Find Me I'm Yours

by Hillary Carlip

  “Good. So, are you gonna tell me about your brother?” Coco asked.

  I did. After the whole story all Coco could say was, “Wow. Velocity?!”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Malcolm walked by us and we both immediately went back to being busy.

  I did my best to focus on work rather than everything else I could have been focused on.

  Everything Else I Could Have Been Focused On

  By Mags Marclay

  1). Cooper. And Grandma Dotty’s reefer-smoking senior citizen neighbor, and the fact that if I couldn’t help Cooper come up with a way to get $500.00 LEGALLY, I’d soon be an aunt.

  2). Jason, wrapped in my handmade quilt. The Sacktress, wrapped in my ex-boyfriend.

  3). Mark. Adorbs, charming, and off-the-hook talented. Either a date or a sympathetic artist trying to help out. Either way, I guessed I’d find out on Wednesday.

  4). Mr. WTF. My “sole mate,” who by now might have ridden off into the sunset with a Victoria’s SecretS modelS, leaving me CLUELESS.

  I hadn’t paid attention to the hunt since yesterday morning at Sole Mates Shoe Repair, so after a little research, I came up with a mighty fine plan, if I do say so myself. I told Malcolm I was finally taking some initiative and pitched him a story for “Beyond the Mason Jar” about overly used, so 2013, food truck weddings. I said that Coco and I would go and take pics and collect scrap… THAT AFTERNOON! And he didn’t have to send us anywhere exotic. He went for it, which meant that Coco had to as well! I high-fived myself on that supah-smooth scheme!

  While Coco drove, I Googled the DELHICATESSEN TRUCK and found their site.

  www.DelhicatessenTruck.com

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No dog with a polka-dot tongue, no DelhicatessentruckLA.com. Their schedule showed they’d be in front of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which was perfect because there are always a lot of trucks there, and we could actually take pics for Malcolm. Sometimes there’s just one parked in some random location—like the grilled cheese truck on Cahuenga in front of Vivid Entertainment, one of the biggest porn production companies in L.A. Apparently even porn stars like cheesy comfort food.

  As we headed south on La Brea, Coco took a deep breath and finally opened up. “Blake’s been talking about wanting us to move back to Chicago.”

  “What?! Seriously? Are you going to?”

  “Honestly, if I thought it would bring him out of his funk, I would consider it. But what if he just brings all his shit back with us and pulls me down with him?”

  “Well, L.A. can be a really harsh place if you’re trying to make it.”

  “Exactly. He did have more success with his music in Chicago, but isn’t that just giving up? What, things get hard here so just run back there? I’m not feeling it.”

  We were driving west on Wilshire now, and saw about twenty trucks lined up.

  “I’m totally not feeling it for you either, but that could just be selfish, wanting you to stay here.”

  “Whatever, we’ll figure it out. But in the meantime….”

  She pulled into a parking space. I put quarters in the meter, courtesy of Coco’s change dish, and then we headed down the block past waffles, ribs, cheesesteaks, tacos, sliders, lobster rolls, kabobs, and ice cream. From Japan to Pittsburgh, representing.

  As we crossed the street to another block full, someone abruptly and loudly shouted “HELLO!” Coco and I literally JUMPED. When we turned to see who it was that scared the shit out of us, we saw a parrot on a leash on a fence. As we kept looking for the DELHICATESSEN truck, we circled back and heard a loud “HI!” Of course, the parrot again. I was tempted to keep going back and forth to see how many greetings it might know. “HOWDY!” “HOLA!” “WASSUP!” “YO!”

  Finally, two blocks down, we saw it.

  NOW WHAT? I had no idea what to even do. We walked up to the window and I called out to the man cooking in the truck. “Hi, I’m looking for this guy…” I whipped out my phone and showed him a screen shot I’d captured from Mr. WTF’s video. “Or”—I swiped to the next pic—“this dog.” The dog with the polka-dot tongue.

  The cook, probably in his thirties or forties (I don’t have a clue how to ever tell someone’s age) with a soul patch on his chin, said, “Nope. Neither of them look familiar. Sorry.”

  He saw how dejected I was. “But hey,” he added, “here’s a bowl of Chicken Tikka Matzo Ball Soup for each of you. It’s on me.”

  I lapped it up wildly, like I hadn’t eaten in days. Oh wait, I hadn’t. “Thank you, this is delicious.”

  “Totally awesome,” Coco praised.

  I never feel comfortable accepting anything unless I give something back, so I put one of my last dollars in the tip jar. I’d be getting my paycheck in three days anyways. As we started to walk away, the guy called out, “Hold on a sec.” We turned back.

  “This is for you.” He handed me a T-shirt. Oh, and not just any T-shirt.

  The graphic on it featured the same background that was on the Craigslist ad, AND the blank name tag that had been on the first tape in the camera bag was now filled out with DESTINY. This kept getting better and better!!!!

  “You have to wear it for the rest of the hunt. And GREAT JOB so far! Here’s your next clue.”

  Then he gave me a map.

  Coco started in on her interrogation. “Who’s behind this? Is it legit? What do you have to do with it? What’s his name? Are we in any danger?”

  Of course the guy didn’t break. “You want some Korma Kugel for the road?”

  We took the food and walked back over to the parrot. We sat and ate the most delicious Jewish-Indian Street Noshes I’ve ever had (yeah, the only!), and gave ourselves mad props for getting this far.

  “What about this brilliant shirt?” I asked Coco. “How can you think this guy’s not real, and that he’s not my total destiny?!”

  “Well, maybe…”

  At least she gave me that. We checked out the map. It was of downtown Los Angeles, and there was a bright neon-orange X spray-painted over an area. Coco and I quickly deduced that it was Chinatown.

  As we headed back to the car, I expected the parrot to screech one more greeting. But instead, he squawked something that I hope he didn’t mean for me!

  Did he know something I didn’t know?

  “SO LONG, SUCKER!”

  Chapter 21

  DAY 5—AFTERNOON

  We turned onto Broadway and drove under the Chinatown gates, its two dragons posing as if they were hissing WELCOME. Veggie and fruit stands, ginseng and herb stores, fish markets, trading companies, pinwheels, and lanterns lined the blocks. There was a sign—SHOES: 1 for $7.00, 2 for $10.00. Was that one PAIR for $7.00 or one SHOE?

  “So, now what?” I asked Coco.

  “Not a freakin’ clue,” she answered.

  I had on the shirt the DELHI guy gave me. “Maybe with this on, someone’s now supposed to find ME?”

  “Well, they’re not gonna find you in the car.” She pulled over and parked across the street from an old-timey plaza, surrounded by pagoda-style buildings. We walked into it—nothing looked out of place, except for a cluster of all-age mannequins and a building with an odd sign—HOP SING TONG: BENEVOLENT ASSOCIATION—with clacking sounds coming from inside. Kindly men and women playing billiards? Oh, hello, probably mah-jongg! There were stores filled with money trees—if only I had the money to buy one to get money. And a fortune-teller in a folding chair reading a newspaper.

  But no clues, and nobody stopping me in my shirt. We left the plaza and walked down the street back towards the entrance gates. We searched for anything that stood out, that didn’t belong. It was like looking for a noodle in a haystack.

  And then I saw it. Like a beacon of light.

  Mr. WTF had given me the magnifying glass just before I saw the giant boot car. Now there was an enormous rooster on the roof of Superior Poultry.

  “That’s got to be it!” I yelped to Coco.

  We bo
th ran to the shop and then slowed down to walk in nonchalantly. I was expecting to see a display case with packaged chicken breast, thighs, and other poultry items. Instead, there was just a counter where you presumably ordered. And the only thing above the counter was a long sign that showed eight pics of cute animals.

