"Sure. Uh, it's still raining hard. Can I give you a ride home?"

I didn't think I could ever set foot in that apartment again. Being furious with S.H.A.R.I. for unknowingly trying to hijack Mr. WTF paled in comparison to all that went down after.

"I'm not going home."

"Well, let me take you wherever you're going."

"OK.".

I was quiet during the whole car ride downtown. Jason tried to get me to talk, but I just couldn't. The only word I said was "NO" when he asked, "Is this about me?"

When Jason pulled up in front of the Greyhound bus station he said, "Hang in there, Mags. You're gonna be OK."

And I wondered if I ever would be.

Chapter 49.

DAY 11-MORNING.

I woke up smelling like ham. I couldn't tell if it was courtesy of the stench emanating from the bus station restaurant, or the fact that 99 percent of the people waiting to depart, myself included, looked like they hadn't showered in days.

I was shocked that I had fallen asleep at all on what were probably voted the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Los Angeles-or perhaps in the entire nation. All metal, all wiry. Did someone really think that if they were made in assorted cheerful colors, no one would notice how torturous they were to sit on for more than two minutes?

On top of checkerboard imprints on my cheeks-both ass and face-I had one of those hangover-y headaches from too much crying. Let's Make a Deal, blaring from the large TV screens that dotted the station, didn't help much. A commercial for The Talk came on. On the rare occasions I've seen the commercials for that show, the hosts are always laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing. What is so fucking funny, ladies?!?!

I looked at my phone to see what time it was, and how much longer a wait I had until my bus left at 6:10 a.m.

OOOO. MMMM. GGGG!!! It was 9:37!! I had fallen asleep for FOUR AND A HALF FREAKIN' HOURS. I ran to the window to see if I could change my ticket. The man/woman behind the counter (I so couldn't tell which. I'm all for gender fluidity, so I'll just call him/her THEM). Them said that I had not only missed my 6:10 a.m. bus, but also the 9:30 a.m. bus. At least them let me exchange my ticket for the next bus, but it wasn't leaving until 12:30 p.m.

I wandered into the ladies' room, which might as well have been backstage in a dressing room at some Broadway show. Well, some skanky regional, out-of-town-before-it-hits-Broadway show. One woman was fully naked, wiping herself down with wet paper towels. Another was fixing her hair with a curling iron and a lot of Aqua Net, and a third was applying makeup with a druggy-speedy-shaky hand. My last costar had her pants off and was mending a hole in the crotchal area.

I splashed water on my face and got out of there as quickly as I could. What could I do for almost three hours to keep myself distracted? I couldn't very well sit on one of the wire chairs and replay over and over what had happened last night. And I couldn't bear to see The Talk ladies LAUGHING one more fucking time. So I took to the streets.

Walking has always been calming to me. Especially in NYC, where, for some reason, it's the best place to get some "alone time," even when surrounded by constant throngs and activity. In L.A. it's the opposite. When I'm walking and pass the occasional person, I feel totally out there and exposed.

Downtown was a ripe canvas for street art, which up until recently, I had barely noticed, and now, felt like a best friend. Every corner I turned, I found myself face to face with some masterpiece: But even walking through the urban museum wasn't enough to keep at bay the images that were flashing in my mind like stop-action still frames-Whitney with S.H.A.R.I. doing shots together. Me, a sad-sack reflection in a sexy strip club's mirror. And that was just the short film before the feature presentation. Mom lying. Dad lying. Mom cheating. Dad leaving. Me and Cooper cutting off Dad. The betrayals. The fiction.

And then, OH BOY, wouldn't ya know.... Like it had been happening from the start of the hunt, from the first second I began really seeing the street art and paying attention to the messages, I came upon a piece that SHOUTED AT ME.

Yeah, thanks.

I continued past abandoned buildings and revitalized lofts, new cafes, and a stall at Grand Central Market called EggSlut. Suddenly I came upon a wall covered with layers of street art. Only this one had two things that set it apart from anything I had ever seen before.

