Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (13 page)

II. B Level – Civilian Royalty Rising Achievers (Second Rung on the Food Chain)
Filled with those who service the A Level Entertainment or Civilian Royalty of Los Angeles—the ambitious, reliable, and generally well-educated, lawyers, chefs, plastic surgeons, agents, business managers, dentists, stylists, makeup artists, investment bankers and trainers who can become A Level if very, very ambitious. The classic definition of “well-married” in Los Angeles and a good match for a highly-educated woman/‌man who never again wants to work, as the men at this level are generally too busy to wander.
General Requirements:
For spouses at this level, the general requirements include staying thin, fertile (the ability to bear at least two kids is mandatory), taking care of the house/‌staff/‌children, and the ability to stay sober and not embarrass their spouses at professional functions.

III. C Level – Workers (Third Rung of the Food Chain)
In Los Angeles, the waiters, waitresses, temps, clerks, assistants, hostesses, and occasional nannies who generally are aspiring actors, screenwriters, directors, musicians, artists—if they have ambition. If not, they are the sporadically employed, not so ambitious, not particularly focused group who may have no other ambition than to work occasionally, or to get you to support them (which really isn’t so different than the A or B Level Spouses, other than the less ambitious of this group tend to be men). A big gamble, and slightly dangerous, as you will most likely be the person providing all of the money. Generally a formula for a disaster, and not marriage material, unless you have enormous patience and are willing to participate in a thousand arguments where you are blamed for their inability to become a successful actor, screenwriter, director, musician or artist.
Physical Appearance Requirements:
If you have the money, none. But if your spouse/‌partner is the one with the looks and no ambition or career, hold on to your credit cards, don’t have joint accounts, and for heaven’s sake,
get
a prenup: This can be a positively lethal group if he/‌she has been blessed with good or extremely good looks.

“You see,” said Marcie, “the Eco-Chain is the law of options. Those higher up on the food chain—because they have money or are better looking, have been given more options—that is, to find other mates—than those lower on the chain.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“You have an every-girl look,” said Marcie, “tall, thin, blonde. And you don’t come from money, which really lowers your rank. Refinement in your gene pool is necessary for a higher position on the Eco-Chain, but that’s going to be very difficult for you because you don’t have a lot to offer. I’m sure you attract a lot of crap.”

“I’m an attorney.”

“But you’re not that successful.”

“Yet. I could be.”

“But that takes
sooo
much work.”

“And yourself?” I said.

“Too many options,” said Marcie. “I have a classic look. And I’m very careful. I limit my potential gene pool dilution by only dating people on the upper level from the better areas like Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, Bel Air, Santa Monica above Wilshire, and where I was raised—South Pasadena. That’s why Greg is perfect for me. He’s from Bel Air and very handsome.”

“Yeah, he’s handsome in a Rowan Atkinson kind of way,” I said.

“It’s a simple equation,” explained Marcie. “A couple at a similar attractiveness level and education on the Eco-Chain, like Greg and I, will have roughly the same options and therefore, a fairly good shot at a relationship, unless of course one mate has weighty baggage hanging over their head… like the Menendez Brothers…”

“They’re serving life terms without any possibility of parole for killing their parents. That’s pretty heavy baggage.”

“But they were raised well,” said Marcie, “in Bel Air. Isn’t one of them still available?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“…or one mate has a truly disagreeable condition, like poverty.”

According to Marcie, if two mates are not on the same Eco-Chain level and there is not a significant amount of money on the less attractive mate’s side to balance out the looks scales, it’s a recipe for hell. The less attractive mate will spend 75 percent of the relationship seeking revenge on the more attractive mate for pulling a winning ticket in the gene pool lottery.

Maybe she had a point.

When I first met Andre, I was five foot ten, 120 pounds, and had a body fat count of less than 16 percent. Andre was five foot six and weighed a shade over 190 pounds. He had a big bushy beard with food caught in it and a tiny button nose with a little bump in the middle. He wore sleeveless T-shirts, mid-thigh nylon shorts with elastic waistbands, and flip-flops to class even when it rained. He had buzzed his baby-fine blond hair to a quarter of an inch because he was losing it. That very same group of dope-dealing losers that now surrounded him in Kevin’s living room took it upon themselves during our first year of law school to let me know that “he liked me.” My response: not gonna happen.

