Lee Nichols - Tales Of A Drama Queen

In two minutes, the daydream fades and I’m bored feigning depression. Possibly it’s more fun with an audience. My problem is, I’m surface-y. Not shallow, I didn’t say that. I’m quite deep, actually. It’s just that I like the surfaces of things. Surfaces are important to me. And depression’s not really a surface affliction. You have to burrow deep into your head for a good depression.

I’d rather burrow into the Neiman Marcus catalog. Which I do. And after an hour, I magically feel better.

My problem, I realize, is I’m not cut out to be Sarah Jessica in Sex and the City although I do have similar hair, if not darker and longer. I don’t need a Manhattan loft and sleek, underfed fashion-friends. I’m more Sandra Bullock, small-town-girl-makes-good. I can work as a bus driver or subway-token clerk, and it’ll be okay. Except not a bus driver or a subway-token clerk, because those are disease-ridden careers, but you know what I mean.

Cheered, I take a hot shower and toss on a Sandra Bullock, small-town-girl-makes-good outfit, and head for Shika. Things happen in bars.

Things don’t happen in Shika. Maya’s behind the counter, the sharp-dressed old man is perched on a stool. A middle-aged couple is leaving as I enter, and that is that.

“Oh, Elle,” Maya says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s been a few days since I’ve heard Maya say anything other than: “How’s the apartment hunt? Job?” I perk up at this lavish greeting and tell her how pleased I am to be here.

“Do me a favor,” she says. “Watch the bar? I’ve gotta go to the bank.”

“The bank?” I’m honestly baffled. Do they actually make money here? “Why?”

“The bank’s a place you put money you’re not spending, Elle. I’ll explain later.”

“Ha-ha,” I say, in my razor-sharp witty way. “So just…watch the bar?”

“Stay away from the blender.”

“But I mean—what if someone asks for a Slippery Nipple on the Beach or something?”

Maya looks around the empty bar. “Monty’s good for a while. There’s a group that comes in, but usually not ’til later.”

“A group?”

“Don’t look so surprised. They’re a bunch of people Monty knows. Just make sure nobody steals the—” she looks around trying to decide what someone might steal “—walls.” She waves a bank pouch at me, says something about a night deposit, and heads for the door.

I realize this is my job interview. Maya won’t make me actually apply for the job, so what does she do? Casually makes a night drop, leaving me in charge!

“It’s all under control,” I tell her confidently, heading behind the bar.

Maya hesitates at the door, an unreadable expression on her face.

I wave brightly, and she sort of squares her shoulders and leaves.

I slip behind the bar and glance at the sharp-dressed man sipping his drink. He’s wearing a beige linen suit with a light-blue silk tie. It’s rare to see a man so nattily dressed in Santa Barbara. Most of them slouch around, subcasual in stained T-shirts and shorts.

“Need a refill?” I ask.

We both assess his drink. It’s seven-eighths full.

“Not quite,” he says.

Pretending to be cleaning, I forage through the cabinets under the bar. Nothing of note, except a half-eaten bag of Fritos. I bet Mr. Sharp-Dresser would like some Fritos. I pour them into a small bowl and carefully set them in front of him.

I smile and gesture at the Fritos, like I’ve presented him with foie gras. Under my steely eye, he deigns to take a chip, and pops it into his mouth. Takes a single bite, and stops, Frito suspended midchew.

“What?” I say. “They’re better than popcorn.”

He shakes his head.

I try a chip. It has the consistency of moist cardboard. I choke it down. “Sorry. This is my first night.”

He swallows and tells me not to worry—he needs the fiber. He says he’s Monty, and I tell him I’m Elle, and I’m starting the bartendress chatter when two men enter the bar.

One is paunchy, with dark hair and laugh-lines around his eyes. Sort of an approachable, teddy bear of a man. The other is tall, trim and would be sexy-handsome if he weren’t a redhead. Red hair is silly on men. I mean, he looks good, walking toward Monty, a white button-down over blue jeans. But red hair? The other guy, the teddy bear, he doesn’t walk so well, but he looks the sort who’d remember to put the seat down.

“You joining us tonight, Monty?” the redhead asks.

“Not tonight,” Monty says. “My ulcer’s bad enough.”

“Ulcer?” the teddy bear says. “There’s only one thing to do about the ulcer, and that’s—Fritos?”

“Help yourself,” Monty says, and looks to see if I’m going to object.

“Umm…” I say.

“Not the ulcer theory again,” the redhead says.

“It’s not a theory,” Teddy bear says as they move to the large booth in the corner.

“Should I see if they want drinks?” I ask Monty, to cover my embarrassment about the stale Fritos.

“Wait ’til others show up,” he tells me. “Or they’ll come to the bar.”

“I know stale, baby, and these are not stale.” Teddy bear’s voice easily carries to the bar. “These are fresh. Factory fresh.”

“Fresh from the factory that makes stale Fritos.”

The teddy bear gets louder. “They’re not stale!” He grabs a handful, shoves them in his mouth.

The redhead cringes. “Okay, okay. Because you ate them, that proves they’re not stale.”

“Actually, they are stale,” I say, from across the room. “Monty and I both thought so. Three to one. Stale.”

Teddy bear shakes his head, but can’t speak for all the chewing he’s doing.

“Wisdom, beauty and common sense,” the redhead says, indicating Monty, me and himself in turn. “All say they’re stale. Doesn’t that prove it?”

I think: I’m beauty!

The teddy bear manages to swallow; beaten, but unbowed. “How long you think stale Fritos stay in your colon?”

“Jesus, Neil.”

“Not as long as maraschino cherries,” Neil says. “But way longer than beef jerky.”

The redhead gives me a look, and smiles. And red hair isn’t that bad, actually. Plenty of attractive men have red hair. Howdy Doody. Carrot Top. I return the smile, and the door opens again.

Three men and a woman enter and head for the booth with Neil and the redhead. I watch as they sit, wondering if I should wait on them. What would Maya do? Will they want margaritas?

“Don’t worry,” Monty says. “One of them will come to the bar.”

And as if summoned, the redhead is here.

“Two IPAs,” he says, and I even know an IPA is a kind of beer. “And two Newcastle Browns.”

“Great!” I say, dripping with relief that I haven’t been asked to make a Grateful Dead, Hold the Jerry, or something.

“And a Manhattan and a Cosmopolitan.”

“A Manhattan?” I grab a hank of hair and tug, keeping the smile pasted on my face. “I love Manhattans. Big Manhattan drinker.”

His gray eyes crinkle. They clash with his hair. “If you don’t know how to make a Manhattan, that’s okay. I’ll just have—”

“Of course I know! I mean, what kind of bartender doesn’t know how to make a Manhattan?” I’ve never heard of a Manhattan. “You want that…on the rocks?”

“On the rocks, yeah.” He looks suspicious. “Tell me—what, exactly, do you put in your Manhattans?”

“Liquor. The hard stuff.”

He smiles, and looks at me, and looks like he likes looking. And I like that he looks like he likes looking, and I hope that’s what I look like.

I realize he just asked something that I didn’t hear over the sound of my ovaries chiming like eager little bells. “The what?”