Find Me I'm Yours (25 page)

If you didn't go watch it, here's what it said:

OK, this tape was off the hook! Mr. WTF was wearing THE HUNT SHIRT! And these killer marquee lights surrounded him. Damn, he was so damn genius!!

After my mom watched, I could tell she was also taken by his charms. Who wouldn't be? “Oh, Mags, he's darling!” But she was also wary. “But triple XXX? And a website for strip joints?”

Well, she may have had a point. Especially when Mom squeezed on the bed with Toupee, Boo, and me, and we found out we had to register to even see anything on the website. Was Mr. WTF now showing a dark side? I put in my email address and was redirected. Of course the site was kitschy and cool, not like the cheesy Spearmint Rhino billboards that line the freeways, sandwiched between lap-band surgery signs. It featured listings and awesome pics of local burlesque shows and venues.

“So,” I said, clicking around, “let's find a four-star review for an all-star revue.”

“How do we know which one he's talking about?” Mom asked.

“Exactly. He NEVER makes it easy,” I answered. “What fun would that be?!”

“Are there certain words you could look for that might stand out?”

“Well, let's do a strip search! Hahaha, get it!” I searched for words on the site.

• Clue
  
• Hunt
  
• Giant
  
• Dog
  
• Spotted tongue
  
• Match
  
• Mate
  
• Soul mate
  
• Destiny
  
• Serendipity
  
• Fate
  

The only word that came up was DESTINY, and it was the name of a featured stripper in a revue called “Peep-A-Boo” at a venue named the Herlesque Club. Could that have been it? It did get a four-star review. “WAIT, LOOK!!!” I squealed!

“What? I don't see what you're seeing,” Mom said.

I dragged a pic of the Herlesque stage onto my desktop, then opened it wide.

“Look in the video screen. It's the graphic of the shirt he was wearing in the tape,” I explained, as I went into the back of my closet. “It's the same shirt I was given and instructed to wear during the hunt.” I pulled mine out of hiding and showed her.

I put my hand up and for the first time ever, high-fived my mom. Good thing we connected on the second attempt, cuz I wasn't about to do it more than two times with her.

“So, when are we going?” Mom asked.

“To a strip club together? I think I'm gonna do this one on my own. Is that OK?”

“As long as you promise no drinking.”

“No prob there. That's not gonna happen for a long time.”

“And you need a good meal before you go.”

Since when did Narcie get so “naternal”? Maybe growing up I should have ended up in the hospital more often. I hesitated, but said, “Sure. My treat,” praying she'd object. And object she did.

“No.”

PHEW.

“But we can each pay for ourselves.”

YIPE! Now what? “I… uh… forgot,” I stuttered. “I don't get my paycheck until tomorrow.”

Which was partially true. I just left out the fact that it would be my last one.

DAY 10—NIGHT

Camarones al ajillo (shrimp in garlic sauce), ropa vieja (shredded beef in tomato sauce), maduros (sweet plantains), and arroz con leche (rice pudding) with café Cubanos. These are all things I DID have for dinner (after missing out on breakfast) at El Cochinito.

Even though I was with my mom, I felt so, I don't know,
grown-up
. But then just to bring it all back to normalcy, Narcie did all the talking.

The Things Narcie Talked About at Dinner

By Mags Marclay

1). Her job—including how her coworker at Bloomingdale's was promoted above her, and how she'll probably be doomed to be an assistant manger till she drops dead on the job. Cuz why? Apparently she's cursed at work, too.

2). Cooper—including how he just plays video games and smokes dope all day after school and she never has a moment alone in the apartment because he never leaves.

3). Aunt Pam—including how she got her gall bladder removed, and how they were able to do it laparoscopically, but now she has pain every time she eats lettuce so Mom can never go out to lunch with her anymore like they used to. (WHAT?!?!)

4). Her dating—including how she met a guy on the internet and was seeing him for eight months until she found out he was married and has four kids! (That counts as a Catfish, right?!)

Of course after the last one, she started in about THE CURSE again, but I stopped her, reminding her of her promise.

“Oops,” she said, and then mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key.

By the time dessert arrived, Mom was talking about how they wouldn't let her exchange a pair of underwear she bought at Bloomingdale's even though she's an employee, because she had WORN THEM A FEW TIMES, but it took that long to realize they were uncomfortable and riding up in her crotch, I couldn't wait to get out of there.

When we returned to the apartment, S.H.A.R.I. was gone. I made out with Boo and Toupee as we all plopped on the living room couch, including Mom, and turned on the TV. I almost forgot there was a television in my apartment. Avoiding any contact with my
doom
mate at all times, I usually stay holed up with my dogs in my room and watch TV and movies on my computer.

We spent about a half hour in that position, seeing some pretty crazy shit that I never see while watching TV not on a TV—my fave being a commercial for a new workout called Laughsercise! SWEARS! Apparently, just by laughing, you can burn calories and lose weight, evident by their tag line, “Laugh Your Ass Off!” The workout tape featured classes like “A Guy Walks into a Barre,” and “Yo' Mama's So Skinny Gut Buster.”

I got my computer from my room and we checked out the website to see more:

www.Laughsercise.com

Between the site and the commercial, it was the first time Narcie and I laughed together in years. (And maybe we were burning off our dinner by doing so?!) I wanted to stop time. To bask in the closeness I was finally starting to feel with my mom. But even more, I wanted to see what was next from Mr. WTF. So I stood up.