  The Eight Cute Animals Featured on the Sign at Superior Poultry

  By Mags Marclay

  1). American Chicken

  2). Indian Chicken

  3). Rooster

  4). Old Hen

  5). Peking Duck

  6). Quail

  7). Squab

  8). Rabbit

  I still didn’t quite understand where we were until I saw workers behind the counter, all in slick yellow aprons dotted with red spots and smears. And then I spotted one more sign that read: “LIVE POULTRY AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST.” O……M……G…… The colorful aprons weren’t just fashion statements, they were slaughter attire! And the cute, cuddly pics of animals were representative of the ones that they were about to off—for your dinner! OR you could take it home live and kill it yourself! How DIY!! Before I could say anything, the woman behind the counter wrapped up a chicken (already dead, thankfully), put it in a plastic bag, and handed it to me.

  “Thanks for shopping here.”

  Then she walked away.

  WTF?! What kind of clue was a chicken??? We went outside to spy a little further, but someone was spying on us…. A FREAKIN’ RAT!!!! I screamed a typical “EEEEEK!” and would have jumped on a bed if there were one on the sidewalk. Growing up in NYC, you’d think I’d be used to rats. But they still creep the shit out of me. We scurried away faster than it did, and saw a sign that said “STAY OUT. BIOSECURE AREA.” Apparently, the rat hadn’t read the sign, either. And that’s when I heard squawking, clucking, and even a motherfuckin’ cock-a-doodle-doo! The LIVE POULTRY. I got so nauseous and so upset.

  “Let’s get out of here. Now.” We ran back to the car. “What the hell was that all about? Is someone trying to turn us vegan?” I asked, as we drove back to Silverlake. “If so, it worked. That was so disturbing.”

  I guess it didn’t bother Coco as much as it had me, cuz all she said was, “Hey, unwrap the chicken. Is there anything weird about it?”

  “Like what? A message spelled out in the chicken’s own blood? Its little wing clutching another video?”

  I obliged, trying not to think that the chicken was alivenot that long ago, and was relieved to report that it appeared normal. But then something caught my eye. In the bag. A receipt. On the front it showed that $9.37 was what I should have paid. But there was something written on the back.

  “Check this out!”

  “There’s a phone number handwritten on the back of the receipt!”

  We high-fived and, per usual, missed and had to keep doing it until we had full contact, which took six attempts since Coco was driving.

  “So, am I just supposed to call this random number?” I asked.

  “OF COURSE you call the number!”

  So I did. There was a recording. It sounded like an old woman’s voice after smoking three packs of cigs a day for the past sixty years. Seriously. Go call the number and you’ll hear exactly what I’m saying.

  888-554-3273.

  I redialed and put it on speaker so Coco could hear.

  “Hi, this is Sylvia. I knew you were going to call.”

  (It sounded like she took a drag off of a cigarette, unzipped a zipper, and then dropped something on the floor!) She was so old I was hoping it wasn’t Sylvia herself that had dropped to the floor. Her gravelly voice returned.

  “See (cough) there’s a side (cough) to you, a part (cough) of you, meant (cough) to shine. Namaste.”

  Click.

  Coco was laughing hysterically. “That was CRAZY!!!”

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “I think Sylvia should try a little Nicorette!”

  “Obvs, but what does it all mean?”

  “We’re having chicken for dinner tonight? How the hell are we supposed to figure out what that means?”

  “The way we’ve figured out everything else so far.”

  So I played the message over and over, about twenty times until we got back to our hood. And neither one of us had a clue about the clue.

  WTF, MR. WTF!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

  Chapter 22

  DAY 5—EARLY EVENING

  When we returned to Coco’s, Blake was:

  Q: Where else? Doing what else?

  A: On the couch. Playing guitar.

  For some reason this time hit a nerve. “Are you gonna spend the rest of your life on that fucking couch?” Coco exploded.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” Blake said, barely looking up.

  “Jesus, it’s all you ever do anymore.”

  “Hard day at the office?”

  “We actually got to leave early,” I interjected, trying to normalize the tone. Coco shot me a look that said I had done otherwise.

  “I just can’t stand it anymore, Blake. We’re in our fucking twenties and it’s like we’re some old married couple.”

  “If that’s how you feel, why don’t you go hang out with Mark? That’s all you’ve been doing lately anyway.”