The Two Things that Set the Wall Apart from Anything I Had Ever Seen Before By Mags Marclay 1). At the top was a welcome sign that said: THIS IS YOUR WALL. Paint or paste anything you want on it. 100% legal. 100% raw. Streaming live 24/7 on www.thisisyourwall.com.

2). At the bottom, lining the wall, there were cans of spray paint on the ground. An open invitation for anyone's use.

Was this for real? Or was it a trap, and the second I started spraying, I'd be hauled off to jail or slapped with a big, phat phine for vandalizing private property? And who was kickin' back, watching the activity 24/7 on the website? The whole thing felt a little, uh...

ne-far-i-ous (n-fr-s) Adjective Evil; wicked; sinful; immoral ... (thanks, Blake).

But at the same time, it was calling to me.

I looked it up and saw it was legit.

www.thisisyourwall.com What did I have to lose, #thisisyourwall? So I waved to the camera, picked up one of the cans, and felt its cold cylinder in my hands. I pushed down the nozzle and the spray left the can in a powerful hiss. I would add my mark to the already full wall, and paint what was on my mind.

And at that point, it was simply surrender.

Chapter 50.

DAY 11-AFTERNOON.

"Do you think if I put a license plate on the front door of my apartment it would give me a feeling of transience?" That was just one of the, oh, about two million questions the chattiest woman in all the land sitting next to me on the bus asked. She was in her late '70s (I think?), and wouldn't stop talking to me, saying random things like, "Joan did very well in the spelling bee. She misspelled martyr, but so did runner-up Tammy Cole of St. Stephens, Hazlewood."

I was as sweet and cheerful to her as I could muster during the first hour. Then I couldn't take it any longer. Luckily my earbuds happened to be in the pocket of the jacket I threw on before I had run out of the apartment last night, and thankfully they were not waterlogged from all the rain. But not as luckily or thankfully, the minute I turned on some music, my phone died. I kept pretending I was listening, tapping the beat out on my lap, and whenever she started talking to me again, which was often, I'd even fake sing along out loud with whatever song was not playing.

It didn't take long to realize my seat's unfortunate placement. And not so much because of the annoying, chatty lady, but the fact that we were right next to the bathroom. It began to reek so bad, I kept gagging.

But then I thought-how appropriate. It's like my whole life has been so far. Totally full of shit.

Chapter 51.

DAY 11-NIGHT.

Even after living in California for two years, I am still always startled by the sight of palm trees. Especially at night, in downtown San Francisco, and surrounded by tall glass buildings.

I bolted out of the station not only to get some fresh air to stop gagging, but also to escape my seat mate, who continued chatting even as we were getting off the bus. Not knowing which way to go, I made a left-always my natural leaning.

How could I call my dad from a dead phone to tell him I was in San Francisco? And of course his number was in there, too, so I wouldn't know where to call even if I borrowed someone's live phone. I had to find a pay phone and a phone book, if either still even existed, and hope that he had a listed number. I walked a block and was stunned to find a giant bridge-like right there in front of me-at the water's edge. It must have been the Bay Bridge, because it wasn't red like the Golden Gate Bridge. And why didn't they just call it the Red Gate Bridge, since it's not really golden at all? With no pay phone in sight, I turned back around and caught a glimpse of a full moon, perfectly placed in between two buildings like a professional model posing for a picture and knowing exactly where to stand. Lucky moon, not a care in the world.

I walked for about six more blocks and couldn't find a phone or any stores or buildings open (even the Starbucks there closed at 7:30 p.m.). Fuck. Now what? Uh... hello??? Just one day off the hunt for Mr. WTF and my mad deduction skillz were rusty? THE BUS STATION. It had to be safe (chatty ladyfree) by now to go back, and there had to be a pay phone there, too.

Sure enough, when I returned I saw that there were three. I asked the pimply boy-man behind the counter if he could break a twenty.

"Sorry, ran out of change. But you could get it if you buy something from the vending machine."

