Find Me I'm Yours

by Hillary Carlip

  Then again…

  Chapter 57

  DAY 12—NIGHT

  Clues I Gathered, and What I Ate at Fred 62 While Spending the Whole Night There Gathering Them

  By Mags Marclay

  1). Someone had actually spotted what very much looked like the Dog with the Polka-dot Tongue, and posted the pic on ISpottedYourDog.com!!! It was taken at the Venice Dog Park, which was not too far from the Villa Seaside Apartments, so it could all fit. OR it could be the third time I thought it was her only to find out it was SO NOT. (“Bearded Mr. Frenchy”—French toast with a crispy cornflake coating.)

  2). I found approximately eight more GIANT THINGS in L.A. including a few awesome ones that are no longer there—my fave being some large Mexican figures, which looked like the Bob Baker fiesta marionettes on steroids. (“Hippie Sandwich”—Avocado, thick tomatoes, alfalfa sprouts, and melted jack cheese on multigrain wheat.)

  3). I got an email from stripteasela.com—a welcome letter that might have a clue in it!! (“Lil’ Bow Wow”—a hot dog from the kids’ menu.)

  I read the email over and over. If this site was only meant for me, Whitney the Victoria’s SecretS modelS, and whoever else may or may not be in the running (literally!), then the email that was sent HAD TO be a clue, right? Or was it actually a real site and they just let Mr. WTF put that pic up there of the hunt graphic in the TV screen at the Herlesque Club?

  Thank you for registering at www.stripteasela.com. We will send you periodic emails with suggestions of iconic places to celebrate burlesque throughout the greater Los Angeles area. Today’s recommendation is quite a find. It’s Sylvia, the Stripping Psychic! Go get a reading from her in Arcadia. For every accurate thing she “knows” about you, she’ll take off a piece of clothing. Gives new meaning to the Naked Truth!

  www.The-Naked-Truth.biz

  OK, the site looked too cray cray brill to be real, but who woulda thunk a giant boot car would really exist?! There were pics of Sylvia in action, and a poster that stated her skills: “Cunning Clairvoyance! Titillating Tarot! Extra Sensual Perceptions!”

  The only other thing I could do was drive all the way out to Venice and hang in a dog park for hours to maybe or maybe not spot the dog that was maybe or maybe not Mr. WTF’s. At least I’d get a good laugh meeting Sylvia!

  I had just one more day to see if destiny was all it was cracked up to be, and if anyone knew how to get me there, it could just be the Stripping Psychic.

  Chapter 58

  DAY 13—MORNING

  Arcadia? What kind of Stripping Psychic lives all the way out in Arcadia? There was a number on the website to call for an appointment, but there wasn’t enough time to leave a message and then have to wait to make an appointment. So a surprise visit was def in order.

  After a little Google sleuthing, I was able to find her address. It looked like it was right smack in the middle of Santa Anita racetrack. Well, if Sylvia could really foretell the future, perhaps she’d give me a hot tip and I could win, place, AND show and get enough money to move out of S.H.A.R.I.’s.

  It was still early enough in the morning that I could ride my scooter on the streets, instead of risking life and limb on the freeways, and get to Arcadia in under an hour, according to Waze’s “avoid freeways and toll roads” setting. Colorado Boulevard was a straight shot through Glendale, Eagle Rock, Pasadena, and Sierra Madre, long enough for me to pass TWO Targets, TWO people twirling signs for auto repair shops, and TWO Uncle Sams—in one location! (Hello DIYintheUSA.com! I’ll be uploading as soon as I stop!)

  I spotted FOUR psychic reading places, none of them stripping, but one in a neon-pink shack, and another with a killer sign:

  Do you think the psychic is giving better readings now that there was new management?

  It was hard to hear Waze’s sultry robotic directions with my helmet on, so I had to keep pulling over to look at the map, which was even more difficult since my right eye, where the spider bit me, was getting totally swollen.