  “That’s because he’s doing something with his life and gets off the couch!”

  Blake stopped playing the guitar. It was eerily quiet.

  “Besides, Mags is dating him now,” Coco added.

  I am?

  “We can talk about this when you calm down.” He got up. “And in private?”

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m out.” I went to the door. “Be gentle, guys. Remember you love each other.”

  I guess they forgot because as I hit the street, I could hear them fighting, even from a block away.

  Maybe this coupling thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Coco and Blake have both warned me. What the hell is my hurry? Why do I feel so obsessed with finding my soul mate now? I could end up like Coco when I’m twenty-eight. Or in the same boat as my mother, and lose him anyway. Maybe it’s just time to freakin’ live a little now—date, hook up, sample lots of things at the buffet rather than order the same one meal all the time hoping it’ll finally taste good one day.

  And of course, the second I even considered that, I stumbled upon something (literally—I tripped!) that told me otherwise:

  I kept walking past my apartment. I couldn’t bear to go home and see the Stabtress (as in Stab-me-in-the-backtress) getting ready to go do another lap dance, this time on Jason’s face.

  I wandered back and forth, up and down, across and over, really seeing the details in my hood, pretending I was in a foreign country.

  The street art was off the hook. And I looked to see what other messages there could be for me.

  I saw and heard them loud and clear. I had been focusing inward so much, by now I was mired in my own innards. It was time to turn it inside out. I ran back to my apartment with a plan. I was hoping S.H.A.R.I. wasn’t there, but that would just mean she was at Jason’s, which was equally shitty. Hold it. I was going inward again. Out, out, take it out!

  A couple of hours later, after “borrowing” my roomie’s printer (I figured the ink usage was fair trade for all she’d taken from me!), I hit the streets and put these up:

  It was time to come out and step up. That’s the least I could do for Cooper.

  Chapter 23

  DAY 6—MORNING

  “Well, if your collages don’t sell, we could sue Malcolm for sexual harassment,” Coco said, as we put the finishing touches on our “Enough with the Food Truck Weddings” piece.

  “True, but that ain’t exactly fast cash. “So,” I asked, as I pushed off our desk and rolled back in my chair to get a good look at her, “are you and Blake OK?”

  She pushed and rolled back, too. I grabbed her hand and tried to perform a lame synchronized chair-rolling routine. But she wasn’t in the mood.

  She shrugged. “We made up. We’r
e as OK as we’re gonna be right now.”

  “Is there anything I can do? You know if you ever feel like talking. Anything. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, Mags. So, did you figure out your next clue?”

  “Of course not. I called that number and listened to the message about a hundred times. Nothing. Wanna help?”

  “Sure.”

  But after I asked her two questions and each time she answered, “Huh?” like I had woken her up from some deep trance, I knew better to leave her alone. I went into the bathroom and called Liza.

  “Hey, honey,” she answered. “How’s the brilliant hunt going?”

  “Actually, I’m stumped right now,” I whispered so Malcolm wouldn’t come find me. I filled her in on all the clues so far, ending on Sylvia, whose outgoing message we three-way’d so Liza could hear.

  “That’s fucking hilarious!” Liza was laughing her ass off.

  “See how I’m mystified???”

  She had me play it several more times.

  “OK, so the cough is kinda weird, right?” Liza likes to end her sentences on right as much as possible.

  “Totes. It’s not like a long smoker’s hack attack, it’s one cough at a time.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. So play it again. Let’s see where she coughs. Maybe it’s at certain words.”

  “See (cough) there’s a side (cough) to you, a part (cough) of you, meant (cough) to shine. Namaste.”

  We listened a couple more times. Then it suddenly hit me.

  “OMG!!!!!!!!!! No motherfrickin’ way!!!!!” I screeched way too loud, so I flushed the toilet to cover. “See-side-a-part-meant. The Villa Seaside Apartment! That’s where the first clue took us. That has to be it!!!”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”

  “You’re a fucking genius!!”

  “Find him, Mags. This guy could be worth being straight for,” she teased.

  True that.

  Chapter 24