Find Me I'm Yours

by Hillary Carlip

  DAY 6—AFTERNOON

  Nothing like a sideshow, and the Venice boardwalk was definitely all that. A guy juggling chain saws, an electric-guitar player on skates, stilt walkers, robotic dancers, and a drop-in drum circle where there were about eight men and women trancing together in mad rhythm.

  Who knew what another trek to the Villa Seaside Apartments would bring? Maybe Mr. WTF lived there after all. Or the cartoon-voiced burly apartment manager might have another tape or clue.

  Well, he didn’t answer his buzzer, so after I spent some time putting up my COLLAGES FOR SALE fliers on every telephone pole and bulletin board I could find on the boardwalk, I sat on the stoop (yeah, yeah, porch—whatever) and waited. I was obeying orders and was wearing the hunt shirt—well, my funked-out version. After I did my fliers last night, I was still wired, so I redid my nails for my upcoming date/nondate with Mark, and when I still couldn’t sleep, I got a little busy with this!

  In the half hour I hung out in front of the apartments, I was offered a tarot reading out of a car, a psychic reading off a blanket, and a medical marijuana card for just $40.00. I texted Cooper:

  Move to Cali where for 40 bucks pot is legal.

  Suddenly, I heard a little girl scream. I froze, and then ran to see if she needed help. More screaming. I started to panic. And there she was, on the beach, shrieking… with delight as her father, whom she had buried in the sand, rose up quickly and chased her. He caught her and tickled her into fits of laughter. Gee… always nice to be reminded of all you missed. I often wondered how different my life would have been if my dad had stuck around. I thought of him a lot, especially when certain things poked at the hornet’s nest I buried so long ago. Like seeing a cool father on TV or in a movie, hearing a rockin’ ’90s band and checking to see if my dad played with them, or scrolling past the contacts in my phone and seeing his number. Right before I moved to Cali, I tracked down my father’s phone number and address in San Francisco. Not that I ever intended to call or visit, but it was comforting to know that we would be living in the same state. I looked to see if his number was still in my phone or if I had deleted his info, then deleted the memory of doing that. Still there. Whatevs.

  I took the screaming-with-delight child as a sign, and called Cooper. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail.

  “Ignore my text. You shouldn’t even think about moving here. You gotta stay there and deal, Coop. Or else you’d be doing exactly what Dad did. We’ll figure something out.”

  I had totally lost sight of why I was there in the first place when a handsome, built, Latin male model type came up to me. “I like your shirt,” he said.

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “No, I mean I really like your shirt.”

  “OH, OK. And…?”

  He handed me something and dashed off. It was a coupon for La Salsa Fresh Mexican Grill in Malibu, offering a FREE COKE WITH PURCHASE.

  Really? Would someone go all the way to Malibu from Venice just to get a free carbonated bev? This had to be a clue. Of course the guy had vanished into the crowd before I could ask, or say there was one small issue with the coupon. The “WITH PURCHASE” part.

  Do you think La Salsa sells individual tortilla chips?

  Chapter 25

  DAY 6—LATE AFTERNOON

  In NYC, there is no equivalent to the beauty of riding down Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as the SoCal loCals call it. Oh, they tried with that Hudson River bike path, but there’s nothing quite as awe-inspiring as seeing the sun set on miles and miles of sparkling ocean and shore. Well, I thought there was nothing as awe-inspiring until I saw this….

  As I walked into La Salsa, I was glad to find it empty. No one needed to know I only had a dollar to my name. “Hey, uh… is it at all possible to buy just a few chips for a buck? I have this coupon.”

  I waved my dollar bill and the coupon at the man behind the counter.

  “Si, no problemo, Mami.”

  I love that term of endearment, even if it does sound like someone is calling you Mommy (well, probs because of that!). He gave me a small bag of chips and the Coke and charged me just thirty cents. He handed me my change and a receipt. It couldn’t be as obvious as another phone number on a receipt, come on, not my clever man! I looked and of course there was nothing written on the back of it.

  It wasn’t until I sat down and nibbled tiny niblets of the chips that I realized how hungry I was (nothin’ new!).

