Find Me I'm Yours (15 page)

What seemed like four hours later (OK, maybe eighteen minutes), I finally pulled up to the Malibu Campsite guard gate. A ranger leaned out and said, “That'll be $20.00 for the night.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to come up with something fast. “I'm throwing a birthday party for my brother and I'm thinking of having it here next week. I just wanted to look around and check it out. Would that be possible?” I smiled my most sincere smile.

“Sure. You can make a U-turn, and park in that lot for twenty minutes then walk in.”

“Thank you so much, I won't be long.”

When I turned around and went past the guard gate exit, I saw a MISSING PERSON poster. Ah, how comforting. I hadn't told anyone where I was—no one would even know where to put a poster up if I didn't return home. I immediately sent Coco and Liza a drop pin of my location:

I turned my phone off, not wanting to deal with any concerned responses, then walked onto the campground. It smelled amazing. Like pine. Or was it eucalyptus? How would I know, being from NYC, where all I can identify are the smells of exhaust, urine, and roasting chestnuts?

But really, this place was SO not so much about the glamping. Not one thing was glamporous here. Uh, hello,
www.malibucampsite.com
webmaster or mistress? Like no one's gonna realize you're totally misleading them the sec they step foot here?!

Each campsite was right up against the next. No privacy at all, unless you were in an RV or a totes fancy-pants tent setup—with complicated flaps, sections, zippers, and mesh. There were soccer mom chairs, dirty picnic tables, and crows eating hot dog bun remains. An unidentifiable animal scurried across my path, making me jump. Then another, and another. They looked like squirrels or chipmunks, whatever the diff is (don't let Alvin hear me!). How could anyone sleep on the ground here unless they're up for a disgusting rodent slumber party? Though I was in the middle of the forest, it was hardly bucolic. More like tent city with dump stations, clotheslines, and lit fire pits dotting the path, looking like a street riot's burning trash cans.

There were a lot of dogs—maybe the one with the polka-dot tongue would come sprinting out? But it was getting so dark, how would I ever find whatever I was supposed to be looking for? I noticed there were numbered spaces—maybe if I looked further on the website, there would be some clue to find the number? I turned my phone back on, but of course there was no reception in this skeevy forest that even Bambi would flee from. Or,
flea
from.

But then, just like all the other times when it's seemingly hopeless, something intriguing came along. Some ripped Latin model with a coupon. A giant La Salsa man beckoning change. This time it was this:

Apparently for $1.00, you got two tokens, which bought four minutes of hot water in a shower. Did that mean since Mr. WTF gave me one token, I'd have two minutes? And did THAT mean I'd have to take a shower here alongside Alvin and the Chipmunks?! That was so not gonna happen on any level. I walked around the showers to see if there was anything else and spotted something in a row of campsites that stood out. Among the fancy MANSION tents, was an old-timey, simple, green canvas STUDIO APARTMENT tent with a point on top. And then I saw something that let me know for sure I was in the right place.

Prince Charming's other boot!
The one he proclaimed was missing on the stair walk. The one that was NOT at Sole Mates Shoe Repair. It was sitting right in front of the tent, beckoning me inside. So I lifted the flap, crouched down, and went in. I hit my phone to get some light.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed.

Someone else was in the tent. This was the sick plan all along, luring me right into the rapist/killer's den. But then I heard a scream that was actually louder than mine!

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

In our panic, we both stood up and pulled the tent right out of the ground, sending the canvas crashing down on us.

It was a woman. HUH?! We held our phones up and shined the lights on each other. She was towering over me. The fact that I only came up to her breast added insult to injury, the biggest blow being I was eye level with the shirt she was wearing. THE SAME ONE I WAS WEARING. THE HUNT SHIRT. I adjusted the phone light higher, like a camera panning in slow motion, and saw a gorgeous brunette…. A tall drink of water. OMG!!!!!!! The Victoria's Secret
S
model
S
!!!!!

“No way,” she said. “You are not wearing that shirt.”

“Yeah, actually I am.”

I expected some wise-ass remark, or like on a soap opera, we'd start grabbing at each other's shirts, screeching and scratching in a vicious catfight that would take us down to the nearby stream, sending us both careening into the water and sputtering out creek matter as we continued our girl-on-girl wrestling match.

But instead she just said, “I love what you did with yours!”

HUH? “Uh, thanks.”

“Looks like we're both after the same thing.”

