Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  While I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror to slap on another coat of Pirate by Chanel and smooth flyaway hairs, Max takes a moment to grandstand.

  “I’m offended as a black man that you don’t see the problem with this.”

  “Umm, I mean…I just want to take a nap.”

  “Mia, do you seriously think I can walk into a casting call and try to recruit some girls to go on a date? It’s pretty sketchy just coming from a white girl. Coming from a big black guy—at the very least I’m getting kicked out. I wouldn’t put it past someone to call the cops. They’d probably think I’m some kind of pimp.”

  “Whatever. I’m already doing it. You can stop your whining now.”

  He scoffs. “I’m just telling you how it is.”

  I’ve stopped listening to Max. He’s right about the awkwardness of the whole thing. No matter which one of us walks in there, it’s going to be suspicious. “You’re right. It’s gonna seem like I have an angle.”

  “You do have an angle.”

  “I think I’m going to pretend that I have a crisis and—”

  He cuts me off. “Good luck and text me if the cops come.” Why do I feel like these should be our parting words every time?

  As I approach the warehouse, I see a line of beautiful women, all between the ages of twenty and thirty, standing outside. It shouldn’t be hard to find one of them who would like to go on a date with a millionaire. All I have to do is not come off as a total freak.

  I sneak into the line. I just want to be in the highest density of potential dates. “No cuts,” one chick says.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  She glares and I head to the back of the line. A redheaded girl next to me looks like she could go on a date with Jules, i.e., she’s the right age and probably looks good in her underwear. All around me, people are doing vocal exercises and pantomiming actions while reading lines from a script. Redhead is not.

  “What’s this audition for?” I ask her.

  “Umm…I can never keep track.” Glancing at a sheet, she says, “It’s like a Grey’s Anatomy kind of show. Some hospital soap opera.”

  “And what are we all auditioning for?”

  “Did you just walk in off the street?” she asks.

  “I just do so many of these,” I say.

  “I feel ya. This one is for Pretty Girl Number 2.”

  “Can I see the lines?” Way to shoot for the stars, ladies! Pretty Girl Number 2! Shouldn’t we be going for Number 1 at least? Or maybe a role with a name?

  Redhead looks at me like I’m crazy. “The lines aren’t that important.” She hands me a sheet. Pretty Girl Number 2 has to scream and run. She also has to yell, “Oh my God!! Help!”

  I don’t know what these girls are practicing for. I have a much bigger challenge ahead. I shudder as if to shake off the reality that I’m living, shut my eyes, and visualize the scene I’m trying to create. When I open my eyes, I’m fully in character.

  I start scrolling on my phone like everyone else in line.

  After an appropriate amount of time, I gasp. “FUCK,” I say, like someone has just taken a melon baller and scooped a chunk of my heart out with it. I stomp my foot. Then, like I’m trying to pull myself together, I stand up straight, shoulders back, and shut my eyes. I’m wrapping up my emotions tightly.

  A few girls look in my direction before they start talking again. I completely ignore them.

  I’m not done yet, though. I hang my head and start crying a little, gently weeping. Redhead can’t ignore me anymore. “What is it?” she says.

  “It’s just…It’s so silly. I’m embarrassed.”

  “I’m sure it’s not silly. What is it?”

  “I was supposed to have a date tomorrow night with Jules Spencer.” I look up to see if she knows him. “You know, the famous underwear guy?”

  From the look on her face, I can tell she knows him.

  “I can’t go. My boss just texted and said I have to work. I need that job.”

  “Ohmygod. That’s like hashtag the worst.”

  That’s like hashtag the dumbest sentence I’ve ever heard, but I nod. I shut my eyes like I’m trying to hold back tears. I let one leak out. It’s easy. All I have to do is think about my life. I wonder how many of these other bitches can cry on demand. “A blind date with a millionaire—I mean, how often does that kind of opportunity come along?”

  Redhead rests her hand on my forearm and looks appropriately upset for me. “I’m so sorry. Sometimes it just seems that no matter how hard you try, you can’t get ahead in life.”

  “I don’t know if this is weird, but do you want to go? I mean, it’s a blind date. It should go to someone.”

  Redhead’s hand flies to her heart. “For real?”

  I shut my eyes like I’m on my deathbed and willing her my only child. “Someone should go. Better you than one of these other bitches.”

  I tell her the time that she should meet Jules tomorrow and start to fill her in the details. I can’t lie. I’m starting to enjoy myself.

  “Where is this place?” she asks. “What should I wear?”

  A guy in glasses and schlubby clothes wanders over slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and interrupts Redhead’s questions. He starts clapping for me. “Congratulations, miss. Why don’t you come me with me?”

  “Um…who are you?”

  “I’m the director, and you just won a spot at the front of the line. Probably the role, even.”

  “Why?” There’s no way I’m going with him. Talk about snake oil salesmen—he definitely looks like one.

  “I saw your performance in line. It was brilliant.”

  I glare at him.

