71Three so far! 35k × 3 = I’M RICH!
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
I can take the blue Metro Express bus most of the way to L’Empire Tacos, about a 90-minute ride according to Metro Trip Planner.72The homeless guy next to me smells so much like old piss and cigarettes I can barely breathe. Plus the bus fumes. It’s time to hurry up on those zero-emission buses, LA! I miss my (JP’s) Ferrari. But this is part of the process. If I embrace this cocoon of reality for long enough, I’m totally going to emerge a millionaire.
“I’m going to snap a pic, okay?” I tell the guy. I have to document this shit for my fans.
I smile with teeth and he smiles without.#Meth #ThanksKobra.
I erase and rewrite the caption approximately twenty times until I finally settle on:Bussing it to the taco truck date, Max.Stay away from meth, kids.
While deciding between the pink bubbly hearts and the red heart emoji—is the red heart too much like long-stemmed roses on the first date, because I think that would scare him away—I miss my stop. When I finally get off it’s almost 8:30 p.m. What if Max waited for twenty minutes and left? I kick myself for not taking an Uber. I’m an idiot.
I run as fast as I can in my Payless heels. The sun is setting, and the stoplights seem to glow extra bright against the dusky backdrop like they’re charged with the electricity of a summer night. I’m feeling it too. I’m electric blue against the evening sky. Everyone else is moving in slow motion in their booty-hugging shorts and bare-midriff tops as I race toward L’Empire Tacos.
Running in the heat has done nothing for me. I arrive out of breath and sweaty. Blisters are starting to form where the heel of my shoe cuts into my ankle, and Max is nowhere to be seen. I sit down at the communal picnic table to catch my breath. He’s running late, too—no big.
The perpetually too-long line at the taco truck is, as expected, too long. That’s part of its charm—twenty extra minutes to stare into the eyes of your loved one and talk about whether you’re going to take a risk on an enchilada or get the tacos like normal. The parking lot is filled with the same amount of trash and janky cars as last time. There’s no grass anywhere in sight. Unlike last time, my dress isn’t splattered with blood from a recent head wound and I know who I am. I am prepared to be happy.
If Max comes.
He didn’t respond to my Instagram post and I can’t even be sure that he saw it. I feel like Meg Ryan at the end ofSleepless in Seattle.You might say the stakes were higher for her because she had to get from Baltimore to the top of the Empire State Building, probably in bad traffic. I think a 90-minute bus ride through iffy neighborhoods with a missed stop is probably about the same.
Mostly I hope that Max shows up, but I also hope that he has a car. It’d be nice if I didn’t have to ride the bus back to Crystal’s in the middle of the night. But I’m prepared. I burned my yellow dress today (sorta). I own a strip club. I can ride the bus after midnight. I’m one of the weirdos on the bus.
A bunch of other spicy nightlife types are sharing the table with me, the same table I shared with Max a few days ago. I stare at my phone and pretend they’re not there, but I’m obviously way too cute to ignore. (I put in some extra effort for this date.) A guy starts talking to me. “You waiting for someone, mamacita? How ’bout you come home with me.”
I respond, “Get out of my face, dirtbag” so fast, crowd management was obviously my first language. Two other guys get the same treatment. I ain’t no ho—that’s something I’ve firmly established over the last two days.
At nine-thirty I feel like an idiot. I’ve watched at least twenty people eat dinner and I can’t take it anymore. I’ve made a fool of myself. Max isn’t coming. Maybe he didn’t even check Instagram. Who knows. My whole future could have died with Max’s phone battery. Maybe he went to work and forgothis charger at home. My mind is trying to provide me with an explanation to save me from a total breakdown at the taco truck. Max would know about this because he studies brains. If he shows, I’ll ask him.
Also, I’m starving. I think. At this point, I can’t identify what’s the matter with me. Just so I don’t start crying from low blood sugar, I get in line. I thought Max was my real relationship, but maybe it was all in my head. When he said he didn’t want to be together, maybe he meant it. Crystal is right and I’m just cyberstalking him.
I can add cyberstalking to my list of things to atone for: check fraud, theft of intellectual property, charging rich guys thirty-five grand to date strippers (I’m still kind of proud of that, though), and parking in handicapped spaces (in a stolen car). Speaking of which, I should make sure I’m cool with the police. I’m pretty sure I am, but Denise was too busy arresting Kobra to peace out officially. Maybe I still need to get a piece of paper with a stamp on it.
Crystal is right. I probably shouldn’t have been in Max’s face online. I probably should have…I don’t know…joined the biology department and tried to get into one of his labs. No—that’s stalking, too. It’s like I only know how to stalk people. That’s how I landed JP, too. I’m a stalker.
“Hola, what would you like?” a voice interrupts my shame spiral. Thank God, but also ouch—I’m at the front of the line.
“Um, I’m sorry, I didn’t look at the menu yet.” I glance around. “Is it on that board?”
He points and says, “Side of the truck.” It’s a giant sign.There are a bunch of choices, but it’s all confusing because it’s half in Spanish.
“What do you recommend?”
“Depends on what you like.”
Someone behind me says, “Jesus.”
“I’ll take the tacos,” I say without even reading. There has to be an order of tacos. “Vegetarian ones.” #Brenda.
I also don’t know what sides or salsa I want. “Maybe I’ll order for the guy I’m meeting.” If he doesn’t show I’m going to have to carry a bunch of tacos home on the bus…but if he does show, I’ll have to wait in line for another half an hour. The guy behind me looks like he’s ready to pull a gun on me so I just say, “And I’ll take a burrito. Surprise me.”
Now I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of people, a couple of dogs, and two plates. No Max in sight.
“Excuse me, someone’s sitting here,” I say to a guy about to sit in front of Max’s plate.
