Find Me I'm Yours

by Hillary Carlip

  “Are you fucking kidding me? What do you need $500.00 for?”

  “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

  “There’s no nothing that costs $500.00. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, just forget I said anything.”

  Before I could go any further, I heard my mom’s voice. “Is that Mags?” She opened Cooper’s door.

  “Mom, stay out of my frickin’ room!!!!!” he yelled.

  My mom’s big, giant face appeared on my screen—she’s always way too close. “How are you doing, honey?”

  “Excellent,” I say whenever she asks, just so she won’t launch into what she always does. And this time was no different.

  “But aren’t you struggling in L.A.?”

  “NO.” (YES.)

  “Come back home. You don’t have to pay rent. You can focus on your art.”

  Tempting, but she always leaves out the part about being Cooper’s full-time wrangler, her grocery shopper, errand runner, cook, maid, and basically a personal assistant to my own damn mother. Everything is ALWAYS about her. In fact so much so that since her name is Marcie, years ago Liza started calling her NARCIE and she’s been living up to the name ever since.

  “Mom, I’ve got to go. I have a date.”

  “Tell Jason hi.”

  “Seriously? I broke up with Jason almost six weeks ago. I told you that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry honey. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, say hi to Dad—oh wait, you guys broke up seventeen years ago. Sorry, I forgot.”

  “You don’t have to be nasty.”

  “Mom, I gotta go.” Then yelled out, “’Bye Coop, I’m calling your ass tomorrow, and you better answer!”

  The main problem with FaceTiming or Skyping or even a cell call for that matter, is that you can’t effectively hang up on someone. Like in old movies when a person’s mad, or simply disappointed and eager to get off the phone, they slam down the receiver.

  So I just said, “Good-bye, Mother,” thinking she’d pick up on the nuance between MOM and MOTHER, and tapped on END.

  I finished dinner, a bag of Funyuns, and wondered what kind of trouble my baby brother could possibly be in.

  Chapter 4

  “Mornin’!” I waved at the emaciated woman who smiled her toothless grin at me and winked. I almost said “Mornin’, Lady Macmeth!” since that’s what I’ve named her, but stopped myself just in time. Every weekday before work, I walk Toupee and Boo twelve blocks to K & C Donut to get the cheapest cup of coffee I could find nearby, and I pass three or four regulars who call our streets their home. And how can you not make up names for them? There’s Asian Johnny Cash (dressed head to toe in the same black outfit daily), and Ticky Minaj (with some hard-core facial twitches). But my fave is Lady Macmeth, and I always bring her a cup of coffee.

  Silverlake is the neighb most like my hood in New York (go East Village!), which is exactly why I found an apartment here. In one block alone, there are so many distinct scents, if you were blindfolded (like, for instance, say for some acting class exercise OR someone was taking you hostage), you’d know exactly where you were. Fresh ginger, cucumbers, sprouts, and kale waft from Naturewell, the raw juice place; lavender, vanilla, and honeysuckle—you’re at Le Pink & Co. doors down from the aroma of leather like it was just cut off the hide at Dean Leather Accessories. There’s Ragg Mopp, the vintage clothing store that smells like Grandma’s musty attic, and the scent of deep espresso from Intelligentsia permeates the whole block.

  As I passed Intelligentsia, I saw two totally hot guys, just my style. Sitting outside with their totally hot girlfriends, just their style. It’s sorta like, say you want a certain kind of car. Like a Fiat. Then on every single corner you see a billboard for the Fiat. There are the commercials you see like a hundred times on TV and the web, and you see the car everywhere. It’s the same when you really want to find your mate. That’s all you see. Him, or him. Or him. Unfortch he’s usually with Her, and her. And her.

  Taken or not, I couldn’t stop staring at the two handsome guys. I made myself continue walking and got out my phone to check my email. In the prehistoric days before there were cell phones, how did anyone EVER look nonchalant?

  I saw I had missed a few texts. All from Jason.

  Hey Mags gotta see you please? Else I’m gonna stalk you. Kidding. Maybe a little.

