Find Me I'm Yours (31 page)

A TAPE.

There was a thick fluorescent-orange rubber band around it, holding a business card to the back. I slipped it off, of course accidentally snapped it on my knuckles (FUCK, OUCH), and studied the card. It was for a tattoo parlor called TATTWOSOME. For reals?

Now what? Was I supposed to watch the new tape first? It wouldn't surprise me at all if Whitney and any other potential hunt girl were way better equipped sleuths than I and had brought their cameras with them. They probably had paid full price for “The Big Reveal” reading from Sylvia days ago when I was in S.F., watched their tapes, cracked the case, and were each kicking back with mojitos, taking bubble baths, and picking out their outfits for their 12:00 noon rendezvous with destiny tomorrow. But for me to watch the tape, I'd have to go home and get my camera. Should I go to the tattoo shop before? Well, let's think logically, I thought, trying to, uh, think logically. There was a URL on the biz card—why not start there? I went to:

www.Tattwosome.com

Nothing about the site looked very suspicious or clue-ish other than the fact that it featured killah pics of people with matching or intersecting tattoos, and a place to upload pics of these
#Tattwos
(OK, now I get it!). There was a street address on the site, but no phone number, and I couldn't find any listing for one after much searching. So clearly I had to go to Tattwosome in person to find out what was next, and see who the hell came up with such a cool idea for a tattoo parlor.

I entered the West Hollywood address into Waze and it showed that since it was rush hour now, if I went on the freeway it would take forty-two minutes; side streets, nearly two hours. I couldn't afford to lose that much time or I'd be handing over my future
was
band to Whitney, or any other well-deserving opponent, on a silver platter.

I put my helmet on and rode out of the suburban neighb, and past Santa Anita racetrack again. It was time to do things differently. To not let fear or limitation run my life. To risk being splattered across the 210 freeway. L.A. drivers are not at all aware of people on scooters. And L.A. drivers are generally so damn crabby about traffic that they feel entitled to speed, change lanes without signaling, and never look where they're going, making it even deadlier for a scooter rider, especially on the freeway.

I thought of all the people I should call or text to say goodbye to just in case. Or maybe I should record my last will and testament on my phone so at least I'd know Boo and Toupee would be provided for. But surely if I were flattened out like a pancake with dorky new glasses, my phone would meet an untimely demise as well. So I gathered my courage, flipped on my turn signal, and headed onto the freeway on-ramp for the first time ever. I chanted the whole way:
Don't die, don't die, don't kill me, don't die.

At least not until after 12:00 noon tomorrow.

DAY 13—AFTERNOON

Really? Did ya have to start raining during my first big-girl scooter ride on the freeway? Despite my newfound courage, I didn't have a death wish, so I was forced to go back to surface streets and arrived in West Hollywood an hour and a half later.

By the time I had ridden through Glendale, the Waze lady was so damn tired of telling me where to go, my phone died (and then I told HER where to go!). Great. How would I find my destination with the address AND directions lost in the dead zone? Surely in West Hollywood there would be plenty of tattooed peeps, and
someone
had to have heard of Tattwosome (unless, of course, it was totally fake, and that was a distinct possibility). That possibility was starting to seem more like a probability as once I arrived, no one I asked had ever heard of the shop. Finally, I found two adorbs tattooed girls (one had a genie coming out of a bottle on her arm, the other a pinup girl and a starburst) who looked it up on their phones for me. It ended up being just blocks away, and they decided to escort me right to the front door so they could check it out. Shout-out to Candy and Elise! Nice to meet ya, and thanks for your help!

When I walked into Tattwosome, a heavily tattooed (gee, surprise!) dude with a thick British accent simply said, “What can I do for you, luv?”

“Um, I'm not entirely sure. Someone sent me here.”

“And?”

“OH, right! I'm supposed to be wearing a certain shirt. Long story short, it's at my apartment but if I describe it does that mean anything to you?”

The guy chuckled, displaying terrible teeth. I know it's a total stereotype that Brits have bad teeth, but this guy could have been the BEFORE pic in any cosmetic dentist's photo gallery. And his multiple nasal piercings only drew more attention to his crooked, stained chompers.

“Sit down, luv,” he said. Then, “What's with your eye?”

HELLO, PEOPLE?! Do you have to keep asking?

“Spider bite.”

“Ouch,” he said. “All right, so will it be permanent or temporary?”

“Really? Uh, is it going to cost me?”

“No, luv. It's a gift.”

Awesome! Tattoos are expensive—this was quite an opportunity for a tattoo-lovin' girl with no money. “Do I get to choose the design?”

“No, luv. You don't pick out your own gifts, now do ya?”

Oh well, so much for that. Too risky. I could end up with a heart with MOM in it and be traumatized for life.

“Well, then temporary.”

The man pulled over a tray that had a bowl on it filled with brown paste (henna, I was assuming), and a variety of brushes. “Take off your sweater, luv.”

