LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I don’t know,” I say. “I have demonstrated experience as a mistress.”

      “Don’t even start. Seriously. What do you like?”

      I decide against saying alcohol, and instead go for the real truth. “I like shoes. Maybe I could design shoes.”

      Maya doesn’t say anything.

      “I like people. And animals. You know how I like animals. Maybe I could be a vet or something.”

      “You know who became a vet?” she says. “Anna Van der Water.”

      “Yuck!” Anna Van der Water is this creepy girl we knew in high school. She wore cheap plastic barrettes in her hair—before Drew Barrymore made it cool—and her calves were bigger than her thighs. “Anna Van der Water, a vet. You know, I think maybe she was smarter than me.”

      “I. Smarter than I. And are you kidding?” Maya says, loyal to the end. “Twice as smart.”

      I hear glasses clinking at the bar, and am wondering how to get the conversation moving in a maybe-you-can-work-here direction when she says, “Listen, why don’t you come down and have a drink. My treat.”

      See? A little patience, and it falls into your lap. “I’m kind of busy,” I say. I don’t want to sound desperate.

      “Elle,” she says.

      “Be there in twenty minutes.”

      The bar’s located a block off State Street on one of the lower downtown side streets. There are no front windows, just a closed door with the name of the place in neon over it.

      Shika.

      The bar has never done well, and I blame the name. Well, it’s one of many reasons. It means “drunk” in Yiddish, I guess, which is Mr. Goldman’s little joke. (He once explained it’s actually “shiker,” not “shika,” but he went phonetical. I like Mr. Goldman.) Problem is Shika looks Japanese, and people find it disconcerting when they expect saké and rice-paper screens, but get photos of old Jews and every conceivable flavor of schnapps.

      Inside, two men perch at the bar. Mr. Goldman is one of them, and the other is a man a decade older, dressed to kill. Other than them, and Maya behind the bar, the place is empty.

      Maya offers me a margarita as I give Mr. Goldman a hug.

      He doesn’t look good—his health has been bad since Maya’s mom died—but it’s still good to see him. As Maya mixes the margarita, we chat about my return to Santa Barbara, and my apartment and job hunt. I keep waiting for Maya to jump in and explain that I’ll be working at the bar, but she plays it coy.

      Mr. Goldman and I cover the weather in Santa Barbara vs. D.C., and our conversation dwindles to nothing. So I turn to Maya. “I was thinking about my career. I think I’d be good in a service-industry-type position.”

      She looks skeptical. “You’re more served than serving, Elle.”

      “I’ve served!” I protest. “Does the name Martha Washington mean nothing to you?”

      Maya explains my previous employment to her father and the other man, including some details I don’t remember telling her, and I realize maybe this isn’t the best time to discuss the bartending job.

      “How about this?” I say. “I’ll start my own magazine, like Oprah. I’ll call it E.”

      “Like the Entertainment network?”

      “Oh, no. Well, I can’t call it Elle.” This stumps me. The best thing about the magazine idea is calling it E. I like the letter E. Plus, it has the bonus benefit of standing for e-mail and other electronic stuff: very now. “How about L—just the letter L.”

      Maya makes the “L is for Loser” sign on her forehead.

      Enough said.

      “Want another margarita?” she asks.

      I look down, mine is somehow empty. I have a flash of genius. “Let me make it,” I say. “I’m a whiz with blended drinks.”

      “I usually just mix them,” she says.

      “See that’s where you’re wrong. Where’s the blender?” I eagerly pop behind the bar.

      All I want to say is: I know the top was closed firmly before I turned the blender to pureé. Must have been some kind of malfunction. Anyway, it was just a couple ice cubes and strawberries. And Maya was standing too close. A pity she was wearing white, that’s all.

      Chapter 7

      The next day, desperate for an apartment, Maya (who’s in an uncharacteristic tizzy: probably fighting with Perfect Brad) persuades me to relax my standards and see a place in…Goleta. The ad promises a “one bedroom charming garden paradise with fourteen-foot ceilings,” and the price is too good to dismiss—$650 a month.

      “But it’s Goleta!” I wail. A suburb fifteen minutes north of Santa Barbara, teeming with strip malls and big box stores.

      “There are nice parts of Goleta,” Maya says.

      “Where?”

      “People like it there,” she replies, vaguely.

      “Who?”

      “Oh, stop being such a snob, Elle, and look at the place.”

      Well, it does say “garden paradise.” I will be the consummate country party hostess. Fabulous friends, whom I’ve yet to meet, will escape the city late Friday night to my oasis in Goleta. I’ll serve negronis and martinis—anything but margaritas—and prepare fabulous fresh meals from my kitchen garden. Olive trees and lavender will dot the rolling hills, and all for the pittance of $650 a month!

      By the time I arrive at the house, I’ve persuaded myself that I’m on my way to Provence. I’ll be garden fabulous.

      Then I turn into the dirt driveway. Dust billows into the car, and through watery eyes, I see the house. Bluish, with water marks streaming from the windows, giving it the appearance of a weeping cartoon house.

      I put the car in Reverse, and a man bangs my hood in greeting.

      He has long hair and a longer beard, à la ZZ Top. He wears black jeans on his stick-skinny legs, over which is an enormous belly not quite covered by a tank top.

      “Here about the apartment, right?” he says. “It’s around back.”

      I want to ask what happened. I want to ask why his house is crying. I want to ask if he needs help, if there’s anyone I should call. Instead, I obediently follow him toward the backyard.

      ZZ stops in the garage. The concrete floor is partially covered with bronze carpeting—a deep, oil-stained shag. The walls are unfinished, revealing two-by-fours and assorted wires and pipes.

      “So,” he says. “Any questions?”

      “Well, one,” I say. “Where’s the apartment?”

      “You’re standing in it.” At least ZZ had not lied in the ad. The ceilings are indeed fourteen feet high.

      I’m describing my garage-for-rent experience at ZZ’s to Perfect Brad and Maya, only slightly crowing that I was right about Goleta, when the phone rings. Maya answers. “For you,” she says, a little incredulous.

      My very first call in Santa Barbara! Possibly a job offer, though I haven’t actually applied for anything yet. Still, stranger things have happened.

      “Hi, Elle. This is Bob. From the Volkswagen dealership?”

      “Bob! Hi! How are you?” Oops, don’t want to be too nice. Think just friends. “I mean, um, hello.”

      “Well, I ran your credit report and you don’t qualify for the Passat W8.”

      “Oh,

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