Tales of a Drama Queen (6 page)

T
he next morning, in what she undoubtedly intends to be retail therapy, Maya and I go shopping. Housewares, remember? Our first stop is Indigo, a shop on State Street, past the Arlington Theater. It has gorgeous, gorgeous, just delicious Asian and Asian-esque couches, tables, fabrics, lamps, chairs, rugs. Maya checks price tags and drags me outside.

We try Living, Ambience, Home and Garden, and Eddie Bauer, and I am dragged from each. Maya finally snaps and grabs the car keys. An hour-and-a-half later, in Burbank of all places, I see the light.

Love Maya. Love IKEA.

I used to think it was the Wal-Mart of home furnishing stores. But there are endless rows of lovely things I always
knew
could be made at a reasonable price. And everything has these lovely foreign names like
Hemnes
and
Beddinge.
Four hours, and Maya had to bribe me away with Swedish meatballs at the cafeteria.

Best part: Their computers were down, so it was a snap to get an IKEA card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit, using my other (useless) credit cards to secure it. I was slightly over though, and had to put back assorted lamps, an IKEA teddy bear and one of the welcome mats. And the Persian-rug mouse-pad. Maya reminded me that I don't even own a computer. Well, I'll never own one at this rate, will I? Still, I returned the mouse-pad.

 

“The toilet is in the kitchen,” Maya mentions helpfully, as if I hadn't noticed. I couldn't convince her not to come in. So I'm putting away purchases, and she's giggling at the trolley. “That takes ‘efficiency unit' to a whole new level!”

I scowl and tell her to go away (but remember to pick me up tomorrow before she goes to work, so I can have the car, and to change her message to mention my new phone number, and to tell Perfect Brad that I'll need help carrying the new IKEA chair inside when they deliver it).

I can't tell if she's listening, because she's busy being fascinated by my three-utility stove/fridge/kitchen sink unit.

“Does it work?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, though I've never actually turned it on. I open the refrigerator door. Feels cold. Turn on the tap—water runs out. Click on a burner. Smoke issues forth.

“Well,” she says. “That should keep the mosquitoes away.”

“A fourth utility to the thing,” I say. “It's like magic.”

We finish unpacking, and Maya, who hasn't quite stopped giggling, has to go to work. I stop her on the way out. “Tell me the truth. Do you think it's like living in a trailer?”

“No, not at all.” She closes the door behind her, and calls out: “A trailer would be nicer!”

I think of something to yell back two minutes later, but by then I'm alone. I bustle around the trolley, making it mine
and trying to ignore the growing sense of isolation and the encroaching dusk. I assemble my new bureau, and then disassemble the bits that don't fit, then reassemble it and it's perfect! I glow with satisfaction at being so handy and self-sufficient, and I look up and it's pitch-black outside.

I meekly open the door, and the lovely tea-garden has been transformed into a horrible, brackish swamp. I lock the door. Close the curtains. Grab one of my IKEA knives, just in case. And curl up in my new comforter, pretending to leaf through
Marie Claire.

The wind scratches tree limbs against the trolley, and I manage not to shriek. I often feel I'm in a movie; tonight, it's
Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Santa Barbara Years.
I turn on all the lights, then realize this just makes the trolley a beacon in the darkness. Moths and rapists will be swarming around shortly. I turn the lights off. It's worse.

I watch a rerun of
Bewitched
on the little TV Maya loaned me. Turn the sound up all the way. Not loud enough, as a gust of wind sends the branches into a terrifying crescendo, and something slams against the trolley.

I think it was a slam. It definitely wasn't a tree branch. It could have been a knock. Schoolmarm Petrie seems the sort who'd make one sharp rap on the door, like the smack of a ruler down on an errant pupil's knuckles.

I crack the door and peek out. Nothing but menacing swampland. And something brown at the bottom of the steps.

It's a dead squirrel.

I clutch my throat in horror, like some prim Victorian lady who accidentally wandered into the
Vagina Monologues,
and debate the various merits of fainting and screaming.

A motion sensor light illuminates the Schoolmarm's gate, and I see the shadowy form of a pudgy boy recede into the darkness. Eddie Munster.

“Hey!” I yell. “You little creep!”

I'd track him down and kill him, but that would mean leaving the relative safety of my trailer.
Trolley.
My trolley.

“Squirrelly, aren't you?” he yells.

I respond with a well-reasoned string of curses, and slam the door. On TV, Samantha has black lines painted on her face. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder what's happened to
me.

