Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  “Of course.”

  I can’t see Kobra’s eyes through his shades. “Who’s this? You bring security today? Or is he your new boyfriend?”

  “None of your concern,” Max says. His voice has a hard edge that I haven’t heard before.

  “I don’t think Mr. French Billionaire would like that very much.” Kobra gives me a nod of approval. “Nice dude, by the way. He’s so smooth. I don’t normally like Europeans, even the girls—I just can’t do body hair. Can’t charm my snake if your bush looks like it could talk back.”

  I cringe as he laughs at his own joke, if that’s what it was. “Gross,” I say.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I meant you.”

  He laughs. “Mmm. I always did like you. Feisty!”

  “What do you want from me?” I ask. “How’d you know I was going to be here?”

  “Good guess.” He smiles, all superior.

  What a snake. “Don’t play with me,” I say. “You messed with my phone.”

  He chuckles. “Of course I messed with your phone. I do that to everyone, sweetheart. It’s just good business to keep tabs on some people.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not how I do business. It’s over.”

  “Well, if you don’t like it, just turn it off. I activated Find My Friends.” When I pull up the app, I see his name. It says my “friend” Kobra is following me. A stupid picture of him smiles back at me.

  “See, it wasn’t a secret.”

  I deactivate the app. “If you ever track me again, I’m calling the cops.”

  He chuckles like that’s the best news he’s heard all day. “I don’t know how you keep your hands off her, man. She’s really feisty.”

  I make a face like I’m about to barf and Max says, “Stop being an asshole.”

  “You gotta let girls know you’re hot for them. That’s how relationships work.”

  OMG. Kobra giving relationship advice. “Let’s get on with it. Why did you want to meet?”

  “You know why. Crystal.”

  Fucking Crystal! My head is going to explode. What is it with this chick?

  “I paid to go out with her. I expected her to answer my calls after. Did I pay thirty-five grand for one date?”

  “If you were acting like this, I understand why Crystal didn’t take your calls after.”

  “Well, I want to see her again. As is, I’m not a satisfied customer.”

  “You are—no, were—a client, not a customer. You’re not buying a woman. You’re paying me to give you an opportunity to form a real connection. It appears that you already blew that. And I’m not surprised. Not to mention, why does it have to be her?” Not that I’ll set this freak up with anyone, except the police.

  “She’s gorgeous, street-smart—everything I’m looking for in a woman. You matched me up perfectly.”

  Funny he should say that, given that I seem to be matching Crystal with everyone. “That’s nice of you to say but I’ve fulfilled my part of the contract and so did Crystal.”

  He pulls out a Crown Royal bag and scoots it across the table to me. “I think you’ll change your mind if you take a peek in there. You and Crystal split that up however you want. I want another date.”

  I pull the golden draw cord. Inside, I find wads of hundred-dollar bills, maybe two or three packs, which I happen to know hold ten grand apiece. That makes it at least twenty thousand dollars.32

  While I’m gaping at the money, which looks like the real-life version of the money bag emoji, he looks toward the counter. “Did you see the pastries here? I’m dying for a slice of pie to go with this coffee.”

  He’s about to flag down the barista and seems genuinely concerned about what kind of pie he might be able to find here. I cut him off. In as badass a voice as I can manage, I say, “If Crystal doesn’t want to see you, she doesn’t want to see you. You’re done. I am no longer your matchmaker. You’re fired.”

  Instead of responding to me, he looks at Max. “You hitting that, dude?” He gestures to me. “I gotta say, I’m getting a little turned on. I hate the timid ones. If you want to go out instead of Crystal, I’ll take it under consideration.”

  Ugh. I’m going to vomit.

  “Word of advice, sugar,” Kobra says. “You gotta know when your hoes are done. If Crystal’s not pulling her weight, she’s past her shelf life. You can’t run her anymore.”

  “Eww! I’m not a pimp!” I throw the bag of money at his head. Hard. He ducks and it flies past him. “Asshole!” I scream. “No wonder Crystal won’t call you back! You’re. The. Worst!”

  Kobra turns to see cash flying out of the bag. The other diners in the courtyard look on in total amazement, and a woman sipping a latte puts her mug down and looks like she might stand and make a run for the bag. Kobra sees her out of the corner of his eye and screams “You’re a crazy bitch!” at me before running for the money.

  Max grabs my shoulder and says, “Let’s get out of here,” in a voice that is 190 proof, only-Poland-makes-that-kinda-alcohol serious. I thought he was focused before, but all of his intensity has been distilled into laser-like focus on getting out of the coffee shop before the police come or Kobra decides to bite.33 I agree.

  * * *

  On the way to the bank Max is quiet. After a moment, he says, “Do you think there’s any way that Crystal is dead?”

  “She can’t be…” I start to say. “I don’t think so, anyway. She answered my call on Thursday afternoon and told me to leave her alone.”

  Max seems satisfied. “I’m sure she’s fine, then.”

  “Probably. She might not mind if I was dead, though.” Kobra was so awful. I can’t believe I knew he was that bad before I sent Crystal on a date with him.