“Looks that way for sure,” I said. But what I didn't add was, “And when Mr. WTF takes one look at you and at me, there's no doubt who's gonna end up MRS. WTF. I might as well pack it in.”

But this was no time for low self-esteem. The tape DID say that whoever found him first was the one. So I'd just have to try my damnedest to get to him before she did—even if she was always a step ahead of me so far. I'd just have to up my game.

“Well, at least there's only two of us,” she said. “Not three… yet.”

“How can you be sure?”

She moved over the poles and canvas that were on the ground now, then aimed her phone light at a blanket (with the Malibu Campsite logo on it) that had three tapes sitting on top. The Victoria's Secret
S
model
S
picked up one, and handed me another. I was touched by her grace.

“Thank you.”

“Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. My name's Whitney.” She stuck out her hand with the confidence a model would have.

I tried to do the same, even if I was pretending, and gave her a firm handshake. “I'm Maggie. People call me Mags.”

“Well, Mags, may the best woman win!”

With that, she tore ass out of the tent like we were suddenly on
The Amazing Race
and she had to beat me to finding the ancient woman with the abacus in the Shanghai pavilion. So I instinctively ran after her. But then I stopped myself. If this was a fight to the finish, I had to be strategic.

I went back into what was the tent and took the third tape. Sorry, anyone else who might be after Mr. WTF. Oh, and helloooo, Whitney??? Looks like in your haste to beat me you forgot something!

To ensure that I'd be his perfect match, I picked up Prince WTF's boot.

DAY 6—NIGHT

O. M. G. Mark. Our date. Or nondate. I had totally forgotten that I was supposed to meet him at 8:00 at Umami Burger, where we first laid eyes on each other, and it was 7:45. AND I WAS STILL ON PCH AND FREAKIN' OUT OF GAS!!!! At least I was just a block from a gas station and had a bit of CHANGE left from Mr. La Salsa. After I put in as much gas as I could afford, I texted Mark.

He texted back right away, but all he said was
K
. That's the problem with texts. There's no emotion, no innuendo. If I heard him, I could discern if that was a, “Sure! No problem!!” K or a “I'm totally fucking annoyed and already over you” K. But at least it was a K.

When I finally sputtered up to my apartment and ran in, I had seven minutes to shower, dress, and make myself look fabulous which, really, would take about seven years. FUCK, I didn't factor in walking the dogs. So I texted Mark again.

This time he didn't answer back right away, but when he did five minutes later, as I was cleaning up Toupee's shit with a plastic bag (BIODEGRADABLE, that's right!) it was another simple
K
.

I felt so bad for not being around much lately and leaving the dogs home alone for long periods of time. But I was on a tight schedule and only had a minute or two to feel bad. I could spend hours doing so later.

Luckily S.H.A.R.I. was blow-drying her hair when I got back. That meant she'd be in the bathroom for a good half hour, and I wouldn't have to see her life-jacking, plumped-lipped face. I took off my hunt shirt and stuffed it in my backpack along with all of Mr. WTF's tapes.

THE TAPE. In the mad rush to get home, I had forgotten about the new tape. Whitney could be miles ahead of me by now. But that would have to wait, too. No way could I watch it in the apartment with the Smacktress here. I washed off in the kitchen sink, put on a cute vintage dress, and freshened my makeup.

It was time to switch gears. To forget about Whitney being my competition, Coco possibly moving, Jason sleeping with S.H.A.R.I.—even Mr. WTF and the hunt, and
focus on the present
.

I headed out to see if Mark was really
K
or not.

DAY 6—NIGHT

“Nothing for me,” I said to the waitress since now I had exactly zero cents until payday on Friday.

“Aren't you hungry?” Mark asked.

“I had this late lunch meeting in Malibu.” It wasn't really a lie, though four tortilla chips would hardly count as lunch, and several minutes with a giant hombre hardly a meeting.

He ordered a Manly Burger, which involved something called lardon, that of course made me laugh, and “smushed potatoes.” When he asked if I had ever tried their onion rings, and I said no, he insisted I had to taste them so he ordered those, too. THANK GOD. Our date/nondate was off to a great start.

And it kept getting better. Mark had a way of making everything easy. We talked, laughed; he touched my arm when emphasizing a point.

“Seriously,” he said, examining my hands, “those nails you did for my show were amazing. But these are off the hook.”

After Coco's and my heated debate over my sweetener obsesh, here's what I did while listening over and over to Sylvia's cryptic recording last night: