“Um, not sure. I don’t know her that well.” Understatement of the year.
“Uhhh…” He scans the list and announces, “No Mias.”
Frustration threatens to cloud my optimism but I square my shoulders and literally put my chin up. I’ve only been out of this coma for a little over twenty-four hours. I’m gonna get there.
“How about JP Howard?”
He scans the list again. “Oh, he’salwayson the list. He donated a Rembrandt or something last year. I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it’s a lot.” Then a big lopsided smile takes over his face. “And here’s my duuuude.” He nods with appreciation and I see the name Frederick Montcalm.
“Your dude?”
“My boss, as in knocked-up two chicks and caused a fist fight. I want to be him when I grow up.”
I channel Veronica Mars17again and sidle up next to him. I need to see that address.
“Umm…” he says. “What are you doing over here?”
I get it. I’m on the wrong side of the desk, but if he wants to be a ladies’ man like that boss he thinks is so cool, this is his chance. While he tries to figure out if my flirty smile and proximity mean that I’m into him, I sidle up even closer and scan the list. Frederick Montcalm lives on Balboa Avenue in Laguna Beach.
Before he can pull out his phone to show me his commercial on YouTube, I sneak away, leaving him to watch himself not starring in a commercial. A “hey” echoes unanswered in the cavernous lobby when he realizes that I am definitely not that into him. I’ve already moved on to the exhibits.
I should be sort of happy—I mean, I’m closer to finding out more about myself, but a feeling of existential dread is eating at the frayed edges of my tentative happiness. I’m just a nameless woman who got her head smashed in at some party where I wasn’t even a guest. I was probably JP’s plus one. No big deal, but…who am I? It’s not like I’m some 1950s housewife who goes by Mrs. JP Howard and lives in the shadow of my husband. I’m a Millennial with a decent Insta following and an undercut.
I pick up a pamphlet for the self-portrait exhibit. It’s a bunch of touchy-feely mumbo jumbo about the artist becoming the spectator to her own art, and about how that places the artist in a position of extreme vulnerability, becoming the audience of her own suffering (because that is what art is—a tangible representation of suffering).
These idiots have no fucking clue.
The exhibit pamphlet goes on to say that self-portraiture is a way for the artist to supercharge her artistic growth. Being the audience and the creator at one time is like adrenaline for the creative brain.
Pretentious much? I just want to know if they sell earrings at the gift shop. Or maybe a scarf.
I wouldn’t want to make any of these artists jealous, but I think I’m struggling more with self-representation than they are at the moment. Being a spectator to my shitty existence is causing way more pain than the guy who painted himself in glasses and hung it on the wall. But mostly, if I don’t get a sandwich soon, I’m going to die.
Thank God they have a restaurant. Claire’s at the Museum looks fancy, with yellow umbrellas on a patio overlooking the beach with lots of#locallysourcedingredients and Mexican dishes everyone is dying to eat, but sprinkled with Himalayan salt for fanciness reasons.
This is where the party was, where I (the mistress?) fought the executive director’s wife and lost my memory. But this story doesn’t sound true, and I’ve already determined that there’s no way I could be pregnant. Again, Dr. Patel would have to be really bad at his job to let that fact get by him.
The event area where the party must have been is behind the museum, a grassy suburban backyard that looks ripe for bocce and lemonade but located on a cliff overlooking the beach and harbor. It’s not far above where I took the selfie next to the methhead who is now presumably on a bus to somewhere $10 away from here. Directly ahead is a resort-y looking island, the same one I noticed from the beach.
A girl—or, more accurately, a waitress—walks up to me. “Did you know that island is just an oil well in the harbor? They put a glass-brick tower around the well to make it look like a hotel and planted a palm tree next to it,” she says.
“Really?” I look at the waitress. She’s wearing a white shirt with one of those aprons that has shallow square pockets, one for the bill and one for who knows what else. Forks? I’ve never been a waitress, I guess.
“That is so weird,” I say, looking at the island. Now that she’s mentioned it, that’s all I can see: an oil refinery in a cheap disguise. The harbor is filled with these fake islands. A few tankers are headed in to dock at the Long Beach Pier, a giant undisguised oil refinery.
I’m not picky, though. A fake view is fine with me.
“Do you want a table?” she asks.
Until now I’ve been staring at the harbor, but when I turn and tell her, “No, thanks,” a funny look passes over her face. She stares for a second, as if to place me. When it hits her, she exclaims, “Oh my God! I’m so glad you’re okay! I thought you might be dead.”
I snap to attention.#eyewitness—and this one appears to be ready for the stand. I scan her name tag.Azalea.
Azalea examines me, wide-eyed and, I think, legitimately surprised. I’m definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened to her today.
“I’m okay. What happened? I don’t have any memory of that night.”
“Dios mio!I’ve never seen that much blood.” She puts her hands to her heart.