  “I think you have just the right energy. Your whole vibe.” He does a weird thing with his hands, like he’s feeling my aura. Fucking Hollywood loon. “And you dressed for the part,” he says. “All these other girls are just trying to look cute, but you’re…gritty.” He says gritty with a growl. “Are those staples?”

  With the reminder, I run my fingers along the hard metal ridges. Dr. Patel said they had to stay in for ten days. It hasn’t even been a full four yet.

  He gives me an admiring look. “You’re just who we need. I just want you to read for the camera and we need to see how you look without that dress on.”

  I look at Redhead to see if she heard him. “Did you hear that? He wants me to undress! I don’t know if you got the memo, dude, but that kind of Harvey Weinstein bullshit is over.” I look at the crowd of second-string pretty girls for some support. “Amirite, ladies?”

  I’m not getting any support, though.

  “Miss,” the director says, “do you know what kind of movie you’re auditioning for?”

  “Pretty Girl Number 2, medical drama.”

  “That’s true. It’s set at a hospital, but once we get in scene all the clothes come off and the script isn’t that important. Ya feel me?”

  “Fuuuuck me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you didn’t say that in the informational material.” I read Redhead’s sheet. It sounded like Grey’s Anatomy.

  He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s a job.”

  “It’s exploitative.” I look at the line of women. “Do you all know this is an audition for a porno?”

  Some of them look surprised. No one looks that surprised, though.

  “That’s messed up, dude. You know these women are desperate for a job and will do anything once you dangle a few false promises.” I look to the line of women. “Who’s walking out with me?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. I’m trying to make a movie.”

  I scoff. I can’t believe he thinks I’m the problem. “For real? Is it even legal to make a porn?”

  He nods. “It’s a highly regu
lated industry. Do I need to call the cops?”

  “Maybe. Someone needs to stand up for these women.” When I realize he’s serious, I backtrack. “Sorry, I’m going.” I look at Redhead and stage-whisper, “Do you still want that date?”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  Dammit. “I’m not crazy. I just want better for us.”

  She averts her eyes as if she’s scared of me.

  All I want is one woman to pretend to be Crystal for a night. How fucking hard can it be? This guy has women lined up to get naked on screen and do who knows what. So I throw a Hail Mary. Projecting like I’m on stage, which I’m apparently great at, I say, “I’m leaving, but I want to offer one of you women a job. I run a matchmaking service and I need someone to go on a date with a rich man tomorrow night. It’s a great deal.”

  A woman who’s close enough to have heard everything says, “Lady, that sounds way scarier than what he’s offering.”

  “It’s just the way I phrased it,” I say. “I set up millionaires with regular people. I’ve been written up in SoCal magazine. I just need one pretty girl and any of you would qualify. For me, you’d be Pretty Girl Number 1.”

  The director has his phone out. “I have a situation here.”

  “Got it, I’m leaving!” Maybe one of the wannabe actresses will meet me in the parking lot. As quick as I can in my heels, I walk to the Ferrari and open the passenger door.

  “That was quick,” he says. “Does that mean it worked?”

  I shake my head. “Definitely not. The cops might be coming.”

  Max looks over to see if I’m telling the truth. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “One hundred percent serious.” I’m shaking a little. How many interactions with the police can I have in one day?

  “Roger that.” He starts the car and high-tails it out of there.

  On our way out, a police cruiser turns into the lot. I groan and sink lower into my seat. “I’m an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not an idiot.”

  “You told me not to do that.”

  “True. And I turned out to be right, but you gave it a shot. If you were a scientist, I’d probably think you were doing a lot of harebrained experiments, but you take a lot of risks. You’d be the one to make the big breakthroughs.”

  Max has silenced me with his sincerity. That is the nicest compliment ever, especially coming from him. Normally I would prefer a comment about how great my ass looks, but from Max all I want to hear from now on is, “If you were a scientist…”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  “All of us suffer from confirmation bias, only recognizing ideas that support our existing beliefs. Just hanging out with you, I’m starting to recognize my biases. It’s a good learning experience for me.”

  “That’s what this internship is all about,” I say with a ridiculous smile. “I assume you think I’m hot, too?”39

  He chokes on a laugh. “Duh.” He looks at me in a very familiar way. “Super hot. And this is a vice presidency, not an internship.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, Max,” I say, and pat his arm. “Now that we have that cleared up, I have one more idea. It didn’t work at the casting call, but I think pretty much any girl at Starbucks could be Crystal. And there’s a Starbucks just ahead.”

  We’re at a stoplight. He looks over at me skeptically and says, “Go on.” I can tell he’s trying hard to listen without shooting me down immediately.

  “How about we walk in and yell out, ‘Hey ladies, anyone here wanna go on a date with Jules Spencer, the underwear model?’ ”

  He laughs.

  “I’m serious.

  “So am I. I’m not doing that.”

  “I thought you said I should be a scientist.”

  “I take it back.”

  I’m about to argue my point when my phone pings. “MAX!” I scream way too loudly given that we’re inside a car. “Cue the hallelujah chorus!”

  “What? Did that Craigslist Elsa text you?”

  “Even better. It’s Crystal.”

  Pick me up from work. 6 pm. Tomorrow.