  “He can probably be charming when he wants to be. Most assholes can.”

  “Can you believe he called me a pimp?”

  “You’re not a pimp.”

  “I know, right?”

  Not a pimp. I’m just hooking girls up with sugar daddies. That’s…maybe not like United Nations—approved charity work, but it’s not pimping. I just have to get some better sugar daddies. Like Jules. Crystal will love him, if I can just find her.

  30 Band name idea: Interstellar Food Fight, just in case I find out I’m a drummer.

  31 I should probably pay him more.

  32 Maybe I used to work at a bank?

  33 Or strangle us.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  The Long Beach Wells Fargo is just a block or two over on Ocean Boulevard and has a stunning ocean view. In my head I hear a discordant buzzer and imagine crossing out bank with a big red X. There’s something messed up about a bank taking up a spot where a casual restaurant with a dolphin theme could be. The more I think about it, the more strongly I feel about dolphin-friendly businesses getting prime water views. Someone who grew up by the ocean probably wouldn’t even notice this or care. They’d be like “the ocean, who cares?” which makes me think I’m originally from the Midwest—someplace with a lot of corn and a dull, flat view. An ocean of corn isn’t an ocean, after all.

  “Did you do 4-H as a kid?” I ask Max as we head toward the bank, mostly because I’m wondering if I did.

  He gives me a weird look. “Where did that come from?”

  “Well, you’re from Minnesota. I’m starting to think I might be, too. Or, you know, from some similarly dull place.”

  He guffaws. “Watch your mouth. Prince was from Minnesota. Minnesota is dope.”

  “I bet I was born somewhere right off the interstate, like in a pit stop on the way to somewhere else, destined never to arrive anywhere by virtue of my birth.”

  Max stares flatly at me. “And you say you aren’t dramatic.”

  “So you don’t think I’m from Minnesota, too?”

 
; “I think you’re from the Midwest and you came to California to become an actress but ended up doing other things.”

  Wow. That assessment was…a little too real. But it’s probably true.

  “Did you know that I was in a commercial?” he says.

  “Stop it. You were not.”

  From his expression I know a good punch line is coming. “It was for a bacterial growth medium.”

  I laugh. “Sounds sexy.”

  “Basically every black kid in the sciences is an unpaid model. I’m the centerfold and cover model for every school I’ve ever been to.”

  I laugh. “You don’t even need Instagram.”

  We enter the lobby and find it completely empty. Literally no one goes into a bank anymore. The only people who come here are olds who don’t know how to digitally deposit checks. Most of the teller stations are closed but I see an Indian guy waving me over from the one open station. I walk up to him and see his nameplate: Kumar.

  “Hi, Kumar!” I say brightly. “I need your help. I tried to reset my password for my account online but I got a message saying I need to come in.”

  He doesn’t seem to be vibing with my cheeriness. “Driver’s license or government-issued ID, please.”

  That’s when it hits me. I woke up with: a rhinestone-studded clutch, a receipt for a Smartwater, a bobby pin, two keys, and my Pirate lipstick. Noticeably absent: money and credit cards. As the import of this dawns on me, I tell Kumar, “Um, I’m sorry. My purse was stolen. I’m actually here because of that.”

  He nods. “So you need replacement cards.”

  And then some.

  Kumar, probably concerned about privacy at this point or maybe just manners, turns to Max. “And you are?”

  Max holds out his hand like a good Midwestern boy. “I’m Max.”

  “Max is…Max works for me.” The explanation rolls off my tongue like a clod of dirt off a shovel. It feels like a lie, probably because I feel more like his employee. I mean, I’m the twentysomething chick in a too-short dress. He’s the neuroscientist. I’m the one with the earning power, though.

  Kumar seems deeply uninterested in whatever’s going on between me and Max. “I need to speak with my manager since you don’t have ID. Please wait here.”

  Even though he’s working with me, taking a guy to the bank feels worse than sleeping together too early.34 Max feels it too. “I have to run out and make a phone call. Check on some experiments. You know.”

  “Coo” rolls off my tongue like I’m too cool to pronounce the whole word. I watch him walk away. Maybe it’s because I’ve imprinted on him like a baby goose, but seeing him go makes my insides feel just a touch melty, like the best bite of a caramel roll. The caramel roll feeling lasts two seconds before I remember I have a boyfriend: JP. I’m pretty much living with JP. At least the old Mia was.

  It’s hard to care about a boyfriend I haven’t met. Sure, I feel like I won an award being his girlfriend, given that he’s so fancy and rich. But it’s hard to believe that he paid to date me, like I’m the prize. Yet another puzzle. Maybe he just wanted to date a woman from a pit stop, like a novelty.

  Either way, hanging out with Max is not cheating. I must hang out with all sorts of people who aren’t my boyfriend all the time. I’m coo like that.

  Kumar returns a minute later. “What’s your birthdate and social security number? Can you verify those?”