  “Now what?” I asked myself (and sort of the counter guy, not really expecting any answer).

  But he did answer. “See the change,” he said ominously. Or prophetically. Or somewhere in between.

  “Yes, I am seeing there’s been some change in my life lately, but that still doesn’t help me figure out what’s next. Any idea? Or should I say any CLUE?”

  He just shook his head no, and went in back to the kitchen.

  I waited, expecting him to bring me out the La Salsa equivalent to a magnifying glass, or a map, or maybe my next location was burned into a tortilla? Anything. But he never returned.

  See the change. See the change. See the change. I repeated it in my head like a calming mantra. But actually it did the opposite and made me anxious. Then I heard a noise from the kitchen. It sounded like someone had dropped a bunch of coins on the floor. THE CHANGE?!

  I laughed, and then called out. “Got it! Thanks!”

  I pulled the seventy cents the guy had just given me out of my pocket, and inspected it. Amid the quarters and dimes was a token.

  On the back was a website address:

  www.MalibuCampsite.com

  I checked the site out on my phone. Nothing suspicious. No L.A. at the end of the name. It was for a beautiful glamping spot. I have never in my life been camping, glamorously or otherwise, so I was kinda excited to go to Malibu Campsite. I brought up the address and directions, and headed out.

  I was definitely ready for change. No matter the cost.

  Chapter 26

  DAY 6—EVENING

  As I drove down PCH, the sun setting behind the ocean was so heart-wrenchingly stunning, I could have just married IT and been happy for life. But by the time it had gone (sigh, why do they all leave me?!), darkness was approaching, and I seemed to be nowhere near the Malibu Campsite.

  Every block in Malibu is like a town long. I kept thinking I was getting to the address, and I saw I was barely any closer. The “You Are Entering Malibu” sign proclaimed, “Population 16,000.” I think it’s like one person per block.

  Fuck—what if I was far away and ran out of gas and only had seventy cents to fill my tank? Well, I had gone this far, so I couldn’t turn back. I heard a honk and saw a big chopper in the lane next to me. It came in closer and I saw the driver, and the babe behind him hugging his plus-size body, both wave at me. The honk and wave felt more like a smirk than an acknowledgment, even though we were both on two wheels—like from their HOG to my PIGLET.

  What seemed like four hours later (OK, maybe eighteen minutes), I finally pulled up to the Malibu Campsite guard gate. A ranger leaned out and said, “That’ll be $20.00 for the night.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to come up with something fast. “I’m throwing a birthday party for my brother and I’m thinking of having it here next week. I just wanted to look around and check it out. Would that be possible?” I smiled my most sincere smile.

  “Sure. You can make a U-turn, and park in that lot for twenty minutes then walk in.”

  “Thank you so much, I won’t be long.”

  When I turned around and went past the guard gate exit, I saw a MISSING PERSON poster. Ah, how comforting. I hadn’t told anyone where I was—no one would even know where to put a poster up if I didn’t return home. I immediately sent Coco and Liza a drop pin of my location:

  Just in case I end up missing. Or dead. And please tell Jason to take boo and toupee. Love you guys. Xxxxx

  I turned my phone off, not wanting to deal with any concerned responses, then walked onto the campg
round. It smelled amazing. Like pine. Or was it eucalyptus? How would I know, being from NYC, where all I can identify are the smells of exhaust, urine, and roasting chestnuts?

  But really, this place was SO not so much about the glamping. Not one thing was glamporous here. Uh, hello, www.malibucampsite.com webmaster or mistress? Like no one’s gonna realize you’re totally misleading them the sec they step foot here?!

  Each campsite was right up against the next. No privacy at all, unless you were in an RV or a totes fancy-pants tent setup—with complicated flaps, sections, zippers, and mesh. There were soccer mom chairs, dirty picnic tables, and crows eating hot dog bun remains. An unidentifiable animal scurried across my path, making me jump. Then another, and another. They looked like squirrels or chipmunks, whatever the diff is (don’t let Alvin hear me!). How could anyone sleep on the ground here unless they’re up for a disgusting rodent slumber party? Though I was in the middle of the forest, it was hardly bucolic. More like tent city with dump stations, clotheslines, and lit fire pits dotting the path, looking like a street riot’s burning trash cans.

