Tales Of A Drama Queen. Lee Nichols

next morning, memorizing sections A through D of the newspaper and putting off the classifieds as long as possible, I find this headline: Prize-Winning Bitch Missing.

      I ponder the gratuitous use of the word bitch. You hear it on Friends and Will & Grace now, where calling any woman a bitch provokes screams of laughter. I don’t get it. Why aren’t they calling men assholes? Now that’s funny.

      But no. The article’s actually about a female dog.

      Prize-Winning Bitch Missing

      A prize-winning golden retriever puppy was stolen from local breeder, Sally Ameson, last Wednesday. Ameson believes that a man claiming to be interested in purchasing one of her older dogs was responsible.

      “I went into the back room to run the guy’s credit card,” Ameson said. “But he was gone when I returned, and Holly-Go-Lightly was nowhere to be found.”

      The Santa Barbara Police Department ran a credit check, which revealed the Visa card to be stolen. “I never would have sold Holly. She’s unbreedable,” said Ameson.

      After winning a blue ribbon at this year’s Santa Barbara Dog Show, the puppy was diagnosed with Clay Pigeon Disease, a rare disorder affecting a dog’s nervous system. The five-month-old bitch can live a normal life, but requires regular medication. “Without it,” said Dr. Van der Water of Riviera Veterinary, “she has little chance of surviving the next several months.”

      If you have any information about this missing bitch call the Send Holly Home Hotline at 555-5658.

      Figures they’d quote Anna Van der Water. Little chance of surviving the next few months—what does she call that, bedside manner? At least there wasn’t a picture of her with those stupid barrettes.

      I enjoy fifteen minutes of revenge fantasies, deciding how Anna should be punished for having found a lucrative and reputable career, then force myself to read the classifieds.

      There’s a new ad, for a “unique living opportunity in Mission Canyon.” And it is—get this!—only $500 a month. Unique? If $650 pays for a garage in Goleta, what can $500 possibly get you in Mission Canyon? I’m thinking a carport. With housemates.

      I draw a dark blue X through it with my pen, and browse on. But it keeps nagging at me. Maybe what’s unique is that it’s a stunning one-bedroom apartment, for only $500. Doesn’t get more unique than that. I decide to chance it.

      Mission Canyon lies just beyond the Santa Barbara Mission, towards the foothills. At sunset, the Mission’s peach walls glisten with falling light and the sky blushes a pink glow behind it. Across the street is the public rose garden. As I drive past, the scent of roses is thick in the air, and all is right in the world—if you ignore, for a moment, your little list.

      I park in front of the house on Puesto Del Sol, next to the iron gate the woman on the phone mentioned. There’s a kid who looks like Eddie Munster—but without the formal attire and widow’s peak—tossing pebbles at a tree trunk across the street.

      “You parked on my stick,” he says.

      I look. There are any number of sticks on the ground. It’s true that I parked on some of them. “Sorry.”

      “You broke it.”

      “Oh. Which one is yours?”

      He points to a stick exactly like every other stick, except broken. “See?”

      It occurs to me that this is some new juvenile prank, the current equivalent of asking someone to page Mike Hunt. I smile weakly, and take a step toward the gate, and wave away a bug that whizzes by my ear. Take another step, and a second bug stings me on the shoulder-blade. Another step, another bug—on my butt.

      I spin, and Eddie Munster is still tossing pebbles toward the tree trunk. Not the slightest sign of a smirk on his face. Little fucker.

      I take five quick steps and close the gate behind me. Think I’m safe until a half-dozen pebbles sail though the bars and pelt my back. Briefly consider cracking Eddie Munster’s head like an egg on the rim of a bowl, but the New Elle rises above. Plus, I don’t have the firepower.

      I step out of the line of fire and am hit with two bullets of fur. Much yapping ensues, and between barks one of the little black pugs tries to nibble my toes. After I realize this is not part of Eddie Munster’s evil plan, I pat the dogs, setting their pig-tails wagging delightedly.

      “Penny! Pippin!” a woman’s voice scolds, and the beasts retreat. The woman is a schoolmarm, with withered cheeks, a sticklike body and white hair pulled into a bun. She wears a tailored cotton blouse and a full pleated skirt. And is that a cameo at her neck? I move in for a greeting and get a closer look. No, just an ugly piece of agate.

      “Hi,” I say. “I’m Elle. We spoke on the phone?”

      “It’s this way. I’m Mrs. Petrie.” And before I have a chance to worry about what I’ll find, she’s off at a canter, the dogs and me trotting behind.

      The walk is through a well-loved, well-tended California-English-style garden. Roses, hydrangeas, lavender and Mexican sage are all in full bloom. “Unique” is looking better and better—and I start thinking the guest house will be a delicious little truffle of a cottage. Tiny, considering the price. But the garden! And it’s in Mission Canyon. There’s nothing shameful about telling people you live in Mission Canyon.

      There is, however, something shameful about telling people you live in a trolley. Not a carport, a trolley. It squats, sans wheels, just beyond the garden.

      “That’s a trolley,” I say.

      “Water and trash are included,” she answers. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the door.

      I enter behind her, and the trolley teeters a bit from our combined weight.

      “Light switches, bathroom. Bed. Kitchen. I will return in five minutes for your answer.” She opens the door to leave, but pauses on the steps. “There is dirt on the back of your blouse. And your skirt.”

      I start to explain Eddie Munster, but she interrupts with a glacial nod and leaves.

      I sigh and look around, and it is still a trolley. It’s carnival red, except where the paint has chipped off to reveal a coat of mustard yellow. Half the floor is covered in green carpet, the other half, brick linoleum. In the “kitchen” is an all-in-one stove/sink/refrigerator unit. It’s 1950s—futuristic, and kinda cute.

      The toilet, however, is less than cute, and sits directly next to the stove/sink/fridge. I’m talking ten inches away. A showerhead protrudes from the wall three feet above the toilet tank, and a drain is planted in the floor under it. There are brown curtains over the windows, and the roof is maybe two feet above my head. I’ve seen SUVs with more living space.

      I need money. Not millions. I’m not asking for millions. I just don’t want to have to choose between ZZ’s garage and a converted trolley. My real apartment, I mean the apartment Louis and I lived in, has two bedrooms and…and it hits me. Louis is living in my apartment with his new wife. His wife. He married her. In a week. After six years with me, he married a stranger. He’s married. He’s somebody’s husband. He has a wife. What if he hears I’m living in a garage or a trolley?

      I am suddenly thrilled with the drain in the floor, because I’m gonna throw up. I make a noise like a sick cat and bend over the toilet, and Schoolmarm Petrie knocks and enters.

      Apparently she thinks I’m inspecting the toilet, because she says something about the plumbing and the pipes, and sternly warns against flushing “feminine napkins.”

      “Well?” she finally says.

      I straighten in a dignified manner. “I’ll take it.”

      Leave messages for Maya and PB regarding my rental triumph. Do not offer specifics, due to theory that once I’m there, it will look less like a trolley and more like a gatehouse cottage à la the Cotswolds.

      Have