  Once I finally got to Santa Anita racetrack, Waze did NOT tell me to turn into the driveway. Instead, it said to make a right, then another right, and suddenly I was in a total suburban neighborhood with ranch homes and lawns dotted with orange trees and cherry blossoms. The air smelled like candy. Was I going to Sylvia’s house?! I rode around until I found the address on an unassuming home with cement bunnies on three stairs leading up to the front door. I was hesitant to pay a visit so early—not even 8:00 a.m. yet—but I only had twenty-eight hours left, so I had to dispense with manners.

  I parked my scooter and suddenly heard a loud SQUAWK. I jumped even farther and higher than when the sassy parrot at the food trucks yelled at me and Coco. Could he have been in on the hunt and was now here in Arcadia to continue his avian torture? And then I saw a sight I don’t think I’ll ever forget. There, on the front lawn of the Stripping Psychic’s suburban home…

  …were SIX PEACOCKS!! Was this staged for my benefit? Or were these Sylvia’s pets? I stared in wonder for quite some time, then started goading them, “Come on, somebody spread their tail. Fan it on out. You can do it. Show me what ya got.”

  And as if the Stripping Psychic had trained them in her spare time, on cue one fanned his extraordinary tail. I actually gasped.

  While taking pics of my new friends, I suddenly noticed through the kitchen window an old woman was eating a fried egg. Was I at the right address? Was that Sylvia’s mother? Maybe Sylvia was under new management, too. There was only one way to find out. Should I knock? Or maybe call first? Yes, good idea. I dialed the number I had already input into my phone.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice croaked. I could see through the window it was the elderly lady eating breakfast. She had picked up a red phone with a long, curly cord.

  “Hi. Sorry to call so early, I’d like to make an appointment to see Sylvia as soon as possible.”

  “Sure, honey,” she growled, “what time would you like to come?”

  “Well, I’m actually right outside her door. Any chance she could see me now?”

  The woman looked out at me, put her plate down, wiped her mouth with a napkin, then said, “Sure, honey.” She opened a tube of lipstick and applied it to her lips, which I could tell were chapped even through the window. “I’ll come open the door.”

  “Oh, wait!” I stopped her. “I first need to know if Sylvia charges for her readings.”

  “Of course!” she sputtered so emphatically that maybe even some fried egg shards flew out of her mouth. “It’s $100.00 an hour.”

  Fuck. I was fucked. After my bus ticket, the cab ride, all the food fuel I consumed at bus stops and Fred 62, not to mention filling Lola’s tank up, too, I had $12.00 and change left. Unless I used the money I had put aside to pay Jason back. But I just didn’t want to feel like I ever owed him anything.

  “Sorry, I can’t afford that,” I said. “Would it be cheaper if Sylvia didn’t strip? That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then why ARE you here?”

  “I’m… uh… looking for guidance. Sylvia was recommended by stripteasela.com. Do you think she would consider prorating and taking $10.00 for just five minutes?”

  “Come on in,” she said, hanging up the phone. Then she walked to the door and opened it. She extended her hand to shake mine. “Hi, honey. I’m Sylvia.”

  WHAT?!?! She looked like she was a fabulous, beautiful stripper… IN THE 1950s!!! She had to have been at least eighty-five years old. The deceiving pics on her website were clearly from decades ago. She wore a short black silky robe, black seamed stockings (like Coco’s tattoos but real!), a lace garter belt, and she teetered on open-toe heels. The house smelled like an ashtray, and she now had an after-breakfast cigarette dangling from her candy-apple-red lips.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said, looking me up and down as she started coughing.

  Could she tell I hadn’t changed my clothes in days? If so, wouldn’t she at least psychically know I had washed out my underwear yesterd
ay morning?

  “You’re not who I thought. I can’t do a reading for you.” She started to usher me out and added, “What the hell happened to your eye?”

  Damn spider. “Forget my eye, why can’t you do a reading for me?”

  “Something’s missing,” she answered, taking a long drag off her cig.

  What could she have possibly been talking about?

  “The shirt.” She finally answered, like she was trying to prove she read my mind. “You’re supposed to be wearing a certain shirt.”

  “OF COURSE,” I shouted! “The shirt!! I know exactly what you mean. I accidentally left my house without it.” After I described it in great detail (minus the fact that it probably STANK like the Stanktress now), she let me in and led me to the couch, motioning for me to sit. The Today Show was on the TV with the sound off.