  There were a lot of dogs—maybe the one with the polka-dot tongue would come sprinting out? But it was getting so dark, how would I ever find whatever I was supposed to be looking for? I noticed there were numbered spaces—maybe if I looked further on the website, there would be some clue to find the number? I turned my phone back on, but of course there was no reception in this skeevy forest that even Bambi would flee from. Or, flea from.

  But then, just like all the other times when it’s seemingly hopeless, something intriguing came along. Some ripped Latin model with a coupon. A giant La Salsa man beckoning change. This time it was this:

  Apparently for $1.00, you got two tokens, which bought four minutes of hot water in a shower. Did that mean since Mr. WTF gave me one token, I’d have two minutes? And did THAT mean I’d have to take a shower here alongside Alvin and the Chipmunks?! That was so not gonna happen on any level. I walked around the showers to see if there was anything else and spotted something in a row of campsites that stood out. Among the fancy MANSION tents, was an old-timey, simple, green canvas STUDIO APARTMENT tent with a point on top. And then I saw something that let me know for sure I was in the right place.

  Prince Charming’s other boot! The one he proclaimed was missing on the stair walk. The one that was NOT at Sole Mates Shoe Repair. It was sitting right in front of the tent, beckoning me inside. So I lifted the flap, crouched down, and went in. I hit my phone to get some light.

  “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed.

  Someone else was in the tent. This was the sick plan all along, luring me right into the rapist/killer’s den. But then I heard a scream that was actually louder than mine!

  “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  In our panic, we both stood up and pulled the tent right out of the ground, sending the canvas crashing down on us.

  It was a woman. HUH?! We held our phones up and shined the lights on each other. She was towering over me. The fact that I only came up to her breast added insult to injury, the biggest blow being I was eye level with the shirt she was wearing. THE SAME ONE I WAS WEARING. THE HUNT SHIRT. I adjusted the phone light higher, like a camera panning in slow motion, and saw a gorgeous brunette…. A tall drink of water. OMG!!!!!!! The Victoria’s SecretS modelS!!!!!

  “No way,” she said. “You are not wearing that shirt.”

  “Yeah, actually I am.”

  I expected some wise-ass remark, or like on a soap opera, we’d start grabbing at each other’s shirts, screeching and scratching in a vicious catfight that would take us down to the nearby stream, sending us both careening into the water and sputtering out creek matter as we continued our girl-on-girl wrestling match.

  But instead she just said, “I love what you did with yours!”

  HUH? “Uh, thanks.”

  “Looks like we’re both after the same thing.”

  “Looks that way for sure,” I said. But what I didn’t add was, “And when Mr. WTF takes one look at you and at me, there’s no doubt who’s gonna end up MRS. WTF. I might as well pack it in.”

  But this was no time for low self-esteem. The tape DID say that whoever found him first was the one. So I’d just have to try my damnedest to get to him before she did—even if she was always a step ahead of me so far. I’d just have to up my game.

  “Well, at least there’s only two of us,” she said. “Not three… yet.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  She moved over the poles and canvas that were on the ground now, then aimed her phone light at a blanket (with the Malibu Campsite logo on it) that had three tapes sitting on top. The Victoria’s SecretS modelS picked up one, and handed me another. I was touched by her grace.

  “Thank you.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. My name’s Whitney.” She stuck out her hand with the confidence a model would have.

  I tried to do the same, even if I was pretending, and gave her a firm handshake. “I’m Maggie. People call me Mags.”

  “Well, Mags, may the best woman win!”

  With that, she tore ass out of the tent like we were suddenly on The Amazing Race and she had to beat me to finding the ancient woman with the abacus in the Shanghai pavilion. So I instinctively ran after her. But then I stopped myself. If this was a fight to the finish, I had to be strategic.

  I went back into what was the tent and took the third tape. Sorry, anyone else who might be after Mr. WTF. Oh, and helloooo, Whitney??? Looks like in your haste to beat me you forgot something!

