting.

He has long hair and a longer beard, à la ZZ Top. He wears black jeans on his stick-skinny legs, over which is an enormous belly not quite covered by a tank top.

“Here about the apartment, right?” he says. “It’s around back.”

I want to ask what happened. I want to ask why his house is crying. I want to ask if he needs help, if there’s anyone I should call. Instead, I obediently follow him toward the backyard.

ZZ stops in the garage. The concrete floor is partially covered with bronze carpeting—a deep, oil-stained shag. The walls are unfinished, revealing two-by-fours and assorted wires and pipes.

“So,” he says. “Any questions?”

“Well, one,” I say. “Where’s the apartment?”

“You’re standing in it.” At least ZZ had not lied in the ad. The ceilings are indeed fourteen feet high.

I’m describing my garage-for-rent experience at ZZ’s to Perfect Brad and Maya, only slightly crowing that I was right about Goleta, when the phone rings. Maya answers. “For you,” she says, a little incredulous.

My very first call in Santa Barbara! Possibly a job offer, though I haven’t actually applied for anything yet. Still, stranger things have happened.

“Hi, Elle. This is Bob. From the Volkswagen dealership?”

“Bob! Hi! How are you?” Oops, don’t want to be too nice. Think just friends. “I mean, um, hello.”

“Well, I ran your credit report and you don’t qualify for the Passat W8.”

“Oh, no.” I’m not too surprised, though. I mean, I do have some concept of reality. “We’ll have to settle for the GLX, then? A softer image isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Not the GLX.”

“Oh. The GLS?”

“Not even close.”

“Um…a Jetta?”

“No.”

“A Bug? They’re pretty cute. And I don’t need four doors. After all, I can only use one at a time!” I laugh in a bright and charming fashion, and notice Maya and Brad watching me as if I am a seven-car pile-up.

“Nope.”

“How about an, um…like a Focus or that other one. The Echo?”

“Those aren’t even VWs.”

“Right. VWs. Well, a Golf?”

“Not even a used Golf.”

“So…?”

“So I told you I’d call. I called.”

“I see. Yes. Thanks for calling. And is there, um, anything else you want to ask?” Because I may not qualify for a car, but I know when a man’s interested.

“Actually, there is.” His voice becomes a little warmer.

I smile and give Maya a look. The kind of look that says, Here we go again, I’m gonna let another one down easy. For some reason, Maya responds by passing me a box of Kleenex.

“Don’t be shy,” I say. “Ask away.”

“If you have any friends who can actually afford a car, would you give them my name?”

“Oh, sure.” I wait for it, and wait for it…I like you too, Bob, but I think it’s best if we try being friends, first. Dinner where? Piatti? In Montecito? Well, if you insist…