  I almost tell her to take a long walk off a short pier, but I hold back. She’s the one who I matched with clients when I had resources and my wits about me.

  Awesome. Text me address.

  * * *

  Back at JP’s, I tell Max I’m off to lie down. I’m officially out of energy.

  “Thank God. I was worried about you. You know that you can die from lack of sleep.”

  “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

  “Trust me. You need more sleep than you realize right now.”

  “The sun hasn’t even set yet. I just need a little nap.”

  I schlep down the hall and plop into the center of JP’s giant bed. It would take up the whole room, if the master suite wasn’t luxury sized.

  Max knocks on the doorframe. “Mind if I tell you one thing before you go to sleep?”

  “As long as I don’t have to sit up. And it’s just a nap.” I pat the bed next to me and say, “We can have a meeting here. You can even turn on Netflix if you want.”

  Max sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m glad you got some good news with Crystal…because I have some bad news.”

  I stare at him wordlessly.

  “So, it’s not really bad news. It’ more like ‘Joke’s on us’ news. When I was waiting for you at the casting call, I went through some of your GoldRush material and found out something about Jules.”

  I can’t imagine what he’s going to say.

  “So you know how we’re doing all of this because Jules paid you thirty-five grand?”

  My eyes are wide now. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, he didn’t pay you anything.” He lets that information sink in for a second before continuing. “You paid him $100,000 to use GoldRush. He just has to post a few times using #GoldRush. And he agreed to take Crystal to several locations where he will be photographed by paparazzi.”

  I sit bolt upright in the bed. “WHAT? Am I insane?”

  “I thought so at first, but maybe not. He’s an influencer, so you’re paying him to influence people, I guess.” He puts his palms up and gives me a half smile. “This is all new to me.”

  I pull the covers over my face. “I almost got arrested looking for a Crystal replacement today. I could have given him anyone. I could have gone.”

  “Joke’s on us.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter. I really needed to find Crystal. If we were in Oz, I think she’d be the Wizard.”

  “But at least you’re so crazy rich that you can blow one hundred grand on wild bets like paying Jules for an Instagram post. Must be nice.”

  I laugh like it’s funny. It’s definitely not, considering that I actually have no money. I keep that to myself. If I don’t go into a Netflix coma right now, I’m going to explode.

  Instead of leaving, Max turns on the TV and leans back to watch with me. “I’m just going to watch until I fall asleep,” I say. I think about turning on Grey’s Anatomy—the casting call made me all nostalgic for it—but then I have a flash of awareness. Max is with me and he’s not planning on sleeping through the show. “What do you want to watch?”

  “Um, I might just read.”

  “Okay, I’m picking something out for you then.” It’s like a fun little gift-giving challenge. I settle on a documentary called The Beginning and the End of the Universe.

  I don’t know if it’s what he would have picked, but he smiles contentedly and rubs my arm in acknowledgment of…my TV choice, or maybe more. Before I drift off, the narrator’s monotone voice says, “It’s a good rule of thumb that, in science, the simplest questions are often the hardest to answer.”

  If that isn’t the truth.

  “Wake me up in an hour, will you?”

  He
nods. “This bed is the size of the Titanic—and so much nicer than the couch.” He spreads so far out that we’re not even touching anymore. Damn. “Just think, if Kate Winslet’s life raft had been this big…she could have saved herself and Leo.”

  Right now the bed feels like a life raft. It’s for me and Max. We’re sheltered from the world for just a little while. I scoot closer and lean against him. “Don’t say anything. I just want to fall asleep with you.”

  His eyes are darker than usual, and I can tell he’s looking at my lips, but he makes a joke. “That’s what all the girls say.”

  “I know that’s a lie.” Max isn’t the guy you want to just fall asleep next to. “Wake me up in an hour,” I repeat as I let my eyes drift shut.

  39 If he wants a learning experience, I’m gonna let him know how he’s actually supposed to compliment a lady.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Waking up is worse than coming out of a coma—and I should know. I’m in my bed fully clothed and the TV is still on. A screensaver is flashing between pictures of waterfalls and scenic grasslands and the Great Wall. Max isn’t in bed anymore, but there’s a big rumpled spot in the blanket where he was.

  I look down at my phone. It’s Sunday. My own personal The Bachelor is flying back from Switzerland today, probably with my red rose in his teeth, and I just spent the night in his bed with his house sitter. I think. I press my nose to the sheets and detect a faint piney smell. I know it’s just deodorant but it’s weirdly intimate.

  I’m still staring at the doomsday proclamation that it is Sunday, the day of the date that will determine the fate of my business, when Facebook notifies me that it’s Emily Carol’s birthday. I write happy birthday! just in case she’s my best friend. While I stare at the happy birthday message, Emily starts to respond and my heart rate goes wild. Emily knows me! But her response evaporates. It’s as if I’m truly alone in the universe, except for Max.

  “Maaaax!” I call. “Where are you?” There’s no point prying myself out of bed unless I know he’s ready to distract me from myself, or “help me confront my problems,” as he’ll probably say.