  To ensure that I’d be his perfect match, I picked up Prince WTF’s boot.

  Chapter 27

  DAY 6—NIGHT

  O. M. G. Mark. Our date. Or nondate. I had totally forgotten that I was supposed to meet him at 8:00 at Umami Burger, where we first laid eyes on each other, and it was 7:45. AND I WAS STILL ON PCH AND FREAKIN’ OUT OF GAS!!!! At least I was just a block from a gas station and had a bit of CHANGE left from Mr. La Salsa. After I put in as much gas as I could afford, I texted Mark.

  Sooooooooo sorry. Got stuck in traffic on west side. Would 9:00 be ok?

  He texted back right away, but all he said was K. That’s the problem with texts. There’s no emotion, no innuendo. If I heard him, I could discern if that was a, “Sure! No problem!!” K or a “I’m totally fucking annoyed and already over you” K. But at least it was a K.

  When I finally sputtered up to my apartment and ran in, I had seven minutes to shower, dress, and make myself look fabulous which, really, would take about seven years. FUCK, I didn’t factor in walking the dogs. So I texted Mark again.

  Soooo close. But really 9:15 if that’s ok.

  This time he didn’t answer back right away, but when he did five minutes later, as I was cleaning up Toupee’s shit with a plastic bag (BIODEGRADABLE, that’s right!) it was another simple K.

  I felt so bad for not being around much lately and leaving the dogs home alone for long periods of time. But I was on a tight schedule and only had a minute or two to feel bad. I could spend hours doing so later.

  Luckily S.H.A.R.I. was blow-drying her hair when I got back. That meant she’d be in the bathroom for a good half hour, and I wouldn’t have to see her life-jacking, plumped-lipped face. I took off my hunt shirt and stuffed it in my backpack along with all of Mr. WTF’s tapes.

  THE TAPE. In the mad rush to get home, I had forgotten about the new tape. Whitney could be miles ahead of me by now. But that would have to wait, too. No way could I watch it in the apartment with the Smacktress here. I washed off in the kitchen sink, put on a cute vintage dress, and freshened my makeup.

  It was time to switch gears. To forget about Whitney being my competition, Coco possibly moving, Jason sleeping with S.H.A.R.I.—even Mr. WTF and the hunt, and focus on the present.

  I headed out to see if Mark was really K or not.

  Chapter 28

  DAY 6—NIGHT

  “Nothing for me
,” I said to the waitress since now I had exactly zero cents until payday on Friday.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Mark asked.

  “I had this late lunch meeting in Malibu.” It wasn’t really a lie, though four tortilla chips would hardly count as lunch, and several minutes with a giant hombre hardly a meeting.

  He ordered a Manly Burger, which involved something called lardon, that of course made me laugh, and “smushed potatoes.” When he asked if I had ever tried their onion rings, and I said no, he insisted I had to taste them so he ordered those, too. THANK GOD. Our date/nondate was off to a great start.

  And it kept getting better. Mark had a way of making everything easy. We talked, laughed; he touched my arm when emphasizing a point.

  “Seriously,” he said, examining my hands, “those nails you did for my show were amazing. But these are off the hook.”

  After Coco’s and my heated debate over my sweetener obsesh, here’s what I did while listening over and over to Sylvia’s cryptic recording last night:

  “They’re so Worship the Brand,” Mark said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A website where people share arts and crafts they make using brands. And fan art, too. You should check it out—they have contests and give away cash.”

  “I like the sound of that!”

  “Well, then….”

  He pulled out his phone, took a picture of my nails, then uploaded it to:

  www.WorshipTheBrand.com

  We looked through the site. It was chock-full o’ amazing art—crocheted Dunkin’ Donuts, a Pepto-Bismol sculpture, a bronze can of Spam covered in Swarovski crystals, killer paintings of Katniss and the Avengers in wet t-shirts. And they even co-opted my fave pink packet for the banner!

  “They also have advice from art pros and important curators give video feedback on certain pieces. Maybe your nails will get you into MOMA!”