Siri, Who Am I? by Sam Tschida

Author:Sam Tschida [Tschida, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quirk Books
Published: 2021-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Max cuts the engine when we get to the audition. It’s in a big old warehouse not far from downtown. The parking lot is surrounded with green plastic fencing that reminds me of the stuff strawberry baskets are made from. FOR RENT/FOR SALE and PARK HERE FOR $249 A MONTH signs are posted on the side of the building. It looks like they’re trying to make a buck off of literally anything. Like, don’t stand in front of this building or they might hawk you right along with a parking space. One girl, probably a wannabe actress, hops out of an Uber and heads toward the building. She’s the only thing keeping it from looking totally abandoned.

“So how should we do this?” I ask Max. Up until we got here I hadn’t thought through the details. “But more important: can you do it?” I would like nothing more than to take a nap in the parking lot of this nearly abandoned warehouse right now.

“No way in hell. This is the dumbest idea we’ve had yet.” Max looks like he means it. I can tell there’s no way he’s getting out of this car.

“You are such a shitty employee.” I probably shouldn’t feel bad about not being able to pay him. He barely does anything.

While I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror to slap on another coat of Pirate by Chanel and smooth flyaway hairs, Max takes a moment to grandstand.

“I’m offended as a black man that you don’t see the problem with this.”

“Umm, I mean…I just want to take a nap.”

“Mia, do you seriously think I can walk into a casting call and try to recruit some girls to go on a date? It’s pretty sketchy just coming from a white girl. Coming from a big black guy—at the very least I’m getting kicked out. I wouldn’t put it past someone to call the cops. They’d probably think I’m some kind of pimp.”

“Whatever. I’m already doing it. You can stop your whining now.”

He scoffs. “I’m just telling you how it is.”

I’ve stopped listening to Max. He’s right about the awkwardness of the whole thing. No matter which one of us walks in there, it’s going to be suspicious. “You’re right. It’s gonna seem like I have an angle.”

“You do have an angle.”

“I think I’m going to pretend that I have a crisis and—”

He cuts me off. “Good luck and text me if the cops come.” Why do I feel like these should be our parting words every time?

As I approach the warehouse, I see a line of beautiful women, all between the ages of twenty and thirty, standing outside. It shouldn’t be hard to find one of them who would like to go on a date with a millionaire. All I have to do is not come off as a total freak.

I sneak into the line. I just want to be in the highest density of potential dates. “No cuts,” one chick says.

“Oh, sorry.”

She glares and I head to the back of the line.

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