I did. He took my right hand and laid it on the chair arm, palm up. He picked a brush, mixed the paste with it, meticulously wiped it against the rim of the bowl to get off any excess, and started painting on my arm. The feel of the brush lightly tickling me was totally relaxing. And since I hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time the last several nights (except when I was in a roofied comatose state, and that didn't count), it was like a lullaby.

When I woke up with a start, apparently three hours later (he was done in two, but let me sleep an extra hour, I was to find out), I was drooling and it was getting dark. For all I knew, the tattooist (tattwoist?!) could have painted matching swastikas on my face while I was out cold. But I looked down at my arm and gasped. From the wrist to the elbow was the most beautiful piece of art. A carefully rendered and detailed old-fashioned antique key. Damn. Why hadn't I picked permanent?

Mr. Tattwosome was with two other clients now, one getting a king of hearts playing card tattooed on his bicep, the other the queen of hearts on his.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“That's it, luv. Lots of locks.”

Did he say lots of LUCK? Or LUCKS? “Luck? Lucks?” I asked.

“Lots of locks,” he repeated.

It reminded me of Liza's family's cleaning woman from El Salvador—they never knew which day she was coming to work if she said it was on “Tuersday.” There was Monday, Tuersday, Wednesday, Tuersday, Friday.

It definitely sounded like he said LOCKS. And of course there was the obvs connection to my new tattoo. OH, and HELLO, Sylvia?! She had said, “Focus on the key things.” Gotcha.

I guess I was to find my tattwosome match, who had the lock tattooed on his arm. But where to start? The guy wouldn't tell me any more, my phone was dead, and I had an unwatched tape from Mr. WTF burning a hole in my backpack. So I had no other choice but to go back to the apartment. Maybe even S.H.A.R.I. was there by now.

#HellSweetHell.

DAY 13—EVENING

I have never been one for silence. If nobody is talking, then I have to have music playing, a movie streaming, dogs barking, and you can count on the fact that I will unintentionally listen to every stranger's conversation within earshot.

But to come home to a quiet apartment (I had decided to leave Boo and Toupee with Jason until after 12:00 noon the next day) was a blessing, only because it meant S.H.A.R.I. wasn't there. I didn't even care if she had information about the hunt. I trusted she couldn't figure anything else out even if she happened to get a clue at the Herlesque Club. I just needed to focus.

I went into my room and got the camera out. I put the tape in and turned it on.

Click the pic to watch the video:

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

Motherfucker. UNBELIEVABLE!!!! Coco was right. It really could be the troubled, homely old housewife with the severely handicapped twin stepsons from
Catfish
. Why would some guy have to get some handsome guy friend to do his bidding for him? What if he's a hideous troll? Could I look beyond that? Kiss that? I'd like to think so. And isn't that the pot calling the kettle judgmental? One look at my swollen eye and he could run the other way. Maybe he was just thinking the same way I had been with Whitney and S.H.A.R.I.—that unfortunately people DO judge a book by its cover. Well, now I was even
more
curious. I would just have to find out.

Perhaps I had to think more outside the lock box—like go to a deli and order lots of LOX? Or go to a hairdresser and get my LOTS OF LOCKS cut off, and I'd find a clue there?

My new supah-fly tat was key. So of course it was locks. But why LOTS?

I turned off the camera, and it happened to be just in the nick of time. I heard the front door open. It was clearly time to confront my ratchet roommate. To scream and yell at her for stealing everything, and just hope that didn't include Mr. WTF.

My door opened and her peroxided head poked in.

“MAAAAGGGGGSSS!!! Oh my God, I can't believe you're here. Are you OK? I was so worried!!”

“Whatever…” I answered.

“What happened to your eye? Did someone hurt you?”

And then before I could let her have it, before I could even say a word, she ran up and hugged me. It was so disarming. There I was, totally ready to light into her, and I couldn't do that wrapped in her bosomy embrace.

“I'm so glad you're back!!!!!!!!” she said.

And then she started to cry. She sat down on my bed, pulling me down close next to her. Jesus, how was I supposed to yell at her from this position, especially when she was crying?!

“I thought you left for good,” she sobbed. Hard. Like a child who is convinced she's orphaned and cries with relief when she hears the front door creak open at midnight and sees her parents return home after an evening out. This clearly had much more to do with something, or someone, else other than me. I'd never really heard S.H.A.R.I.'s story, since I'd kept her at arm's length from the second day after I moved in, when she “borrowed” my journal without asking or telling me.

“Um, are you OK?” I asked.

She just shrugged, still crying. “Jason doesn't want to see me anymore.”

HA! I wanted to say, “Karma's a bitch, biatch!” but she started crying even harder.

“Why doesn't anyone want to go out with me for more than a week?” she asked. “What's wrong with me?”

And suddenly I felt bad for S.H.A.R.I. She was no longer the manipulative, lying, stealing, surgically enhanced, one-dimensional girl I had always seen and she had always shown. She was a little wounded child with a broken heart. I put my arm around her shoulder.