Done. In a shout-out to Mr. WTF’s bad puns, it was time to get the shoe on the road. I got on my scooter and headed northeast to Burbank to find my sole mate.
Chapter 17
DAY 4—MORNING
I had the claim check. The shoe repair shop had Mr. WTF’s boot. Slam dunk, right?! But as I waited for Sole Mates to open, two things occurred to me that could stand in my way.
Two Things that Could Stand in My Way at Sole Mates Shoe Repair Shop
By Mags Marclay
1). What if someone else (i.e. the Victoria’s SecretS modelS) found another claim check and beat me to it?
2). What if I had to pay something for the cost of the repair? And I’d have to turn to prostitution to earn a quick buck to get the boot, and do they even have hookers in Burbank?
At 9:00 on the dot, the door opened from inside with a little chime ringing. So old timey, it was actually kind of comforting in a grandparenty kind of way. But the shoe repair dude was hardly grandpaternal.
“Vat do you vant?” the old man growled with a mean, thick German accent like he was ordered from Central Casting. Um… maybe he was?
“I’m picking up my fiancé’s boot. Here…” I handed him the claim check.
I had my lines all ready to go in this scripted scene. Like, “Oh really? He told me he already paid for it. See, I ran here quickly to pick it up for him, and left my wallet at home. Can you just call him for his credit card number?” And then I’d watch as he dialed the number he had taken down with the order, and BAM! I’d have Mr. WTF’s number. GAME OVER!
But it went off script the minute I handed him the claim check.
“Oh, you. Oh, him. No boot here.”
WHAT?! My heart sank, and I almost cried, as if the man with the mean accent were really my grandfather and would sweep me up in a hug, telling me everything was OK, and hand me a Pfeffernüsse cookie. Did that damn lingerie modelS beat me to the damn boot?
Before I broke down completely, either weeping tears of defeat, or ranting like a mad girl pushed over the edge, Herr Shoe Repair barked, “This is vat the claim check is for.” And look at what he handed me. For reals!!!!
Gee. So helpful. NOT. I KNOW I’m on a hunt. I KNOW I’m looking for clues. I KNOW I’m rocking, detective-style. How is a magnifying glass going to help? And what’s next, a Sherlock Holmes double-brimmed hat and curly pipe? Or maybe I’m supposed to get some twigs and leaves, go out in the sun, start a fire with the magnifying glass, like I never learned to do when I wasn’t a Girl Scout, and send smoke signals spelling out, “Here I am, Mr. WTF. In Burbank. Except you know exactly where I am so come and fucking get me already!”
“That’s it?” I asked the shoe man. “No message? Nothing else?”
He just shook his head and shrugged so vehemently, he would either need a cranial adjustment or to be recast.
“Can you at least tell me who left this for me?”
Again with the shrug-shake. Not wanting to fan the flames of his whiplash fire, I just thanked him and left with my magnifying glass. As I walked outside baffled and pondering, I put on my helmet and got on my scooter. But something stopped me. Maybe the magnifying glass was supposed to make me look closer. Maybe there was something else there for me to find.
I looked around and saw a food truck parked in front of the shoe repair shop. DELHICATESSEN—Jewish-Indian Street Noshes. Clever and unusual, for sure. Suspicious? Not so much—there are food trucks all over L.A. Other than that, there were a few cars, an older woman walking her dog (or the dog walking her, BEEN THERE!), and nothing else that really stood out.
So I started looking through the magnifying glass. On the streets and the sidewalk. I never realized how sparkly the streets here are. Like they put glitter in the asphalt to add an extra Hollywood allure. I saw leaves and bugs and fluorescent-orange spray paint with arrows pointing to phone poles. I saw imprints in cement (The Underground Const. Co. 1927), and a whole alternate universe of things I never noticed before, or ever would have. I continued examining as I walked toward the back of the shop. Grass growing in cement cracks, a penny, a worm. I was so busy focusing on the small stuff, that I almost missed the big stuff. I mean REALLY BIG. Parked right there on the street.
