“Tons. Have you ever heard of a dating site called GoldRush?”
“This morning you said it was a documentary about mining in Alaska.” He gives me a suspicious look as he picks up some stuff from his desk and ushers me out of the lab.
“Turns out I was wrong. This chick at the art museum mentioned something about it being a dating app.”
Max doesn’t slam the door to the lab on the way out but he lets it close loudly, which is pretty much slamming for him. When we get to the parking lot, he says, “Mia, you parked in a handicap spot. That could be like a $200 fine!”
“Oops, I didn’t notice.” Max doesn’t need to know that I’m discovering my true self by following all my impulses, which, on second thought, might not be the best idea. If I follow my impulses will I just find myself at the bottom of a Cheetos bag?
“Max, do you think we are basically just an amalgam of all of our bad habits?”
“Um…only if you don’t engage in any other behaviors or aspire to more.”
A guy behind the wheel of a Kia at the stoplight next to us is side-eyeing me. I’ve only been driving a Ferrari (at least that I can remember) for a couple of hours, but every dude who wants to speed down the Pacific Coast Highway has come out of the woodwork to rev his engine and challenge me to a race right through the middle of LA. I don’t have enough testosterone for that, so I let him burn rubber down Vermont alone.
“This car feels more like an asshole magnet than a chick magnet,” Max notes drily.
What does that say about JP? Does he spend all day zooming around in his penis-complex car while I: 1) wear a sundress and file my nails, 2) go to work at a fulfilling job, or 3) resent him because I’ve sacrificed my own hopes and dreams to ride his coattails?
I think I’m the girl behind door number one. That would be fine, as long as we’re racing to a getaway in Baja or something along those lines. I’d even take a nice lunch on a patio. I want to live #TheGoodLife, just like my boat says.
“So about GoldRush, I take it you haven’t used it?” I ask.
“I prefer to date my coworkers,” he says.
I laugh.
He directs me to a spot five or ten minutes away from his lab on Figueroa. USC goes from college campus to skid row in less time than it takes a girl to take a selfie and pick a filter. The taco truck is wedged between a gated parking lot (armed security and barbed wire fence—yikes!) and a strip mall with a bodega, a wig shop, and a place selling Mexican corn. Some of the wigs are cute and, come to think of it, would cover my staples.
“Here we are,” he says, pointing to a taco truck with a handwritten sign out front that reads L’EMPIRE TACOS.
I wrinkle my nose. “Are you sure they have a vegetarian option?” Now that I see this taco truck, two things are clear to me: 1) It’s in a slum, and 2) I doubt they have a vegetarian option. Going veg is a pretty bougie thing to do. Brenda knew it the minute she saw me: I come from a place where people worry about the welfare of chickens and wear glasses for style reasons.
The line outside of the dirty taco truck is a mile long, so we just sit in the Ferrari for a minute. Noticeably, we are the only Ferrari in the parking lot. That’s not to say that we’re the only fancy car—just the only fancy car that isn’t a drug-dealer-mobile. The smell of—goddammit—savory meats and spices is making my mouth water.
“Can’t you smell that?” Max huffs the air like it’s a can of paint.
“Yes, all those roasting vegetables smell so good,” I say even though the only vegetable I can smell is garlic and it’s probably in a pork marinade. Being a vegetarian is both the worst and only decision I’ve ever made. At least Brenda didn’t tell me I was a committed virgin or a Scientologist.
After putting on just the right pretaco playlist for this situation, he leans his seat back and puts on a pair of sunglasses. I commence Googling as we wait for the lunch rush to die down. If I had an argument about GoldRush right before I was nearly impaled on an ice sculpture, it must be important.
The internet informs me that GoldRush is a dating app for millionaires (at a minimum) to find “sophisticated and elite Californians interested in long-term, committed relationships.” Basically what Azalea told me.
With a laugh, I say, “No wonder you haven’t heard of GoldRush, Max. It’s an app for super rich dudes looking for arm candy.”
“Are there any super rich women looking for poor men?” he asks. “I’d sign up for that. I’m on the market and about to be poor.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say.
“That’s sexist. I mean, I could be arm candy.”
“You could definitely be arm candy,” I confirm. “Maybe you should file a complaint with the person in char—” My mouth drops.
“What is it?”
OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMGOM GOM OM OG OM GO GM MG OOOOO GOGOGOGO MOMOMOMO MGMGMGM
My overexcited neurotransmitters can’t complete the connection from thought to speech, which is fine. Finally I utter a single “OMG.”
“Is it your head? Are you having a stroke? Mia—are you okay?”
I gather my wits. “I’m fine. It’s just that…I’m the owner of GoldRush. At least according to the internet.” I point him to a very exciting article from the SoCal Lifestyle website listing me among the “Top Ten Entrepreneurs Under 30 in Long Beach.” It was published last week. I am the hot news in SoCal.
Mia Wallace,19 a Long Beach resident, started the GoldRush dating app because, she says, “California’s most important resource is its people, in particular, all of its hot women. Sadly, this resource is being wasted on losers who graduated from California public schools working at taco trucks and selling smack. I decided to step in and solve the problem. GoldRush matches California’s best and brightest women with the men they deserve: high-net-worth individuals from Switzerland and Japan—really, anywhere but Long Beach.” Ms. Wallace’s idea has taken hold. After two years in business, she is on the brink of brokering her first engagement at the whopping price tag of $250,000. She has set up countless dates for between $10,000 and $35,000. It’s good to be young, single, and female in Long Beach.
It’s official. I woke up to the best life ever. The Good Life—both the yacht and the life—is definitely mine, which reminds me. I need to access my bank accounts, for practical reasons, not to mention for good-news reasons. I can’t wait to see just how much I’m worth. As soon as we get back to JP’s I’ll do some accounting in front of Netflix with a glass of wine and some Jacques-o-late.
Max scans the article. “Whoa. Are you sure that’s JP’s house and not yours?”