These were no ordinary vending machines. They were dark, and when you stepped up to one, a light turned on. Step away, dark. Step up, light. I went back and forth several times, like playing peek-a-boo with a metal baby. Just one of the hundred things I could have come up with to avoid calling my father. I bought a bag of Grandma's Mini Sandwich Cremes, "Quality since 1914," and was glad no one had added a wisp to the logo yet, though Grandma looked suspiciously updated since 1914-maybe in the '70s.

My change clattered down, and then I slowly ate the cookies, hoping Grandma would give me the courage I needed to call my father for the first time in, well, forever. Finally I made myself go over to ye olde-timey pay phone, pick up a phone book, and look for his number.

And there it was. I don't think I've ever seen my dad's name in print before. I took a deep breath, looked once more at Grandma on the cookie wrapper, and put change in the slot like I was in Vegas, placing all my bets on the outcome of the call. I dialed. There was no turning back now.

The phone rang twice, then a teenage voice answered. "Hello?"

I panicked. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl, and on top of that I didn't even know my half brother's or sister's name. And how was I to ask for my dad? And what if s/he said, "Who's calling?" I almost hung up but then if I called back, I would have been so busted.

"Uh... hi..." I spoke slowly to stall for time. Though I had rehearsed for hours what I'd say to my dad, I never figured in a potential preamble.

"Hello?"

"Hi... is... uh... Brian there?"

"Who's calling?"

Ucchh... there it was.

"Maggie."

"Maggie who?"

"Uh... his daughter," I said, softly, not sure I had the right to claim the title. "Who's this?"

"Roxanne. His daughter."

"ROXANNE, HI!!!!!!!!!" I said in such a chipper voice it scared me, so it had to have terrified her.

"Hold on. DAD!" she screamed, then whispered, "It's Maggie."

"Hello?" It was the same voice I had always remembered. The one that sang to me at bedtime, doing silly jazz scatting, making me laugh too hard to fall asleep.

"Daddy?"

And that's all I could say before bursting into tears and sobbing, just like the seven-year-old he left all those years ago.

Chapter 52.

DAY 11-LATE NIGHT.

As I sat in the passenger seat inhaling the smell of new leather, I recognized my father's hands on the steering wheel from the clips I'd watched over and over. Though I hadn't noticed before how much they looked like mine-chubby fingers and small, pedestrian nails.

"It's really great to see you," he said in a sweet tone that matched the kindness in his eyes.

"Really?"

By the time he picked me up at the bus station, I had calmed myself down and washed off the mascara that had run down my cheeks. But it was no use. I started crying again. "Sorry that I'm so emotional..."

Dad welled up himself, and wiped away a tear with his sleeve. "You come by it honestly," he joked.

He got me to laugh, and then cry some more. "And I'm sorry I didn't call or email."

"Before surprising me tonight? Or do you mean for the last seventeen years?"

"Yes..."

There was silence. But not the awkward kind you feel you have to fill. More like we were both just BEING with each other. I looked out the window of his car and saw a Chihuahua in a cab. It was hard to focus on what was sitting right next to me since it hadn't been for so many years.

"I know everything now," I finally said. "Mom just told me."

"I see...."

"How could you lie to me and Cooper? I mean, I can understand why she would, but you?"

"I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but it was more important that you had stability with your mom." He drove really slowly while traffic flew past us. "And by the time I thought you were old enough and ready to hear, you didn't want to talk to me or see me. I just thought you were better off not knowing."

"The truth? Or YOU?" I asked.

"Well, for a while, both. I had some really dark years there. You never needed to know about that."

I hadn't imagined. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I was heavily into drugs and alcohol. You know, on the road they were everywhere. So of course your mom would turn to someone else. I wasn't present even when I was. I know that now, but then it just felt like such a betrayal."

The car sped up. Like he wanted to get through that time in his life more quickly. Always the musician, his driving was accompaniment to our conversation.

"Once we split up, and I got sober," he continued, "I was afraid that any hurt from the past would've totally sent me slipping back. And I'd be of no use to you or anyone else that way. So I had to start fresh to stay clean."