PRESENT DAY
Present Day
Unreliable Witness
The 26 year old girl I’m looking for was sighted on the Lower East Side 5 days ago, sometime between dinner and going out. She was seen at a bar where she had never been seen before, by an eyewitness who admittedly was fuzzy after a lunch of Riesling and crepes. The fuzzy-wasted element is significant because the girl named V, nicknamed Whore, or Blindy, depending on your gender, was also sighted near Union Square, at a party in Chelsea, and up and down Lafayette at a string of local bars and restaurants, all more or less at the same time.
The reason for investigating her whereabouts will become clear but the reason is singular and specific, and the situation is urgent bordering on an emergency. What was she doing in the groin area of NYC when she’s a snob about her areas, and without any of her friends when she’s a codependent pack animal? According to the eyewitness she was taking Unicum shots while reciting lines from American Horror Story to the bartender. The 18 year old bartender had told her to switch to beer and not leave her wallet on the counter when she went out to smoke; he had asked her where she had bought her shoes; how she dealt with a daily hangover; if she was going to get a job, if she needed one, and if by any chance she was single. To which she had replied that her purse was from Proenza Schouler and that she had fucked all her heroes.
Her sighting at Union Square, at almost the exact same time, was by her good friend P.F., who admittedly was definitely jet lagged. They had seen each other at the only acceptable location in the area, a Japanese restaurant frequented by khakis and suits – which was entertaining enough but would have been unbearable without the best uni in the city at $18 a piece. P.F. had told V all of this after a lukewarm hug, that he liked the food but mostly enjoyed watching himself through the eyes of the locals, and V had replied that she couldn’t remember how she had gotten to the restaurant. I told P.F. this last piece of information made him an unreliable witness and he nodded in full agreement, raising a shot of Unicum to toast me. “Unreliability is one of the few luxuries left,” he said, “but isn’t this just the best name for a drink?! Unicum. One cum. Hahahhahaha”. I continued to press him about V, well into our dessert, straight into his conversation about DJs. “Well I guess this all could have happened at that sushi place in PARIS now that I think about it. You really are the most boring person I’ve ever had lunch with outside of Sweden.” Regardless he was gracious enough to call the owner of the place in Paris and ask him if he had eaten there a few days ago, and whom he had been spoken to – and if he had behaved, if he had left his credit card – to which the owner had replied YES. To everything. Apparently P.F. had been speaking to someone named V that night, who P.F. found out had also paid his bill. After a few calls however no one else had seen V in Paris that week.
The party in Chelsea where she was sighted was for the birthday of our mutual friend and foe Molly. After some consideration all the witnesses there were disqualified. Molly was the new girlfriend of V’s most recent ex-girlfriend Japan, also nicknamed Whore, or Cracky, depending on your nationality, who she had introduced Molly to almost unwillingly one night when on a Chanel junket in Germany. Though she spoke German it had been 6AM and not even the Germans spoke German at that hour, and certainly not Japan, so V had been short on people to speak to when Molly had conveniently rolled up. For no other reason would she have spoken a single word to Molly in any language, and not even to be mean. Therefore there was no chance that V would have showed up at Molly’s birthday, we all thought. Unless, of course, she was drinking Unicum and didn’t know where she was.
At around the same time the reliable owner of an oft-frequented bar on Lafayette said he had seen V at one of his corner booths, wearing jean-shorts so short she looked naked. He described her as red-faced and shouting, with both hands up a brunette’s shirt, who, judging by her response, was either asleep or brain-dead. It was hard to say given V’s taste in women. She had left to go outside for a smoke, or to chain-smoke rather on a bench alone with her off-leash Pomeranian, nicknamed Whore, or Satan, depending on your physical proximity, while calling and texting. Had the bar owner overheard anything that could be helpful in locating her? Yes, apparently V had been planning a bar-stop to pick up another friend, which would lead to a birthday party, that would lead to another party, which would lead to a club, which would lead to an after, which would lead to her house. But she had never made it home that night. Or that’s my theory, because it makes sense or sounds good, but I don’t know really.
I now know for a fact though that she was probably on Lafayette. In Union Square, Chelsea and in Paris. But no one has seen her for 5 days. She has no place of employment, no boyfriend or girlfriend, and her parents have asked me not to worry. But I am worried, because a week ago she borrowed my new Givenchy sweater. The sweater is special, with a picture of Disney’s Bambi on it, and it’s made out of a downy black material so soft you could basically die in it. They’re sold out of it already or I’d buy a new one and not care where V was. Even if they didn’t have it in black, but in grey or purple, I’d still buy one and be fine. People have taken people like her to small-claims courts over much cheaper sweaters. This is your only warning, V.
