Find Me I'm Yours (22 page)

The Hollywood Craft-Tastic Fair was way cool, ultra-crafty, and supah-Tastic! There were totally cute vendors in their groovy booths, awesome knit hats, letterpress cards, silkscreened posters and T-shirts, belt buckles made from car parts, and large hand-colored blowups of prison mug shots from the '20s. Rows and rows of booths were lined up on one side, and on the other I couldn't have been more delighted to see (as best I could, rockin' my monocle!) a line of food trucks. Maybe the DELHICATESSEN truck would be there?!

I wandered, looking at everything, savoring everyone's amazing expressions of creativity. I wanted to stock up on inspiration and hold onto it until I could infuse it into my own work, and then return the favor.

When I noticed this…

I wondered if I'd feel that way when I met Mr. WTF? Or, more pointedly, if he'd feel that way about me.

I worked my way around to Mark's guy, Al. His booth was full of art that was off the charts. He took Paint by Number paintings that he found in thrift shops and at flea markets, and added alien invasions in Day-Glo sparkly paint. ETs bathing in a scenic river; a UFO landing on a pastoral farm.

I saw a sign in his booth that the paintings were also for sale on his website:
www.PaintByNumberInvasions.com

“Killer work,” I said to Al, a hazel-eyed, mustached silver fox, probs in his fifties, as I stuck out my hand to shake his. “I'm Mags, Mark's friend.”
Yeah, right, friend.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, with an almost unearthly glow to his smile. Maybe he was painting his own people?! “Mark said you're doing some amazing work yourself.”

I think I blushed. Or felt flushed. Or something red-hot. I showed him four collages I had brought with me.

“These are excellent,” he said. “I really like them. Let me think it over and see if your work fits into the show.”

“It better,” a voice called out. I turned around and saw Mark. He knew I couldn't react or say anything about him being there in front of his friend.

“Hey, man,” he said to Al as they did a bro hug. “And nice to see you, Mags,” he said, hugging me.

When he let go, I gave him an “I'm gonna kill you” look, but still played it cool.

“Hey,” Al said, “it's time for the DIY doggy fashion show now. It's always crazy. Let's go watch.”

“Sure,” Mark replied. “Come on, Mags,” he said, taking my hand.

I couldn't say no and have Al notice the tension between us. “Fine.”

We all walked toward the back of a stage, where about twenty dogs in totally elaborate handmade outfits were gathered with their owners. Some of them, like this one…

…were totally #freak4mypet!

And then I saw it. I swear I did. For the second time in just hours.

Mr. WTF's fudgy-brown dog.

This time it had to really be the evil twin! Dressed in a '60s mod girl outfit, complete with four little white go-go boots. I gasped out loud. “Hey!” I shouted to no one in particular, and took off towards her. Um, without noticing that in my path were BICYCLES ALL PARKED IN A LINE. I tripped over the first one, which landed on the next one, which hit the next one, and one by one the row of two-wheeled dominos toppled over until the entire line of bikes fell in a loud crash—with me on top of the heap.

The commotion freaked out the dogs and they all started barking. One got loose from her owner and ran, and before anyone could stop them, the other dogs followed. I got up and chased after the brown go-go dancer. “COME BACK!!!!” But by the time I had gotten myself out of the bicycle heap, she had a good head start.

I dashed as fast as I could. It was absolute bedlam. Dogs barking and running, people calling out and chasing, as I headed the posse. The crowd might as well have had flaming torches as they stormed after me and their dogs, screaming and swearing. The pups cut through a corner booth that was selling hand-painted MARBLES—of all fucking things!!!!!!!!!! Of course they knocked over a large bowl, sending the marbles flying, and like an old-timey slapstick movie with choreographed mayhem, everyone was slipping on them. I maneuvered in front of the dogs, and finally led the unruly pack to a dead-end fence, like a conductor bringing a runaway train to a screeching halt.

I caught the brown dog in a hug. The crowd approached, and a crying little girl came up to us. “Let go of Noodles!!!!”

The girl's badass mom joined her. “What the hell do you think you're doing, lady?” I have never been called
lady
once in my life. She meant business. Noodles escaped from my clutches and was so happy to be reunited with her people, she started kissing them and panting. And that's when I saw. No polka-dot tongue. OH. MY. GOD. What had gotten into me?!

“I'm so, so sorry. I thought this was my cousin's dog. Really, I'm so, so sorry.”

Everyone else grabbed their dogs and gave me harsh looks. And even TSKs. I don't think there's anything as shameful as a TSK.

As the sea of dogs departed, all that was left standing was Mark.

“Wow,” was the only thing he said.