  Really? Not even texting me back?

  Mags?

  Please just a drink tonight. Like 15 mins. Much to say. Please let me say it.

  Acch. How could I say no? When we broke up, I took one of Jason’s T-shirts and for weeks I cried myself to sleep, cuddling up to his scent mixed with the grassy-herby cologne he wore. Like methadone to an addict, I used the shirt to try and wean myself away from his touch, his crooked smile, his soft-for-a-man skin. It felt like it worked for a bit. But his smell started wearing off the shirt a few days ago, and now I felt him slipping away even more. I wanted him to sweep me up in his arms and whisper in my ear how stupid he was for risking the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I had to see him again.

  Coco will kill me. I know I have to move on. But the least I can do is go and hear Jason out and see what he has to say. Fuck, am I making the right decision?

  Click here to take my poll and LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!

  (If you didn’t go to my poll, here’s what I asked.)

  SHOULD I MEET UP WITH JASON?

  Yes, Mags, you should hear him out

  No, you should tell him to fuck off and leave you alone

  You should move on already—focus on finding the real Mr. Him

  Forget it all and go back to being gay

  All right 10 mins. 9 tonight. Good luck bar.

  I chose the Good Luck Bar because I figured I needed all the luck I could get if I was really going to see Jason. To distract myself from my impulsive, probs horbs decisjh, I checked my email.

  And there it was. The subject might as well have said: YOU’RE ONE STEP CLOSER TO MR. HIM AND YOUR HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER DESTINY SINCE YOU JUST SCORED MY VIDEO CAMERA EVEN THOUGH YOU DON’T REALLY HAVE ANY MONEY TO BUY IT! Instead it just said SOLD! in the subject area, then, “Bring $42.47 in cash today to the Starbucks on Ventura, one block west of Laurel Canyon. Ask for barista Shane.”

  I was a little disappointed to find that the creative mind behind the kick-ass ad was a barista in Studio City. But maybe he was a genius artist who was working undercover for research, then he’d incorporate his findings into a stellar performance art piece involving the daily habits of caffeine consumers. I had to keep an open mind.

  I should probs just blow off Jason and go to Starbucks tonight, I thought. Tell him I have a hot date with a guy named Shane, and say it involves a video camera, and then leave the rest to his imagination. Or I could just go get it after work when my three cups of coffee have worn off and I’m ready for more. But I know me… there are a million and one things that could, and would, come up in the day preventing me from going—most predictably my inclination for not seeing things through. Isn’t that the first step in Alcoholics Anonymous? Admitting you have a problem? There’s AA, CA, NA, GA, SA, and so many other A’s. Shouldn’t there be PA? Procrastinators Anonymous? Except I guess everyone would mean to join and just… never get around to it.

  So I took the bull by the horns, or the goat by the teats, or the whatevs by the whatevs, and texted Coco:

  Got camera! Going to pick up now. Tell malc I’m getting a root canal. Or gall bladder removed.

  I dropped the kids back at home and kissed them goodbye. Then I walked a block to where my powder-blue Vespa, Lola (named after a cool tattoo I saw once), was parked, put on my helmet, and set off, a girl on a mission—not even realizing I had unwittingly stepped into a series of events that would turn everything I had ever known inside out and upside down, and would alter the lives of many people forever.

  Chapter 5

  When the ATM spit out $40.00 in cash, I could have sworn it said, �
��You’ve only got $9.48 left until next Friday’s paycheck, losah!”

  I was so excited/nervous to meet artist/undercover barista Shane that I sped to Studio City as fast as my scooter would go. When I arrived and saw only one guy working behind the counter, with Shane on his name tag, I almost turned around and ran out as he was totes adorbs, but looked way younger than Cooper. I’m open and fluid, and there are many exceptions I’d make for love, but cradle robbing? Not so much.

  I turned away from the counter and reminded myself that this was all about the camera and not necessarily the camera seller.

  “Hey, I’m Maggie,” I said to him. “I’m here to buy your camera.”

  “Oh, it’s not mine,” he answered.

