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.
Chapter 11
The 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.
