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 #locallysourced ingredients 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 meth head 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.
Azalea is definitely exaggerating. I’m wearing the same dress the massacre occurred in, so it couldn’t have been that bad, bloodwise at least. The cape did look pretty bad, though. I’ll give her that.
“I didn’t see much. I heard an argument, though.” With a snicker she says, “Well, I mean, everyone heard an argument.”
“What about?”
“Something about a guy. And I heard someone mention GoldRush.”
“GoldRush?”
“You know, that dating app for rich guys.”
So it’s not a mine in Alaska, and it’s something worth arguing over? It still doesn’t ring a bell.
“I don’t know what the argument was about, but I heard someone yell ‘GoldRush!’ which I thought was funny. I just read about this chick I went to high school with. She got engaged to some high-fructose gazillionaire from Iowa.” The California-speak edges into her voice the more emotional she gets about not having her own millionaire. When she says, “I mean, Iowa!” she might as well be in the Valley twirling her hair. “They met on GoldRush. I was totally thinking of signing up. I mean, it’d be like winning the lottery, but girl, I’ve earned it.”
Her eye makeup game is solid, if that’s what she’s getting at. More important, maybe that’s how I met my millionaire. I mentally flag this to research later; I need to get every bit of info out of Azalea while I can.
“Anyway, when I heard yelling, I came running…totally dropped the tray I was carrying, which would have pissed my boss off, if he’d noticed. Before I got to the screaming, I saw you falling toward the ice sculpture. In a split second you’d smacked into it and were sprawled on the ground.”
“Ice sculpture?” She must mean the Cupid I was kissing in my last Insta post. Good thing he didn’t actually kill me. That would’ve been crazy morbid, definitely worth one of those “Last post before she died” slideshows on BuzzFeed.
“Yeah, it was this cute sculpture of Cupid. In retrospect, that arrow was probably too pointy.”
“Did someone push me into Cupid or did I just fall?”
“Pushed. I saw you being propelled backward into the statue. That I’m sure of, but I don’t know who pushed you. There was a commotion and whoever did it took off.”
Someone pushed me into Cupid’s arrow. Talk about messed up. Did my attacker choose the statue intentionally or was it just a random act of symbolism?
“I gotta get back to work,” she says.
“Cool, can we exchange numbers or something, though? In case I have any more questions?”
She gives me her cell. “I’m also @TheRealChicaBonita on Insta if you want to look me up.”
I add Azalea’s phone number to my contacts; she is one of two people in my phone whom I know IRL. If I get married anytime soon, she’ll have to be a bridesmaid.
I watch Azalea head back to work. She’s going to look great in my wedding photographs at least. The girl is adorable—cuter than me, even. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like I’m a competitive bitch. #girlpower.
In the parking lot I scroll through her Instagram. On Tuesday, she posted a selfie with her eyes brimming with tears, just the right amount to make her look sad-pretty and draw attention to her improbable lashes. There’s no way those are natural, right? And what filter is this? Rise? It’s really flattering. I scan the caption: Saw a woman die tonight. Hold your loved ones tight. Any moment could be your last.