T
he telephone rings at 9:12, waking me from a Swamp Thing nightmare.

It's Bob from the VW dealership. And when you think about it, being a car salesman isn't so bad. Plus, he's actually seen my credit report, and still he calls.

“Bob,” I say.
Bob. Bobbing for apples.
“Robert. Robbie. Rob. That's a lot of possible nicknames.”

Silence on the phone.

I think of saying
Bobby?

“Well, I just go by Bob,” he finally says. “I've been thinking about you since last week.”

“Oh, have you?” The New Elle plays hard-to-get.

“Yeah, I got this…borderline trade-in. My boss doesn't want me to put it on the lot. And I know you're looking for something affordable.”

“Borderline?”

“It's a BMW, though. A Beemer. 1974. It's virtually a classic luxury automobile. Plus, it's not worth sending it down to L.A. for auction.”

“So you've got a car you can't sell, and thought of me?”

“Yeah, you interested?”

This is insulting. “How much?”

“I'll let it go cheap. Fifteen-hundred.”

Fifteen-hundred! That's a huge chunk out of my monster stack. But I do need a car. “Can I come see it this morning?”

“This morning isn't good. I've got real clients coming in. How about two this afternoon?”

Real clients.
“Two is fine.”

“Actually, three would be better.”

I sigh. “Three, then.”

I hang up, and immediately check my voice mail to see if anyone called while I was on the phone…and I have a message! It's not even Maya. It's a smooth, masculine voice.

“Eleanor Medina,” the smooth, masculine says. “You're a hard one to find. This is Carlos Neruda. We haven't met…yet. But I've heard all about you, and I really want to talk. My number is—” he pauses, and I realize he has Antonio Banderas's voice and I'll coolly wait ten or eleven seconds before returning his call “—no, on second thought, I'll call you back. Take care, Eleanor Medina.”

Ha! Take that, Bobby! You're not the only car on the lot.

 

IKEA furniture delivered precisely on time. Perfect Brad, too, precisely on time. Perhaps Brad is Swedish. Perhaps he is Bräd.

I bought a white linen chair. Am very pleased with the mature, adult decision to choose white. I was worried it would be like a white T-shirt: a magnet for chocolate ice cream, tomato sauce, coffee, mystery stains. I'd stared at it drooling, like a dog at a barbecue, until Maya found me. To prove her wrong, I decided the New Elle was adult
enough to take care of white linen. Am pleased with the decision—it's pretty against the chipped carnival-red of the trolley walls.

“You're sure that's where you want it?” Brad says, after relocating it several times. If he weren't perfect, he'd be exasperated. But he is, so I don't worry.

“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.

“I love it,” I insist.

“It's charming,” she says, closing the door behind her. “And it'll be October in no time. We'll get you some black cat cutouts—”

I put the car in First, and Beemer out of there. Through the open window, I hear her laughing.

 

Scrooge-like, I return to my lair and count my money. I'm considering having the car painted. Not because I don't like it, just to show Maya. I have $570, more or less. Which may not sound like a lot, but I have an apartment, sort of. I have a car, sort of. I have Maya's man, extremely sort of. And I definitely have housewares. Sort of.

And soon I will have a job. I called about a development position—and they want to interview me tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'll wear, though. On the one hand, I don't want to be overdressed. On the other, if development is fund-raising, they'll probably expect me to hobnob with Montecitans, so I should look the part. On the third hand—

On the third hand, there's a horrific black splotch on my
pristine white linen chair! Black as tar, a nasty Rorschach stain on the armrest. I lick a finger, intending to de-smudge it, and notice that my hand is covered in the same stuff. Black inky yuck. Oil from the Beemer? I check my shoes. There's a smudge on one of the straps, but nothing on the soles.

I retrace my steps to the front door. Check every surface. No other signs of black liquid. I open the front door, to check the car. And it's there. On the doorknob. Coated in black ink.

Not ink,
I think. Anything but ink. Coffee, chocolate, red wine. Just not ink. And where did it come from? An exploded pen? I look skyward, as if expecting the heavens to leak ink, and hear a rustle in the bushes next door. I see a flash of juvie.

That little fucking Eddie Munster coated my door handle with ink.

I rocket after him. The little bastard may be roly-poly, but he's fast. I snag his T-shirt, but he breaks away. I'm about to shove through the bushes after him, when I hear Mrs. Petrie call me from her kitchen window. She tells me there's ink on my skirt…and get out of her juniper.