“If you don’t feel her anymore then there’s no point.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while and I’m sure I’ve lost him.
“I’ll let you know,” he says finally.
I think I’ve made a mistake. Not pushed hard enough. I’m dismissed with a polite smile and take the hint. The two suits return to the table as I walk away.
I need Maggie to do some damage control and I need it now.
13
Maggie
A hipster is following me.I thought I was being paranoid at first but now I’m sure of it. It’s hard to tell when they’re everywhere. A sea of plaid shirts, Buddy Holly glasses, and cuffed pants; but this guy is for sure following me. Roe was going to meet me at the same restaurant near his production lot but the same guy in glasses has been on my tail for the last three places I’ve gone. I should know. It takes a creep to see a creep.
I duck into a public restroom not far from Echo Park and press a cool hand to my chest to slow my racing heart. The door doesn’t lock, but it’s the middle of the day and hopefully, he won’t be that bold with families playing frisbees within shouting distance. I debate leaving my phone and purse and clothes in the stall and getting out the old-fashioned way but logistically speaking, getting back to my stuff is too risky. Also, who knows how long he’ll wait me out?
I peek out the cracked door and sure enough, there he is sipping from a coffee mug and reading a worn copy of what I’m sure is Kerouac or Bukowski. The spy is an evil genius—he’ll never be spotted. I only caught him because I’m paranoid.
It’s a Pepto-pink bathroom that doesn’t look like it’s been updated since the 80s. A fluorescent light twitches and graffiti is scratched into the mirror. It’s not disgusting but I wouldn’t host a soiree here. I go to the last stall in the row and shut the door behind me.
“Abort.” I shoot a text to Roe.
I get a “?” in response.
My heart drops when someone comes into the bathroom. I hop onto the seat, balancing on the bowl in a very unattractive squat. Gross, I hate even thinking about the word squat, let alone doing one. It’s not a great hiding spot regardless, because there’re only so many stalls. I have visions of each door being kicked down one by one as I sit waiting for my doom. I balance to look under the door and see a pair of strappy sandals and let out a breath. Typical dramatic me.
“I’m being followed.” I send to Roe.
He bought two burner phones just for our conversations, because he too is that paranoid. How does one go about buying burner phones? I thought that only happened in movies.
Little dots indicate he’s typing and then, “Where are you?”
I send a dropped pin but add, “I’ll meet you at your place instead, as soon as I can see that he isn’t following me anymore.” Hopefully, he gets that I mean the theater, but my text remains unread as I put my phone away.
The heels click out of the bathroom and the door shuts again. My hands have a slight tremor as I reach for the lock. They shoot back when the bathroom door opens again. I freeze. It’s not the gentle gait of a woman, but the clomping stomp of my follower. Sure enough, when I peek under the door, it’s a pair of Chucks. No surprise. He’s peeking under each door and I shoot up in just enough time to avoid being spotted.
There is no other door. I have no way out. What does this guy want? What if he wants to write me into his next great American novel? Whatever the case, my gut says I don’t want to find out.
I chew on my lip and study the ceiling. Apparently, two days without stripping in public is two too many. The first door is kicked open. Hot dog! People really do that! Off come my clothes and I tuck my purse and phone into them.
The second door flies open.
I wave a sad goodbye to the bundle before they thump into the trash can. Door number three flies open right as I go Under. The door right next to me. The creep starts whistling. Knocking down each door in a woman’s bathroom is a jolly riot. My shirt is still sticking out from the small rectangular trashcan attached to the stall wall. It’ll have to stay like that. No time.
My back slams against the wall, taking up as little space as possible, right before the door swings open. It crashes against the flimsy stall, rattling me. My hands shoot to cover my mouth to keep from gasping. The wind from the impact brushes my skin. It’s too close a call.
My heart is in my throat, but the guy’s face is brilliant. Utter confusion and disbelief. He steps back and searches for a door or window. Sorry, buddy, no luck. He runs around checking all the stalls again, and as he does I shove the shirt into the trashcan. It shuts with a reverberating clunk. My hand snaps back like it bit me just as he runs into view. His face twists with confused rage. He tugs off a knit cap and scarf and runs a hand through his hair.
His face doesn’t ring a bell. He’s young, possibly, part-Asian. His hair is cut military short and it’s clear that the hipster look is an identity to blend in. Evil genius. It’s like me being another pretty blonde in the City of Angels. Hiding in plain sight.
“Fuck. Fuck.” He repeats my earlier sentiments exactly. “No. She’s gone.” He’s talking into an earpiece. “I don’t know. She must’ve slipped out.” I can’t hear the other person other than a loud male voice. The man winces. “I know. I was watching too. But she’s gone.” He brings a fist to his forehead and studies the pink ceiling. “Yeah, no. I know. Fuck, I know.”
He kicks a trashcan, spewing debris everywhere. “Yeah, I’m going, I’m going. She couldn’t have gone far.”
The door closes again. I creep out the stall, still Under, and scope the room. There’s a closed sign on the door that wasn’t there before and my hipster friend is sprinting away. I leave the sign to get cleaned up in privacy.
Back at the stall, I frown down at my clothes in the trashcan. Feminine wrappers and balled up tissues abound. I take a moment to mourn more lost fashion.
