Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  I wouldn’t want to make any of these artists jealous, but I think I’m struggling more with self-representation than they are at the moment. Being a spectator to my shitty existence is causing way more pain than the guy who painted himself in glasses and hung it on the wall. But mostly, if I don’t get a sandwich soon, I’m going to die.

  Thank God they have a restaurant. Claire’s at the Museum looks fancy, with yellow umbrellas on a patio overlooking the beach with lots of #locallysourced ingredients and Mexican dishes everyone is dying to eat, but sprinkled with Himalayan salt for fanciness reasons.

  This is where the party was, where I (the mistress?) fought the executive director’s wife and lost my memory. But this story doesn’t sound true, and I’ve already determined that there’s no way I could be pregnant. Again, Dr. Patel would have to be really bad at his job to let that fact get by him.

  The event area where the party must have been is behind the museum, a grassy suburban backyard that looks ripe for bocce and lemonade but located on a cliff overlooking the beach and harbor. It’s not far above where I took the selfie next to the meth head who is now presumably on a bus to somewhere $10 away from here. Directly ahead is a resort-y looking island, the same one I noticed from the beach.

  A girl—or, more accurately, a waitress—walks up to me. “Did you know that island is just an oil well in the harbor? They put a glass-brick tower around the well to make it look like a hotel and planted a palm tree next to it,” she says.

  “Really?” I look at the waitress. She’s wearing a white shirt with one of those aprons that has shallow square pockets, one for the bill and one for who knows what else. Forks? I’ve never been a waitress, I guess.

  “That is so weird,” I say, looking at the island. Now that she’s mentioned it, that’s all I can see: an oil refinery in a cheap disguise. The harbor is filled with these fake islands. A few tankers are headed in to dock at the Long Beach Pier, a giant undisguised oil refinery.

  I’m not picky, though. A fake view is fine with me.

  “Do you want a table?” she asks.

  Until now I’ve been staring at the harbor, but when I turn and tell her, “No, thanks,” a funny look passes over her face. She stares for a second, as if to place me. When it hits her, she exclaims, “Oh my God! I’m so glad you’re okay! I thought you might be dead.”

  I snap to attention. #eyewitness—and this one appears to be ready for the stand. I scan her name tag. Azalea.

  Azalea examines me, wide-eyed and, I think, legitimately surprised. I’m definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened to her today.

  “I’m okay. What happened? I don’t have any memory of that night.”

  “Dios mio! I’ve never seen that much blood.” She puts her hands to her heart.

  Azalea is definitely exaggerating. I’m wearing the same dress the massacre occurred in, so it couldn’t have been that bad, bloodwise at least. The cape did look pretty bad, though. I’ll give her that.

  “I didn’t see much. I heard an argument, though.” With a snicker she says, “Well, I mean, everyone heard an argument.”

  “What about?”

  “Something about a guy. And I heard someone mention GoldRush.”

  “GoldRush?”

  “You know, that dating app for rich guys.”

  So it’s not a mine in Alaska, and it’s something worth arguing over? It still doesn’t ring a bell.

  “I don’t know what the argument was about, but I heard someone yell ‘GoldRush!’ which I thought was funny. I just read about this chick I went to high school with. She got engaged to some high-fructose gazillionaire from Iowa.” The California-speak edges into her voice the more emotional she gets about not having her own millionaire. When she says, “I mean, Iowa!” she might as well be in the Valley twirling her hair. “They met on GoldRush. I was totally thinking of signing up. I mean, it’d be like winning the lottery, but girl, I’ve earned it.”

  Her eye makeup game is solid, if that’s what she’s getting at. More important, maybe that’s how I met my millionaire. I mentally flag this to research later; I need to get every bit of info out of Azalea while I can.

  “Anyway, when I heard yelling, I came running…totally dropped the tray I was carrying, which would have pissed my boss off, if he’d noticed. Before I got to the screaming, I saw you falling toward the ice sculpture. In a split second you’d smacked into it and were sprawled on the ground.”