“I'm gonna change. Want some tea or something?”

“No, I'm fine, thanks.”

I went into my room, put on a cute vintage dress and one of my half-and-half sweaters, and then remembered I had to put on my hunt shirt.

The shirt. Where was the shirt? My shirt. FUCK! I had left it out when I showed Mom! Hello??????? IT WAS FUCKING GONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I tore up my room looking for it—maybe I had rehidden it?! Under the bed, in the hamper, in my backpack, in the closet. I dumped out every drawer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I had let my guard down for, what, less than two hours? And the Jacktress jacked my shirt!!!! What else did she take? I looked and the tapes were still in my backpack, thank God. BUT FUCK! The shirt had been on my computer. I ran and grabbed it from the couch next to Mom and looked at the open windows. Sure enough, I hadn't even X'd out the Herlesque Club. How could I have been so careless? Could it really be possible? Could S.H.A.R.I. even figure anything out?

“What's wrong,” my mom asked.

“Potential disaster.”

“What happened?”

“I'll explain later. But I'm in a huge hurry—can I borrow your rental car?”

“Sure.” She threw me the keys, then said, “Stay safe.”

While I assured her I would, I could not guarantee the same for S.H.A.R.I. if I found her where I thought she might be.

DAY 10—NIGHT

Talk about giant things—not one stripper on stage at the Herlesque Club dancing in the “Peep-A-Boo” number could have been less than a size triple GGG. Their heads were actually smaller than their boobs.

It had started raining on the drive over and since I had no money for valet, I had to park blocks away and walk, so I was drenched. I grabbed some cocktail napkins from the bar to sort of dry off as best I could.

The audience of men and women were going crazy—applauding, hooting, and hollering and placing bills in G-strings as the burlesque ladies kicked in unison and then hid behind large fans. OMG—it was almost the same act the stripping señorita marionettes did!! I looked around the room carefully for anyone or anything familiar. The video screen next to the stage that on the website featured the shirt graphic was now showing black-and-white footage of burlesque shows from the '50s. I kept searching through the packed room—some people sitting at tables, most standing, all drinking.

And then I saw it.
My shirt.

But wait. It wasn't my funked-up version of it. And it wasn't on S.H.A.R.I.

There, in a dark corner of the club was Whitney! Fuck. She had beaten me to it again! But
to what
?

Suddenly, another shirt came into view. This one WAS mine, and it WAS indeed on my soon to be ex-roommate. I was frozen as I watched the Scamtress hand Whitney a shot glass, holding on to her own. They clicked glasses and downed the shots.

What was even going on?! I had no choice but to go confront S.H.A.R.I. and ask them both what was up.

I turned away for a second to gather my nerve to go up to the duo of extreme hotness and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—still rain-drenched, in my two half sweaters sewn together, and my dorky black rimmed glasses. I hadn't even showered or brushed my hair during the day, and was still wearing the hospital ID bracelet. I was a wreck. A sight that would stay etched in my mind forever, a screaming reminder of my inadequacy. Why would Mr. WTF ever want to be with me when he could be with either of them, or any of the millions of other gorgeous girls in Los Angeles? On the first tape he said he was looking for someone unusual, but come on—not flat-out funky like me. Someone that handsome and clever who had it all going on was not going to be interested in me. I'm fucked. I'm cursed. I needed to just accept it and leave quietly.

I looked once more at S.H.A.R.I. and W.H.I.T.N.E.Y., like when you pass a traffic accident and turn your head away but something stronger in you makes you look again and you see a bloody, mangled body.

I watched them for another minute, then left with my own bloody, mangled self-esteem.

DAY 10—LATE NIGHT

“Come home with me tomorrow morning,” my mom said when I arrived back at the apartment in tears. “And not just for me. You've tried it here, it hasn't worked out. Just quit your job and come back to New York.”

The JOB part made me cry even more. Maybe Mom was right—crying seemed to be all I was doing lately, and there was no way in hell I could stay one night longer in the apartment with… I was so furious with her, I couldn't even write her name
at all
anymore, even with punctuation.

Mom made us chamomile tea and we piled on my bed, Boo and Toupee licking away my tears. “Mom?” I asked, “How did you deal with Dad leaving? You seemed so strong and together. How could you do that when your heart was so broken?”

Mom didn't say anything. Like if she started with one word or sentence, the hurt would spew out and never stop.

Then she finally said, “Well, it's complicated.”

“Try. It would really help me to know how you dealt with it all. We've never once talked about it.”

She still didn't answer. She just sipped her tea and blew on it, even though it wasn't that hot.

“Is it just too painful to even go there?” I asked.

“Yes…” she said, trailing off like there was more.

I sat up and looked at her. With compassion—right in the eyes, hoping the connection would make her feel safe enough to open up.

“I guess the time is right,” she said tentatively. “I've wanted to tell you for so long, but I just never could.”

What was she talking about? “OK…so…?”

She blew on her tea again, then inhaled the chamomile with a deep breath. Then she just said it. Flat-out said it.

“Your father didn't really leave us.”

“What do you mean?” I was confused. “Of course he did.”

“Well, he did leave… but it was because… I cheated on him.”

Huh? WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

“We split up when he found out I was having a relationship with my yoga instructor.”

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

“We both agreed it'd be better if you and Cooper never knew.”