¦Caricatures
¦Princess clowns
¦Face painters
¦Harpists
¦Magicians
This could turn into quite the date. She could perform magic tricks and draw his picture if the sparks don’t fly. Setting aside the matter of the princess clown, which now I can’t help but imagine as someone’s resume headliner, I focus on the harp player. “So the question is whether one of the princesses plays the harp or if some ugly dude accompanies them.”
Max gives me aduhlook. “All harp players are hot. It’s an unwritten rule.” He can tell I’m not convinced, so he brings Siri into it. “Okay Siri, show me pictures of harpists.” He holds up the phone to show me the results and says, “See what I mean?”
He’s right. All harpists look like Russian ballerina supermodels. Even the male ones.
I’m ready to call it. Crystal is out and Elsa is in. I dial the number from Craigslist and one of the princesses, presumably, answers with a dramatic two-syllable “Hiiiii-eeee.” I forgive her. She learned to talk by watchingGossip Girlas everyone of a certain generation did.
“Hi! I’m calling with a last-minute request.”
“Ugh. We really can’t do last minute. I mean, we’re bookedout for, like, months,” she says as if the princess clowns are Hollywood royalty. “Buuuut…we do have a cancellation this weekend, if you need it.”
What a faker. They probably have no bookings at all. But I play along. “That’s amazing!” And it sort of is. Now that I know about them, maybe I can just run my whole business with princess clowns. “So I would love to book one harp-playing princess for Sunday.”
“Just one?” she asks. “We don’t travel alone. For safety.”
Jesus. “Well, this isn’t for a child’s birthday party. It’s a party, just not a kid party.”
“Umm,” she says. “Are you asking for what I think you’re asking for, because we don’t do that. Ewww.”
“It’s just a last-minute thing. I set up a guy with a girl but she’s not going to show up.”
“I don’t get it. Just tell him she’s not showing. Why would you hire a birthday princess to go out with him? And for that matter, do you want the girl in costume…because that sounds extra freaky.”
I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Of course not. It’s just that I run a matchmaking service and I have a guy, a great catch by the way, waiting to go on a date with a girl who looks like a princess. He paida lotof money.”
After a few seconds of silence on the other end, she says, “I’m not a prostitute. I believe in God.”
“It’s sex worker,” I correct her in a snobby tone. The indignant correction comes out of my mouth like I say it all the time. Do I? Also, God and prostitution are not mutually exclusive,but I don’t think she wants to hear my opinion. I give it one last try. “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do, just go on a date with a rich guy who will buy you dinner.”
“I did not go to clown school to be a prostitute.”
“I feel ya, girl. Me either.” I take a deep breath and confess. “I’m an entrepreneur, too. I’m not pimping anyone. In fact, if he did anything you didn’t want, I’d be the first to fuck him up.”28
She doesn’t respond to my generous offer, so I continue. “That’s cool if you don’t want to go on the date, but if you change your mind, you have my number. Look me up on Insta—@Mia4Realz. I own GoldRush.”
When I hang up, I look at Max and say, “Doesn’t prostitution sound like a natural consequence of clown school?”
“What?” He opens his mouth to say something else and repeats, “What? What did I miss?”
My eyes start to water. “Oh my God, what is the matter with me, Max?”
He puts his arm around me. “It’s okay, Mia. Your brain is saturated. I think you took in more than you can handle today. I feel like I’ve lived at least five Fridays in the last sixteen hours.”
The tears are flowing now. He’s right. I’ve had enough and it’s late. Also, am I a pimp? “I thought it would be so much easier than this. Just go back to where I took the pictures andfill in the blanks, but it’s all…I don’t know…nothing makes sense. I was partying on a yacht that wasn’t mine. I got knocked out at a party I wasn’t invited to. Who am I? And where is the line between matchmaker and pimp? It’s starting to feel blurry. Maybe Elsa was right.”
“Don’t worry.” He gives me another squeeze. “You might be a pimp. I’m not ruling that out yet, but…” He catches my eye. “As your vice president, I’m advising you not to worry about your job description. You’re out of sock-drawer money and you need to access your bank accounts. Get online and change your passwords.”
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and shake off my existential crisis like a boss. “I’m so glad I hired a genius to help me,” I say.