  “Ice sculpture?” She must mean the Cupid I was kissing in my last Insta post. Good thing he didn’t actually kill me. That would’ve been crazy morbid, definitely worth one of those “Last post before she died” slideshows on BuzzFeed.

  “Yeah, it was this cute sculpture of Cupid. In retrospect, that arrow was probably too pointy.”

  “Did someone push me into Cupid or did I just fall?”

  “Pushed. I saw you being propelled backward into the statue. That I’m sure of, but I don’t know who pushed you. There was a commotion and whoever did it took off.”

  Someone pushed me into Cupid’s arrow. Talk about messed up. Did my attacker choose the statue intentionally or was it just a random act of symbolism?

  “I gotta get back to work,” she says.

  “Cool, can we exchange numbers or something, though? In case I have any more questions?”

  She gives me her cell. “I’m also @TheRealChicaBonita on Insta if you want to look me up.”

  I add Azalea’s phone number to my contacts; she is one of two people in my phone whom I know IRL. If I get married anytime soon, she’ll have to be a bridesmaid.

  I watch Azalea head back to work. She’s going to look great in my wedding photographs at least. The girl is adorable—cuter than me, even. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like I’m a competitive bitch. #girlpower.

  In the parking lot I scroll through her Instagram. On Tuesday, she posted a selfie with her eyes brimming with tears, just the right amount to make her look sad-pretty and draw attention to her improbable lashes. There’s no way those are natural, right? And what filter is this? Rise? It’s really flattering. I scan the caption: Saw a woman die tonight. Hold your loved ones tight. Any moment could be your last.

  Really, Azalea, talk about jumping to conclusions. I definitely wasn’t dead. I roll my eyes at the comments below the picture:

  OMG Zizi! I hope u r OK! All my !!!!!

  Stay strong gurl!!!!

  Plus about twenty more.

  Excuse me. I didn’t even get flowers. Not a single condolence or visitor to the hospital. This post was like my obituary starring Azalea.

  The morning after my supposed death, she posted a picture of her butt in tight jeans.

  Azalea is officially out of the wedding.

  I need to get out of here, but on the way out of the museum I walk past MySelfie, the new exhibit. Fuck them. Fuck their pain. I’m going to give them a goddamn self-portrait. There’s a selfie booth with a very PhD-esque description of the selfie as today’s version of the self-portrait, and a few sentences about how in the past only the rich could experiment with self-portraiture, versus these days when every asshole can take a gazillion self-portraits a day. Was this the democratization of self-obsession? On another note, I’m totally saving the line about democracy for the next time Max looks smug when I take a pic in front of him.

  I’m not sure if the commentary about the inherent power of choosing how to present yourself to the world jibes with reality. The wall of self-portraits is filled with shots of girls with heart crowns and Barbie-fied faces. Does a Snapchat filter that gives you kitty whiskers, makes your ears sparkly, and erases your zits carry power? Is there power in choosing to be fake? In choosing to conform? Online anyone can look like an ideal woman, but only online.

  The exhibit’s selfie booth is a teenage dream. It encourages runaway selfishness. There are backgrounds, props, hats, Ve
netian masks, and party beads to pick from. A college intern is posted next to the booth to assist. None of the computerized backgrounds (hot-air balloon and cotton candy scenes) work for me. I’m not in the mood for any cutesy bullshit, so I stand in front of a blank wall without any props, not even a fake smile, and snap a pic. It looks like a mug shot.

  “Whoa, I like what you’re doing here,” the intern says. “You’re moody AF.”

  Like my mood is part of a costume. “No, bitch. I just hate the world for real at the moment. Do you have a black Sharpie I can borrow?”

  He nods. “I feel ya. The world is a cesspool.”

  I can see Audi keys in his back pocket. I think his world is a candy store, but whatever.

  He wanders off to find me a Sharpie. After he prints my moody AF photo I write, If you have any information about this woman, please message @Mia4Realz on Instagram.