What did it all mean? Something about perspective? Sometimes things can be so big and right in front of us that we don’t see them? Or so small and tiny that we need to pay closer attention?
Then I noticed something next to the boot car.
Ah. Excellent advice. Too damn often I am thinking about what’s ahead; the rest of the time, the past. Maybe focusing on the moment was exactly what I needed to do to solve this hunt and find my future husband. OOPS.
Uh, hello there, street artist—couldn’t you have spray-painted another stencil with instructions on HOW TO?
Chapter 18
DAY 4—NIGHT
While I fully expected Malcolm to have a bitch fit when I came to work late, he actually shocked me by first asking how my tooth was, before telling me a decidedly unfunny joke involving a man on skis with an erection. How is it even possible that he hired such brilliant writers for Bridalville, yet almost every word out of his own mouth is hacky and inane?
Work dragged on like a day full of football game slo-mo replays. Especially once Coco left early to help Mark at the gallery (aka gynecological exam appointment to Malcolm). Once I finally got home, it was time to get ready for Mark’s opening.
I decided the night called for some new nail art, specifically a shout-out to the art-boy’s kick-ass photography. So an hour later, this was the result:
Of course that meant I was running late to meet Coco, and OF COURSE the Slacktress had commandeered the bathroom. Can it really take twenty-five minutes to blow-dry your hair? Seriously, unless you’re the Woman with the World’s Longest Hair who hasn’t cut her locks since 1962, and your hair is like eighteen feet long. Why would she need an hour in the bathroom, especially when I was late and waiting to shower?
Well, it gave me a chance to FaceTime Cooper. And I wasn’t about to let him not answer so I pretexted:
I’m facetiming your ass now. You better answer or else…
I didn’t know what “else” could possibly be threatening, so I left it vague, and hit his number. My veiled threat worked as Cooper actually answered.
“Hey.”
“Yo, Bro. Really????? Selling pot? Getting busted? What the hell is going on?”
Cooper was curled up on his bed, per usual. He looked like a little baby boy, his soft, wavy hair all messy. So what he said was even more startling.
“I got a girl pregnant. And I was trying to get $500.00 to get her an abortion.”
“WHAT?!?!?! Are you fucking kidding me?!?!” I was so shocked that I think I went blind for a few seconds. “You didn’t use a condom? What is wrong with you?”
“Back off, Mags. I don’t need you to beat me up. I’m doing that enough myself.”
OH. MY. GOD. I didn’t know what to do with any of this.
“I’m sorry, I’m just freaking out here. Have you really thought this through? An abortion is a big decision that could haunt you both for life.”
“It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you let me find a way to help you get the money before you did something crazy and illegal?”
He just sighed, his eyes welling up making him look even younger than he just did.
“Fuck. Does Narcie know about the pregnancy?”
“No way. And don’t tell her. You promise?”
“Of course I won’t. Damn. Why couldn’t you build some websites for money? You can do that in your sleep. Or dress like a Subway sandwich and hand out coupons, for fuck’s sake? Selling pot?!?!”
“Well, it’s not like I sold it to kids at school and all. I got busted dealing to some old lady at Grandma Dotty’s senior living complex.”
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!?”
He shrugged. “She
told me her neighbor needed it for some eye thing.”
“Oh, this is rich. Well, of course she’ll tell Mom.”
“I don’t think she even knows. She was in an aqua aerobics class when it happened. And even if she did find out, she can’t remember anything so she’s probably already forgotten.”
Grandma Dotty, drug lord. It just kept getting weirder by the moment.
Then Cooper sat up, looked into the camera, and said, “I’m scared, Mags.”
I was too. But I needed to be strong for him. “We’re gonna figure this out.”
“And I still don’t have the money for the abortion and neither does Velocity.”
“Velocity?”