  “My birthday is…” I don’t think it will help my cause to tell him I don’t have a clue, so I pull up my Facebook page and click on “About Mia.” I haven’t filled in any of the info. Figures. I did input that I like Keeping Up with the Kardashians (which explains a lot) and #JulesBrand underwear. Thanks a lot, old self. Kumar seems to be noticing that it’s taking me a long time to remember my birthday and I admit that I don’t know the answer.

  “Do you know your social security number?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No clue.”

  He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Technically, I shouldn’t help you. I’m not supposed to talk with you unless you can answer at least some of these questions, but you’ve got nothing. You could literally be anyone off the street claiming to be Mia Wallace.”

  I nod, but the word technically gives me a spark of hope. I put on my friendliest “Help me, I’m just a girl” look. I’m due for a break. “If you just let me reset my password, I can get my whole life back on track.”

  “I would like to reset your password for you, but resetting your password is not the problem. The bank shut down your accounts permanently. You overdrafted and failed to pay.”

  I stare him. “That can’t be right.” I’m one of the top businesswomen under thirty in Long Beach according to that SoCal lifestyle website. “I’m running a successful business. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Kumar looks more closely at the account details. “All I know is what I see here. It looks like you bounced a check for $5,000 to a place called…High Flying, a pretty big check to Delta Airlines, and another for $150 to an Italian restaurant.” He frowns at the screen. “You also wrote a large check to…” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “What? What’d I do?”

  “To JulesBrand. Do you know what that is? Is that a store or a…person or…?”

  “What?” JulesBrand, as in JulesBrand underwear? That makes less than zero sense…“How much is it for?”

  “I’ve already said way too much…”

  None of this makes sense. First of all, I’m a successful businesswoman. And I saw the prices I charge on GoldRush. There’s no way I’m in the hole, no way I spent a substantial amount of money on men’s underwear.

  I start breathing a little too fast and sweating. Kumar looks concerned.

  Someone definitely stole my shit. “I recently woke up in the hospital and didn’t have any money or credit cards on me. This proves it. Someone stole my wallet.”

  “You were mugged?”

  “I was assaulted.” Basically.

  “I’m so sorry. Do the police have any suspects?”

  “I’m stopping by the police station next to check on progress in my case.” He doesn’t need to know that I haven’t reported it yet. But now that I’m thinking about it, why wasn’t that my first instinct?

  “What do I do now?” I ask. “Can I get my money back? I mean, I can’t do anything without money.” I’m starting to regret throwing Kobra’s bag of money into the courtyard right about now…

  “I can report your card as stolen, but with that much money at stake, the bank won’t simply return it. You’ll have to bring a copy of your police report.”

  “Can you print out one of the statements so I can show it to the police? I probably have to show them what was stolen.” I can just imagine the conversation without a bank statement:

  “Ma’am, how much money was stolen and what unauthorized purchases were made?”

  “Umm, like ten grand, I think, but I’m not sure?”

  “What is the account number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So, let me summarize: you think you have a bank account and that someone spent all the money in it, but you’re not sure.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hey, Mike, you hear this? This lady said she feels like she should have money and wants to report it.”

  At that moment, Max walks in smelling like a coffee shop and Old Spice. “Hey how’s it going? Wrapping up here?”

  “Totally. Let’s roll.” No point in dragging this out more.

  “That’s great news! You have an address and money and everything then?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure about the address, but—”

  Max’s nerdy dad side comes out. “Kumar, could you tell us what address you have on file?”

  “As soon as you come back with the police—�
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  “They have JP’s address,” I lie. Max doesn’t need to know that I can’t pay him. Maybe he’s staying around for more than money, but maybe not. Regardless, I can’t afford to lose him.

  But Max isn’t dumb. He can fill in the blanks. “Why do they need a police report?”

  “Uh…” I can’t tell him that I need a search warrant to look at the bank records so…“I’m going to report my assault. Can you believe I didn’t do that earlier?”

  He smacks himself in the forehead. “I guess I just assumed you had.”

  Max is the only thing I have going for me. I can’t lose him. It’s just a little lie. Or two or three little lies. I’ll straighten it all out as soon as I file that police report. I’ll have money and everything will be fine.

  Still, I can’t believe I just threw a bag of cash on the ground. God hates me.

  34 Or maybe I just have issues with money?

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  The closest police station is downtown in a big, official building, right across from the courthouse and a Starbucks. We park two blocks away. It looks nice but it smells like pee and the smell of weed is looouuud. As we approach the courthouse, there are more people who are obviously lawyers and fewer people who obviously peed on the side of a building in the last twenty-four hours.

  I need some way to get rid of Max while I file this report. He doesn’t need to know I’m broke. Maybe his first paycheck will be a little delayed, but I’ll figure something out. Which means I need an errand…

  “Max, while I’m filing this report, will you run an errand for me?”

  I scramble for ideas. He’s very thoughtful so I bet he’d be happy to pop on down to the drug store to get some headache medicine. The coffee shop is too close so it would only take a minute.

  “Sure. Let’s divide and conquer,” he says.

  Not sure where I’m going with it, I say, “We passed a library a few blocks back…”

  “Genius. I bet a librarian will have some great ideas for how to research some of these issues.”