  “That’s deep. I mean, really profound.”

  I give a half smile and hang up the picture, right in the center of all the other selfies. I’m the only mug shot in a sea of adorable girls being adorable. “I’m serious. I just want information. I need someone to tell me who I am.” I jam in an extra pushpin so it doesn’t fall off. “As soon as possible.”

  “Don’t we all,” he says, totally missing my point. As I walk out, wearing my mood (if that’s what he wants to call it) harder than Lady Gaga wore that sliced meat dress, he says, “I hope you enjoyed the exhibit.”

  Maybe my ego is out of proportion, but I think I am the exhibit.

  Finally, Max texts back. Lunch sounds great. Ready when u r.

  I stare at the text a little longer than necessary, like it’s a message in a bottle from that Nicholas Sparks movie. You know the one. It’s just a text about lunch, but to me it’s a lifeline. I need to show him Azalea’s Instagram, look up GoldRush, and show him my yacht. Max better buckle up ’cause I’ve just drafted him as the Watson to my Sherlock.

  Google says it’ll take thirty-nine minutes to get to the lab. I text back, Pick you up in 25.

  15 Definitely not an art person. I seem to have deep-seated prejudices against art people.

  16 I could have thought of that. Maybe I did. I should check to see if I work here.

  17 I love you, Kristen Bell! #marshmallows #VeronicaMars

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  With traffic it takes more like an hour to get to Max’s lab, but at least I look fast. I park the Ferrari in a handicapped spot out front on the theory that if I follow my instincts, I’ll find my true self faster. All of my random impulses are probably who I am at my core. We all get through the day on muscle memory for the most part. If I don’t think and just do, I might arrive at my true self.

  So there we have it: a bright red Ferrari in a handicapped spot when there are, like, five other spaces available. Am I in a hurry all the time? I reapply my lipstick and walk into the building, my heels clacking on the sidewalk. Devil may care in Pirate red. And I was a cape wearer. If I wasn’t me, I’d want to be my friend.

  The inside of the building is covered with posters from every scientific conference, and the people walking around look like they’re filled with purpose and a sense of belonging. Max fits in perfectly. Could I ever fit in at a place like this?18

  Speaking of Max, I catch sight of him coming toward me and I exhale. The yacht, the art museum, the freeway…I didn’t realize how tightly clenched I’ve been until now.

  I realize his clothes are pretty wrinkly, as if he’s been looking through a microscope in one position for too long. He could also use a haircut and a trip to the mall, something I’m pretty sure I could help with.

  “I have so much to tell you,” I say.

  Then I see his face. Something truly awful has happened in the last few hours. He looks like someone just told him that Congress defunded the space program for a second time.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Ugh. I’ll tell you in a second. I have to get some stuff out of my lab. I’m clearing out of here for a couple of days.”

  It must be bad.

  I follow him up to his lab, which is a cross between a highend hospital and an office building. The lab echoes the look of the lobby—cool, clean, and painted in shades of gray. The only thing that saves it from being totally boring is the printouts of memes, comics, joke pictures, and takeout menus pinned to the walls. That alone makes me want to hang out with these twentysomething geniuses, telling jokes and eating Chinese delivery. How is there not a sitcom set in a lab? Or a romantic workplace drama starring Max? Totally bingeable TV, in my opinion.

  A couple of lab girls who are cute enough to make me question if they’re neuroscientists say, “Ohmygod Max! We heard the bad news. Fay is such a bitch.” Apparently science girls also speak Valley because their accents are strong.

  “I can’t believe Eric is firing you,” one of them says.

  Max exhales. “Me either.”

  Fay, who I recognize from her Gchat profile picture, walks up to the group. She’s even prettier in person. She and Max were probably the power couple of the neuroscience department, with Nobel prizes and modeling contracts in their future.

  “I don’t know why you’re leaving, Max,” she says. “I was just making a point.”

  He laughs bitterly. “That was not a point. That was straight-up sabotage.”