  I don’t know which was louder, my exhale of relief or the sound of him steaming soy milk.

  “The guy selling it just left it here and asked me to collect.”

  Hmmm… a little suspect. What if the camera didn’t work? Or the charger was left at Disneyland? I took a cursory glance through the case and all seemed in order. Camera, lens cap, instruction booklet, charger, cords. “So what if I have any problems with it?”

  “You can contact the seller through the ad on Craigslist.”

  “OK.”

  We made the exchange, and he winked at me as he handed me one of those crazy lollipop birthday cake thingies that Starbucks sells and I SO don’t get. I don’t know which was scarier—the wink or the pink waxy ball on a stick. I thanked him, and asked for a bag, feigning fullness, but really I thought I’d take the freaky dessert to Malcolm, just in case he was pissed that I’d come in late. It always seemed to work for Coco.

  The boss wasn’t even there when I arrived. Maybe he was at the beauty parlor getting his puffy hair done. Coco took the camera bag and excitedly started rifling through. “This is so old school cool! Come on, let’s do a screen test.”

  “No way, I have helmet hair. For reals.”

  “We’re not gonna use the footage. Just to see if the thing works. What’s this?” She pulled an envelope out from the bag. “It was tucked under the lining.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see it before.” I took it from Coco and opened it. Inside was a MiniDV tape with a HELLO MY NAME IS sticker on it. But the name part was blank. “So should we play the tape and see if something’s on it?”

  “That’s kinda creepy if you ask me,” Coco said, cringing.

  “Fine, so you’ll look the other way till I make sure it’s not a snuff tape or porn or something.” I peeled off the sticker and put the tape in the camera.

  I looked into the large rectangle viewfinder.

  And that’s when it happened. Everything led up to this moment. The dating site challenge from Coco. Me deciding to buy a camera. The intriguing ad. The follow-through of buying the camera, and actually picking it up. Everything aligned to bring me to this impossible moment of such possibility.

  Click the pic to watch the video:

  If you didn’t check it out, here’s what it said:

  Hey. I know this might seem kinda crazy, but I purposely left this tape for you.

  Well, I hope it’s you. Let me explain. I believe my match is out there somewhere, I just haven’t found her in any of the usual places. But why would I find an unusual girl in a usual way?

  So I’m inviting you on a treasure hunt. Not that I’m the treasure or anything, but maybe we are. If you look closely, I’ve put clues on this tape and I’ve also planted clues throughout Los Angeles, and on the internet, too. So. If you believe in destiny like I do, and you think there’s even a remote possibility we’re meant to be together, then find me I’m yours.

  Oh yeah, and let me assure you, I don’t have a criminal record or anything, and the only woman in my life is, well… her. [Looks at his dog.]

  And one more thing. I may have put this tape in three different cameras I sold, so… first person to find me in fourteen days on Thursday at noon, I’ll know you’re the one. So what do you say? Are you in? I can’t wait to meet you.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t say a word. It was like those nightmares I’ve had where I’m in a car that plunges off the road into the ocean, and I can’t even scream as it slowly sinks down to the bottom. Then I use every ounce of will in my being to roll down the window, escape, swim up to the surface and GASP for air.

  Except this gasp was me shouting “WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”

  “That’s pretty whack,” our coworker Jeff called out from the cubicle next to ours on the left.

  “Totally crazy,” Coco added.

  I was quiet for a bit, considering every possibility.

  “There’s no way anyone I know could have done this—like Jason.” I was actually hoping he was the one behind it.

  “He didn’t know you were buying a camera,” Coco said. “No one did except me.”

  “It’s got to be real. I mean, the guy’s destiny ad totally set me up for this! And he looks totally legit.”

  “I don’t know…” I could see in her eyes that Coco was mistrusting it. But I wasn’t about to have this incredible moment popped and deflated by her rampant skepticism.

  “You have to admit—it’s a brilliant idea,” I said. “OH and did I mention he’s completely HOT?! This is CRAZY!!!”

  “Exactly. So you’re not gonna fall for it, right?”

  Pop. Deflate.