“That’s the name of the girl.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Just then Boo and Toupee started barking. S.H.A.R.I. barged into my room, hair fully blown, but wearing just a small towel wrapped around her—it could have been a washcloth.
“Maggie, can I borrow—”
“NOT NOW!! GET OUT!!!” I screamed.
Of course she did just the opposite and came over to see what I was doing. She saw Cooper on my phone and waved a flirty wave. Then even put her finger in her mouth suggestively. REALLY?! To my seventeen-year-old brother?! “PLEASE?!” I added.
She left and I turned my focus back to the phone.
“Wow, I didn’t know your roommate was so smokin’,” Cooper said.
“Enough. Look at what your hormones already got you into. I’ll think of something and call you later.”
I hung up and ran to the shower. FUCK, it was freezing. The klepto stole all the hot water, too!
I tried to wash off all the shock, helplessness, betrayal, and rage, but it was hard to do when the warmest water running down my body was my tears.
Chapter 19
DAY 4—NIGHT
I almost blew off the gallery, but having gone to all that trouble to do my nails, combined with the thought of being in near proximity to my contemptible roommate, I ran out of the house faster than paparazzi chasing Justin Bieber.
I searched for Coco among all the arty hipsters at the Madelyn Evans Gallery, and spotted her across the room with Mark, in a circle of girls surrounding him like he was a rock star. Yeah. He was gonna be interested in me.
I just couldn’t go up to them yet, so I decided to look at his work first, buying some time to rev up some anti-shyness courage. I made a sharp left and headed to the far end of the gallery. Framed and hung on stark white walls, Mark’s highly stylized, emotionally charged images made my heart ache, but in a good way. Looking at his work online didn’t do justice to what I was treated to live and in person.
One piece was an exquisite, timeless photo of a little black girl in a red dress standing on a tailor’s platform looking up to the heavens while the tailor, in suspenders and bow tie, and balanced on one knee, looks straight into the camera—the viewer, me—measuring tape dangling from his hands and draping on the floor. An older woman in a bold green dress surveys the scene as she sits on a Naugahyde couch, surrounded by a large American flag on one side and an oversized turtle on the other. So evocative, so full of feeling, but not dictating the emotion, leaving that up to the viewer, me.
It occurred to me right then and there that maybe the reason I hadn’t felt moved to make any art recently was because drowning in loss and feeling, my emotions had gotten the best of me and I was too raw to put them out there. Of course for most artists, this would be the ideal time to express.
But even in happier times before Jason and I broke up, I couldn’t imagine me/my work exposed in public, on a gallery wall like this. It felt too revealing. It made sense why I stayed small. Small works on my small Collage a Week website and in my tiny zine.
Before I could go any further with self-analysis of my stunted art career, Coco appeared with Mark.
“Hey, girl,” she said as she hugged me.
I looked at Mark and said, “Your work is really beamed in. Really phenomenal.”
“Thank you,” he smiled. Of course he was as adorable as could be. “Coco says you’re an artist, too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say—”
“Of course you would,” Coco interrupted, then turned to Mark. “Her work is stellar. Just wish she’d do it more.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” I joked.
Mark laughed. “It’s hard to be disciplined with so much going on around us all the time.”
“You mean like your roommate sleeping with your ex, your brother getting busted for selling pot at your grandmother’s senior citizens’ complex to pay for an abortion because he knocked up someone named Velocity, and being sent on a treasure hunt by a random stranger who could be a sociopath?!” I almost said, but didn’t.
“Hey, the gallery closes soon and a group of us are gonna get a drink at AKBAR,” Mark said. “Will you guys join us?”
“Sure,” Coco answered.
“Sorry, I can’t make it.”
“Mags will be there, too. We’ll catch up with you.”
Mark smiled at us both and disappeared into the crowd.
“What’s with you tonight?” Coco asked.
“I just got some really disturbing news from my brother.”
“Is he OK?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. And AKBAR? Really? Why would I want to go to the scene of the crime?”