  She coughed again. It sounded so familiar. Wait a minute… OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!! I had heard that cough hundreds of times when I listened over and over to the message that was on the phone number that was on the receipt that was with the dead chicken that was at the giant rooster!!! The coughs that had led me to the Villa Seaside Apartments!

  “Sylvia,” I shouted! “You’re that SYLVIA!”

  “Shhh,” she said, as she put her hand on my shoulder and closed her eyes. With her other hand, she touched her heart. Or it could have been her large left breast. It was hard to tell.

  I remained quiet as she spent several of my five minutes in that position. Finally, she said, “You have not been lucky in love.”

  “Well, that’s true,” I replied.

  She kicked off one of her shoes.

  “You long for a mate.”

  Well, who wouldn’t if you’re unlucky in love? She really could be talking about most of the population. I decided not to answer. She could keep her other shoe on for that.

  “You hunt for him,” she continued.

  OK, now she was getting somewhere. “Yes.”

  She kicked off her other shoe.

  “Look, I know you know all about this hunt, Sylvia. Please tell me more,” I begged.

  “You’ve been thinking big, right?”

  “Right.”

  She untied her robe and took it off. I couldn’t help but notice that Sylvia had a slammin’ body for an octogenarian. “Well, now it’s time to think small and focus on the key things.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Sorry, time’s up. $10.00, please.”

  “Wait, that’s it? Just tell me what that means. Who’s behind this? Where I can find him?”

  She put her one hand back on my shoulder, the other one back on her breast. “You know that you’re getting closer, don’t you.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  She unhooked her left hose from her garter belt, rolled it down, and slipped it off.

  “Well, for $200.00, maybe I could tell you more.”

  I stood up. “$200.00?! I told you I didn’t even have $100.00!”

  Despite the fact that she was trying to swindle me, I picked up her robe from the floor and placed it back over her shoulders.

  “I guess that’s a no?”

  “You got that right,” I answered. And she threw her robe off again.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she said.

  Even though I was concerned that her neighbors would see her scantily clad on her front lawn, I had to stop and ask Sylvia about the peacocks. She explained they were not her pets, but wandered over from the nearby arboretum.

  “They go all over the neighborhood,” she said. “Do you know what peacocks symbolize?”

  “Sure, pride?” I answered.

  “Yes, honey, but also the beauty we can achieve when we dare to show our true colors.” She winked at me. “Go for it.”

  Finally a nugget. I had to go through all that to get one profound insight from an eighty-five-year-old swindling, stripping psychic?

  “Thanks, Sylvia,” I said, stepping down the front stairs with the plaster bunnies.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” she yelped. She went back inside and returned a moment later holding something.

  “Good luck, honey,” she said as she handed it to me. And before I could ask her anything else, she went into the house and shut the door.

  A TAPE.

  There was a thick fluorescent-orange rubber band around it, holding a business card to the back. I slipped it off, of course accidentally snapped it on my knuckles (FUCK, OUCH), and studied the card. It was for a tattoo parlor called TATTWOSOME. For reals?

  Now what? Was I supposed to watch the new tape first? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Whitney and any other potential hunt girl were way better equipped sleuths than I and had brought their cameras with them. They probably had paid full price for “The Big Reveal” reading from Sylvia days ago when I was in S.F., watched their tapes, cracked the case, and were each kicking back with mojitos, taking bubble baths, and picking out their outfits for their 12:00 noon rendezvous with destiny tomorrow. But for me to watch the tape, I’d have to go home and get my camera. Should I go to the tattoo shop before? Well, let’s think logically, I thought, trying to, uh, think logically. There was a URL on the biz card—why not start there? I went to:

  www.Tattwosome.com

  Nothing about the site looked very suspicious or clue-ish other than the fact that it featured killah pics of people with matching or intersecting tattoos, and a place to upload pics of these #Tattwos (OK, now I get it!). There was a street address on the site, but no phone number, and I couldn’t find any listing for one after much searching. So clearly I had to go to Tattwosome in person to find out what was next, and see who the hell came up with such a cool idea for a tattoo parlor.

