Find Me I'm Yours (14 page)

I saw and heard them loud and clear. I had been focusing inward so much, by now I was mired in my own innards. It was time to turn it inside out. I ran back to my apartment with a plan. I was hoping S.H.A.R.I. wasn't there, but that would just mean she was at Jason's, which was equally shitty. Hold it. I was going inward again. Out, out, take it out!

A couple of hours later, after “borrowing” my roomie's printer (I figured the ink usage was fair trade for all she'd taken from me!), I hit the streets and put these up:

It was time to come out and step up. That's the least I could do for Cooper.

DAY 6—MORNING

“Well, if your collages don't sell, we could sue Malcolm for sexual harassment,” Coco said, as we put the finishing touches on our “Enough with the Food Truck Weddings” piece.

“True, but that ain't exactly fast cash. “So,” I asked, as I pushed off our desk and rolled back in my chair to get a good look at her, “are you and Blake OK?”

She pushed and rolled back, too. I grabbed her hand and tried to perform a lame synchronized chair-rolling routine. But she wasn't in the mood.

She shrugged. “We made up. We're as OK as we're gonna be right now.”

“Is there anything I can do? You know if you ever feel like talking. Anything. I'm here for you.”

“Thanks, Mags. So, did you figure out your next clue?”

“Of course not. I called that number and listened to the message about a hundred times. Nothing. Wanna help?”

“Sure.”

But after I asked her two questions and each time she answered, “Huh?” like I had woken her up from some deep trance, I knew better to leave her alone. I went into the bathroom and called Liza.

“Hey, honey,” she answered. “How's the brilliant hunt going?”

“Actually, I'm stumped right now,” I whispered so Malcolm wouldn't come find me. I filled her in on all the clues so far, ending on Sylvia, whose outgoing message we three-way'd so Liza could hear.

“That's fucking hilarious!” Liza was laughing her ass off.

“See how I'm mystified???”

She had me play it several more times.

“OK, so the cough is kinda weird, right?” Liza likes to end her sentences on
right
as much as possible.

“Totes. It's not like a long smoker's hack attack, it's one cough at a time.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. So play it again. Let's see where she coughs. Maybe it's at certain words.”

“See (cough) there's a side (cough) to you, a part (cough) of you, meant (cough) to shine. Namaste.”

We listened a couple more times. Then it suddenly hit me.

“OMG!!!!!!!!!! No motherfrickin' way!!!!!” I screeched way too loud, so I flushed the toilet to cover. “See-side-a-part-meant. The Villa Seaside Apartment! That's where the first clue took us. That has to be it!!!”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”

“You're a fucking genius!!”

“Find him, Mags. This guy could be worth being straight for,” she teased.

True that.

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:

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?

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.

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.