“Oh, fuck me,” Coco said, “I forgot that’s where Jason hooked up with Amanda.”
Some hipsters came a bit too close to our conversation, so Coco pulled me away and outside.
“Enough. You’re not gonna let Jason stop you from anything anymore. We’re gonna face this head-on together. You’re coming with me.”
Coco practically dragged me to AKBAR. I walked in bracing myself, but thankfully Amanda wasn’t working. I breathed a little easier as we went to a dark area in back, and about ten of us squeezed in around two Moroccan-tiled tables. Sitting on low vinyl seats, it was like we were all on a crowded subway together. Cheesy 8 × 10s hung on the wall, mostly of people I didn’t recognize except for the guy who hosts Jeopardy and El Vez, the Mexican Elvis.
Every girl there was fawning over Mark. He kept looking at Coco and smiling, then she’d nod over to me and he’d smile at me, too. The back door was open to a side street. Ceiling fans spun, sending blades of light flickers along with the shadows of cars passing by—a veritable light show. I felt like I was in New York. Damn. Of course that made me think of Cooper again.
I stood up and said, “Sorry, I have to go.”
Coco dragged me to the ladies’ room first. “I know you have a lot going on tonight, but you’re giving Mark the impression you’re not interested.”
“Who cares? He’s so not interested in me. In fact, it seemed like he was checking you out!”
“Me?” Coco yelped. “He’s like a brother. He’s just a flirt to everyone, that’s all. Talk to him for a minute before you go. I’ll have him walk you out.”
“Whatever, just don’t force it.”
We left the bathroom and I waved goodbye to the strangers I was sitting with. Mark came outside with me. “You have a way home?” he asked sweetly.
“I’m walking. I only live about five blocks or so.”
“OK, now I KNOW you’re from New York. The only place we walk in L.A. is to our cars.”
We both laughed. Warm. Nice.
“Well, again, huge congrats on your awesome show. I’m sure you’ll sell every piece.”
“Thanks. Whoa, wait.” He stopped. “What do you have going on here?” He took my hand.
I felt flushed. Maybe he was interested in me?
“That is fucking brilliant,” he said, examining my iPhone photo app nails.
Oh. Maybe not.
“Hey, wanna get together Wednesday night?”
Wait. Maybe.
“Uh, sure.”
“I could show you some great places online to show and sell your work. I’d be happy to help.”
&nbs
p; Oh. Maybe not.
But at this point, perhaps the best thing I could do was focus on my work instead of the countless other things that kept me in a constant state of distraction and crying way too much lately. I’m such a sap, I’ll weep at Hallmark commercials, or if I see an old lady with a crooked wig on. But weeping is different from crying, and enough was enough.
“That’d be great,” I answered, date or not, and actually felt a real smile form. We put each other’s numbers in our phones, then hugged goodbye.
Jason who?
Chapter 20
DAY 5—AFTERNOON
“Rectum? I damn near broke ’em!”
Yeah, that was the punch line to another moronic joke Malcolm was telling—thankfully to Jeff and Frannie in the next cubicle instead of Coco and me.
And since neither of us were about to be sent anywhere on location any time soon, I started the day with my own fishing trip.
“So, did Mark say anything about me?” I asked Coco. “Is he going out with any of those girls that were all over him last night? I’m so not his type, am I? Should I just cancel Wednesday night? I mean, is it even a date?”
Coco sucked on her cinnamon toothpick. “Stop thinking so much! As long as it stops you from going after Jason for a 3peat, what does it matter? Besides, he could help with your career.”
“I have a career?”
“You could if you put as much energy into making art as you do into trying to find a husband! Trust me, getting married early isn’t all that. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“Are you saying Blake is a mistake?”
“I don’t mean it that way—it’s just that we should have waited longer—been with more people first. You should, too.”
“Fine. In nine days at exactly noon, if Mr. WTF is not the one, and I’m still alive,” I added for Coco’s benefit, “I promise I’ll chill out about marriage.”
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