  “You’re just being sensitive. You don’t have to throw away your job. Just fix the damn software.”

  I’m on the edge of my seat. Tell me what you did, Fay!

  Max sets down his box, as if he needs all his focus to say whatever he’s about to say and can’t also hold a box. “Eric made it very clear that both of us are fired because of what you did, Fay!”

  While Fay starts going off about how he did some shit too, I ask one of the lab girls who Eric is.

  “He’s the principal investigator,” she says. “Our boss.”

  I’m piecing it together: Fay got up to some sort of science shenanigans because she’s pissed about the breakup, and now both Fay and Max have been fired.

  Fay puts her hands on her hips and gives Max a piercing gaze. “And you’re being dramatic, Max. You’re only fired if you don’t fix it.”

  Looking exasperated, Max says, “And what am I supposed to fix? You destroyed two years’ worth of work and I have a few days to figure it out and save my job. It’s over, Fay.”

  When Fay says, “You’re not even trying, Max,” I think she’s talking about more than his job. I guess he didn’t work as hard at being a boyfriend as he did at being a scientist.

  Max picks up his box. He’s done talking. I recognize the look on his face. He needs some time to process his sudden career change and office drama.

  Fay looks in my direction and sizes me up. “Nice dress,” she says. “I’m Fay, Max’s colleague.”

  “Former,” Max says.

  While Fay and I shake hands, she rolls her eyes at Max. “Former colleague is actually true.”

  “Mia’s my new girlfriend,” Max says.

  “Mmhmm,” I say, and sidle up to Max, wiggling up against him like he’s catnip, which he basically is.

  Fay looks back and forth between the two of us. “Good luck with him, Mia.” Still completely composed and wearing a smile, she says, “He’s a big fat liar.”

  This neuroscience lab show is better than the Kardashians.

  “I’ve never lied in my life and you know that, Fay.”

  Fay flips her silky ponytail over her shoulder and raises her eyebrows. “You think that through while you’re fixing the software.”

  Max kisses the top of my head. “Let’s go, Mia.” He calls out to no one in particular, “I’m leaving.”

  “What is going on?” I ask.

  “Fay fucked with our software and put in a bunch of bugs just to prove a point,
something about me. Eric, our boss, told us we’re fired if we can’t fix it. I don’t know what the hell she did and she’s not talking, something about how ‘if I really knew her, I’d be able to fix the project.’ Can you believe it?” He glances my way to make sure I’m following and understand just how crazy Fay is. “There’s no way I’m playing that game.”

  “You’d rather lose your job and give up on your dreams than play Fay’s game?”

  “Yes.”

  Max is apparently so stubborn that he will throw away his whole career for this.

  “We’re fired until we prove we’re not all just messing around.”

  They are messing around, and I love it—it’s so much more interesting than whatever lie-detection system they’re trying to build. I don’t say that to Max, obviously.

  “I don’t know why Fay’s not embarrassed.”

  “She’s proud,” I say. I can’t wait to find out what she did.

  On our way out, Max has to do “one more thing.” He walks me down the hall to a room with a lot of warnings on the outside about high-powered magnets. DON’T WEAR YOUR WATCH OR BRING CELL PHONES IN, reads one sign, as if anyone has a watch these days. “I have a test subject in the fMRI,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to use this data, so I might as well let her go.”

  I follow Max into the room after ditching my phone in a basket outside the door. In the center of the room, there’s a girl in an outfit that features a bolo tie and short shorts, wearing a very large metal helmet. It looks like a prototype of the first scuba diving gear and I’m grateful that her neck is strong enough to hold it up. Max points at a big computer screen displaying a picture of a brain.

  “Hers?” I ask.

  “Yep, I’m taking pictures of her brain while she’s lying.” He points out the amygdala on the screen. “You can tell this chick is a good liar because of all the extra white matter. Her brain is good at making connections quickly. You need to be pretty smart to be a good liar.”

  “How much are you paying her?”

  “Twenty bucks an hour. She’s been here for two already.”