That’s when it hits me. I woke up with: a rhinestone-studded clutch, a receipt for a Smartwater, a bobby pin, two keys, and my Pirate lipstick. Noticeably absent: money and credit cards. As the import of this dawns on me, I tell Kumar, “Um, I’m sorry. My purse was stolen. I’m actually here because of that.”
He nods. “So you need replacement cards.”
And then some.
Kumar, probably concerned about privacy at this point or maybe just manners, turns to Max. “And you are?”
Max holds out his hand like a good Midwestern boy. “I’m Max.”
“Max is…Max works for me.” The explanation rolls off my tongue like a clod of dirt off a shovel. It feels like a lie, probably because I feel more like his employee. I mean, I’m the twentysomething chick in a too-short dress. He’s the neuroscientist. I’m the one with the earning power, though.
Kumar seems deeply uninterested in whatever’s going on between me and Max. “I need to speak with my manager since you don’t have ID. Please wait here.”
Even though he’s working with me, taking a guy to the bank feels worse than sleeping together too early.34 Max feels it too. “I have to run out and make a phone call. Check on some experiments. You know.”
“Coo” rolls off my tongue like I’m too cool to pronounce the whole word. I watch him walk away. Maybe it’s because I’ve imprinted on him like a baby goose, but seeing him go makes my insides feel just a touch melty, like the best bite of a caramel roll. The caramel roll feeling lasts two seconds before I remember I have a boyfriend: JP. I’m pretty much living with JP. At least the old Mia was.
It’s hard to care about a boyfriend I haven’t met. Sure, I feel like I won an award being his girlfriend, given that he’s so fancy and rich. But it’s hard to believe that he paid to date me, like I’m the prize. Yet another puzzle. Maybe he just wanted to date a woman from a pit stop, like a novelty.
Either way, hanging out with Max is not cheating. I must hang out with all sorts of people who aren’t my boyfriend all the time. I’m coo like that.
Kumar returns a minute later. “What’s your birthdate and social security number? Can you verify those?”
“My birthday is…” I don’t think it will help my cause to tell him I don’t have a clue, so I pull up my Facebook page and click on “About Mia.” I haven’t filled in any of the info. Figures. I did input that I like Keeping Up with the Kardashians (which explains a lot) and #JulesBrand underwear. Thanks a lot, old self. Kumar seems to be noticing that it’s taking me a long time to remember my birthday and I admit that I don’t know the answer.
“Do you know your social security number?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No clue.”
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Technically, I shouldn’t help you. I’m not supposed to talk with you unless you can answer at least some of these questions, but you’ve got nothing. You could literally be anyone off the street claiming to be Mia Wallace.”
I nod, but the word technically gives me a spark of hope. I put on my friendliest “Help me, I’m just a girl” look. I’m due for a break. “If you just let me reset my password, I can get my whole life back on track.”
“I would like to reset your password for you, but resetting your password is not the problem. The bank shut down your accounts permanently. You overdrafted and failed to pay.”
I stare him. “That can’t be right.” I’m one of the top businesswomen under thirty in Long Beach according to that SoCal lifestyle website. “I’m running a successful business. It doesn’t make sense.”
Kumar looks more closely at the account details. “All I know is what I see here. It looks like you bounced a check for $5,000 to a place called…High Flying, a pretty big check to Delta Airlines, and another for $150 to an Italian restaurant.” He frowns at the screen. “You also wrote a large check to…” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“What? What’d I do?”
“To JulesBrand. Do you know what that is? Is that a store or a…person or…?”
“What?” JulesBrand, as in JulesBrand underwear? That makes less than zero sense…“How much is it for?”
“I’ve already said way too much…”
None of this makes sense. First of all, I’m a successful businesswoman. And I saw the prices I charge on GoldRush. There’s no way I’m in the hole, no way I spent a substantial amount of money on men’s underwear.
I start breathing a little too fast and sweating. Kumar looks concerned.
Someone definitely stole my shit. “I recently woke up in the hospital and didn’t have any money or credit cards on me. This proves it. Someone stole my wallet.”
“You were mugged?”
“I was assaulted.” Basically.
“I’m so sorry. Do the police have any suspects?”
“I’m stopping by the police station next to check on progress in my case.” He doesn’t need to know that I haven’t reported it yet. But now that I’m thinking about it, why wasn’t that my first instinct?
“What do I do now?” I ask. “Can I get my money back? I mean, I can’t do anything without money.” I’m starting to regret throwing Kobra’s bag of money into the courtyard right about now…
“I can report your card as stolen, but with that much money at stake, the bank won’t simply return it. You’ll have to bring a copy of your police report.”
“Can you print out one of the statements so I can show it to the police? I probably have to show them what was stolen.” I can just imagine the conversation without a bank statement:
“Ma’am, how much money was stolen and what unauthorized purchases were made?”
“Umm, like ten grand, I think, but I’m not sure?”
“What is the account number?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, let me summarize: you think you have a bank account and that someone spent all the money in it, but you’re not sure.”
“That’s right.”
“Hey, Mike, you hear this? This lady said she feels like she should have money and wants to report it.”
At that moment, Max walks in smelling like a coffee shop and Old Spice. “Hey how’s it going? Wrapping up here?”
“Totally. Let’s roll.” No point in dragging this out more.
“That’s great news! You have an address and money and everything then?”