“I can totally explain,” I spouted, before realizing that I really couldn't explain anything at all. Why would I even think that Mr. WTF's dog would be at an event Mark invited me to?!

“It's cool.”

“I better go home.”

“Actually, it looks like you could use a drink. There's an awesome bar down the street. Come on. Just a drink.”

I still didn't trust Mark. And I am not one to drink in the afternoon. But then again, I'm not one to think irrationally, be chased by an angry mob, or be called lady.

It had definitely been a week of firsts.

DAY 9—NIGHT

How could I have possibly lived in L.A. for two years and never known about the Tanked Tiki?! Rad as fuck!

Check it out:
www.TankedTiki.com

Rattan and nets filled the tropical paradise, and each drink being served came with a brightly colored tiny parasol. At the end of a dance floor was a small, more intimate lounge with an imposing tiki face carved in black lava rock, its mouth wide open and a fire blazing inside. As brilliant as the Good Luck Bar did Chinese kitsch, the Tanked Tiki kicked its ass, Polynesian-style.

“This is freakin' amazing!” I said.

“See? What if you just went home?” Mark asked as he led me to a booth and squeezed in next to me.

I shook my head and pointed to the bench across the table.

“OK, fine.” He got up and moved there. “Well, that was probably the most excitement anyone's ever experienced at a crafts fair!” Mark smiled.

“Don't remind me. Noodles is going to haunt me for years to come.”

We ordered tropical drinks—Mark's came in a tiki mug, mine in a coconut shell. Even though it was early evening now, the hot spot was packed. The crowd seemed unfamiliar. Not the arty east side peeps I was used to, or the gay clientele I spent most of my time hanging out with in New York. The drinks were heavenly, blended with chunks o' fresh fruit.

“Come on,” he grabbed my hand. “Let's dance.”

The liquor was loosening me up, and I saw no harm in just one dance. We swayed to Polynesian funk. We talked and drank some more, declaring what books and music were MUST HAVES if we were stranded on a tropical island. Mark ordered a third round. We sucked our drinks up like kids with Juicy Juice boxes. A man with an eye patch asked me to dance.

“Nope, I'm with him,” I slurred, pointing to Mark, and feeling the effects of the last round.

“Oh, come on, one dance,” he said, pulling me to the dance floor.

I pushed off him. “Hey, let me go!”

Mark grabbed his arm, all macho-like. “The lady said NO.”

This was the second time in one day I was called
lady
, breaking the previous world record.

The guy lifted up his hands in the air like they do on every single one of those Food Network competition shows when the time is up. Mark took me to the dance floor and we danced some more. I didn't really realize how drunk I was until I found myself doing wild, suggestive moves with a group of men circled around me, clapping and egging me on. Mark finally took my hand and dragged me back to our booth. We tried to talk coherently as we drank even more.

“Soooo, did Coco gooo toooo Florida?” I asked.

“I don't knoooow. We haven't been in toucsssh. We're done. I know how wronnnggg it wasssss.”

“Sure you doooo.” I'm not one of those angry or bitter drunks. I'm just a LOUD and oversensitive drunk. “She'sss supposssed to be my bessst friennnnd, but besssst friennnnds don't do what sssshe did to her besssst friennnd. Well, we're not besssst friennnnds anymore,” I cried. Yeah, literally. I cried. But I pulled myself together. “Who wantsss to talk about herrrr when we could be talking about USsss? Or nottt talking at all…”

And then I kissed Mark, our pineapple- and coconut-flavored tongues entwining. I pulled back and looked at him. “I don't feel so good.” I was spinning.

“Let'ssss go,” Mark said, lifting me up.

And go, I did. In fact, I was gone.

DAY 10—MORNING

I woke up in a bed. Not my own. Hmmm. Didn't seem like Mark's either, from what I had spied at his window. Through the blur of my partially open eyes I could make out some equipment. Medical equipment. I looked down and saw there was IV in my arm. WHAT THE HELL?!?!

There is nothing as terrifying as waking up in a hospital emergency room. Oh, wait, yes there is. Waking up in a hospital emergency room with S.H.A.R.I. standing over you!!!

I sat up with a start—OW, SHIT—my head. I set off a monitor, beeping loud and fast. “What's going on? What happened? Why am I here? Why are YOU here??” Before S.H.A.R.I. could answer, another blurred face appeared next to hers.

“Mom???” I started crying. “What's wrong? Am I dying?”

“No, sweetie. You're gonna be fine.” My mom sat on the bed and took me in her arms for the first time in about ten years. As she said, “SHHH,” and tried to calm me down, it just made me sob even harder.