Lee Nichols - Tales Of A Drama Queen

“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.

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