  I entered the West Hollywood address into Waze and it showed that since it was rush hour now, if I went on the freeway it would take forty-two minutes; side streets, nearly two hours. I couldn’t afford to lose that much time or I’d be handing over my future wasband to Whitney, or any other well-deserving opponent, on a silver platter.

  I put my helmet on and rode out of the suburban neighb, and past Santa Anita racetrack again. It was time to do things differently. To not let fear or limitation run my life. To risk being splattered across the 210 freeway. L.A. drivers are not at all aware of people on scooters. And L.A. drivers are generally so damn crabby about traffic that they feel entitled to speed, change lanes without signaling, and never look where they’re going, making it even deadlier for a scooter rider, especially on the freeway.

  I thought of all the people I should call or text to say goodbye to just in case. Or maybe I should record my last will and testament on my phone so at least I’d know Boo and Toupee would be provided for. But surely if I were flattened out like a pancake with dorky new glasses, my phone would meet an untimely demise as well. So I gathered my courage, flipped on my turn signal, and headed onto the freeway on-ramp for the first time ever. I chanted the whole way: Don’t die, don’t die, don’t kill me, don’t die.

  At least not until after 12:00 noon tomorrow.

  Chapter 59

  DAY 13—AFTERNOON

  Really? Did ya have to start raining during my first big-girl scooter ride on the freeway? Despite my newfound courage, I didn’t have a death wish, so I was forced to go back to surface streets and arrived in West Hollywood an hour and a half later.

  By the time I had ridden through Glendale, the Waze lady was so damn tired of telling me where to go, my phone died (and then I told HER where to go!). Great. How would I find my destination with the address AND directions lost in the dead zone? Surely in West Hollywood there would be plenty of tattooed peeps, and someone had to have heard of Tattwosome (unless, of course, it was totally fake, and that was a distinct possibility). That possibility was starting to seem more like a probability as once I arrived, no one I asked had ever heard of the shop. Finally, I found two adorbs tattooed girls (one had a genie coming out of a bottle on her arm, the other a pinup girl and a starburst) who looked it up on
their phones for me. It ended up being just blocks away, and they decided to escort me right to the front door so they could check it out. Shout-out to Candy and Elise! Nice to meet ya, and thanks for your help!

  When I walked into Tattwosome, a heavily tattooed (gee, surprise!) dude with a thick British accent simply said, “What can I do for you, luv?”

  “Um, I’m not entirely sure. Someone sent me here.”

  “And?”

  “OH, right! I’m supposed to be wearing a certain shirt. Long story short, it’s at my apartment but if I describe it does that mean anything to you?”

  The guy chuckled, displaying terrible teeth. I know it’s a total stereotype that Brits have bad teeth, but this guy could have been the BEFORE pic in any cosmetic dentist’s photo gallery. And his multiple nasal piercings only drew more attention to his crooked, stained chompers.

  “Sit down, luv,” he said. Then, “What’s with your eye?”

  HELLO, PEOPLE?! Do you have to keep asking?

  “Spider bite.”

  “Ouch,” he said. “All right, so will it be permanent or temporary?”

  “Really? Uh, is it going to cost me?”

  “No, luv. It’s a gift.”

  Awesome! Tattoos are expensive—this was quite an opportunity for a tattoo-lovin’ girl with no money. “Do I get to choose the design?”

  “No, luv. You don’t pick out your own gifts, now do ya?”

  Oh well, so much for that. Too risky. I could end up with a heart with MOM in it and be traumatized for life.

  “Well, then temporary.”

  The man pulled over a tray that had a bowl on it filled with brown paste (henna, I was assuming), and a variety of brushes. “Take off your sweater, luv.”

  I did. He took my right hand and laid it on the chair arm, palm up. He picked a brush, mixed the paste with it, meticulously wiped it against the rim of the bowl to get off any excess, and started painting on my arm. The feel of the brush lightly tickling me was totally relaxing. And since I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time the last several nights (except when I was in a roofied comatose state, and that didn’t count), it was like a lullaby.