  “What do you mean, Coco? Here’s a key to everything I’ve ever wanted and I’m just gonna throw it into the trash? Cuz it MIGHT not open the right door? That’s fucked up.”

  “Agree,” Maya called out from the great divide.

  “OK guys,” Coco said, “private conversation here.” If Maya had agreed with her and not me, Coco wouldn’t have said that.

  “Seriously,” she continued, “haven’t you seen Catfish on MTV?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “So you’ve seen how that dude—what the fuck is his name?”

  “Nev,” another of our coworkers called out.

  “Exactly.” Coco answered. “So you know the show is based on this doc Nev made where he meets some child prodigy artist online who has a hot sister. He gets totally into the sister, they talk on the phone till all hours, sext, she writes songs for him, and they fall in love. He finally goes to meet her and finds out she’s really some troubled, homely old housewife with severely handicapped twin stepsons. That was the movie. The TV show features a million more freaks like that and worse.”

  “So you’d ignore this because it MIGHT be bogus?” I asked. “What if it’s not?”

  “I’m just sayin’… you could end up on 48 Hours, with your tragic story of being led on a wild goose chase straight to the door of a whack job sadist rapist killer.”

  “Well, then, a totally gorgeous, brilliant, creative sadist rapist killer. I’ll take my chances.” I grabbed my camera, went to my corner of our cubicle, and fished out my earbuds. I plugged the cord in and put them on so the tape would be for my ears only. I watched it over and over, looking for clues.

  On the first and second viewing, I noticed his eyes. Deep blue. Deep. And blue. His adorable crooked nose. Crap, he was way handsome. Like totally out of my league hot. On the third play, I noticed the dog with him. And the dog had a very distinct spotted tongue. If that was his dog, it sealed the deal. The five of us would live happily ever after, Boo and Toupee frolicking in our large yard with their polka-dot-tongued step-sib. The fourth time I watched, I noticed my future husband’s sexy smile. On the fifth, sixth, and seventh time, I still didn’t spot any clues, but I did notice his perfect muscles—strong yet not overdone, and his stylin’ wardrobe choices (come on, muy importante! What if he was wearing, like, Jesus sandals, or high-waisted pants? What if he sported a mameltoe?) On the eighth viewing, Coco unplugged my earbuds as she finally leaned over to watch. I knew full well if I kept playing the tape in front of her, she would ultimately break down. I wanted to tell her how damn predictable she was, but I was so relieved to have another set of eyes that I k
ept my mouth shut.

  “Wait, pause it there,” Coco said. “Look at his feet.”

  “Well, you can’t really see them except for one cute blue sock.”

  “No, by his left foot. Well, his right foot, on our left.”

  “Looks like either a really round lemon or a tennis ball. So?”

  “So, look at some other things there. The trash can with the plastic lining, the green bench…”

  “Yeah, and there are dogs barking,” I added. “A DOG PARK! IT’S A FREAKIN’ DOG PARK! Right?”

  Coco and I shrieked like, I’m sure, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson never did when cracking a case. We were high-fiving when Malcolm burst in.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  I had to act fast while Coco hid the camera.

  “Coco was excited over the treat I brought in for you. Over there.” I gestured broadly to the Starbucks bag on my desk like an amateur magician misdirecting the audience while he’s palming the dove he’s about to change the playing card into. “Coco loves these, so she got a little carried away.”

  I handed the impaled pink birthday cake waxy ball to Malcolm. He grabbed it and sniped, “Are you both done with the graphics for the Renegade Registry?”

  “Not quite yet,” Coco answered.

  “You’re two days late.” He walked up way too close to Coco’s face. “I was going to send you to Big Sur next week for a ‘Treehouse Wedding’ story, but since you seem to disregard the importance of deadlines, I’m sending Maya instead.”

  “WHOO HOO!” we heard from Maya’s cubicle.

  “Right,” Coco said. “Like I even believe you were ever gonna send me.”

  “And what about me?” I asked Malcolm. “I suppose once again I wasn’t even in the running? Just send me anywhere. Poughkeepsie. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.”