Say what you want, but my first instinct was correct.

“Just remember, Andre,” said Julia when she first met him, “plastic surgery is available for everyone.”

There’s no such thing as equal-opportunity dating: You’re either attracted to someone, or you aren’t. And I wasn’t.

But he wasn’t going to take “No” for an answer. Like any smart person who has ever experienced unrequited feelings, Andre knew how to wear down the object of his desire. He became my friend.

“I know that you have a thing for the pretty boys,” he told me, “but isn’t it time you were with someone who isn’t fooled by your act and really sees who you are?”

I wish I had known then that Andre had a talent for creating phrases that sounded good and meant nothing.

Then he became my advisor.

“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but I think that you’ve seriously misinterpreted the fundamental elements of criminal law. Take my outline and see if my notes help you,” was what he told me five days after my exam in criminal law.

Of course, he said nothing when I got an A, and he got a B–.

Then he lobbied my friends. They thought he was the king of arrogance. But he was persistent. He became their friend when he gave them access to an endless supply of speed during finals. But he became their hero when he cooked them a five-course meal with wine. I really couldn’t blame them: For 17 weeks they had lived off nothing but coffee, diet Coke, and vending machine donuts, something they had in common with Andre.

Of course, he also showed them how to taste wine.

“Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste,” he said to my exhausted, pre-finals classmates.

Although Andre pretended to be interested in nothing but gourmet delectables, his secret, nasty, pornographic obsession wasn’t for coeds with EEE-sized breasts, boys who looked like Ashton Kutcher, or transsexuals who dressed like Marilyn Monroe. It was for donuts: glazed donuts, preferably freshly made, still hot, wet with sugar, in units of 12, generally two units of 12. He liked to have them alone, while watching
Letterman
, at 11:30 p.m.

Jennifer never liked Andre. During law school, she referred to him as “Walrus-Butt.”

And then there was Marcie, or should I say Marcee’.

“You’re diving into the wrong gene pool,” said Marcie within 90 seconds of meeting Andre.

“Oh c’mon,” I said.

Marcie looked at me and gave me a quick feet to head appraisal. “Although not the best gene pool, you have managed to breed out the short, fat, thin-hair gene. Andre will dilute that pool. You need to seriously consider what your offspring could look like.”

“You sound like a dog breeder.”

She sighed. “You’ve violated the Eco-Chain. Again. I assure you, Andre will give you nothing but classic Relationship Terrorism: bad sex, passive-aggressive behavior, and verbal warfare.”

It was an interesting perspective.

But after putting up with the Bohemian antics of Lucius longer than was humanly possible, I thought, “Why not?”

The revenge techniques on an attractive mate differ between the sexes. From women, it’s nothing but: “Do you think she’s attractive?” “I bet you wish you were with her,” and “You don’t want to sleep with me because I’m fat.”

In addition, the less attractive woman may increase the revenge principal by keeping the couple (if sharing expenses) consistently in debt by spending 110 percent more per year than the couple earns, sabotaging the occasional career plan or goal of the mate, or the ultimate: having an in-your-face affair or two with a complete loser, just to show him that someone finds her attractive.

However, Andre’s revenge techniques were the classic male pattern. His intention was to make me believe that I was a mess. The dismantling took the route of a million small criticisms.

Did I know that I spoke too loudly? He began shushing me whenever he thought I was being too loud.

Then I walked too slowly. He started timing me—to the second—when we went grocery shopping to see how long it took me to get the milk and bring it to our cart.

Did I know that I would get a much better result if I wrote from my arm, and not from my hand? He tried to give me handwriting lessons.

And I never quite mastered his wine tasting techniques.

“Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste. Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste,” he yelled at me. Unfortunately, my technique was pour, drink.

Of course the sex was a disaster. I was blamed for his sweaty anxiety and general inability to perform.

“You’re just coarse and insensitive to my needs,” said Andre.

“What would you like me do?” I asked. “Dress up like a glazed donut?”

Three months after we got together, he walked into the living room and threw a sponge at me as I was preparing for my Real Property final with my study group.

“Jesus,” he said, “can’t you see that this is dirty?”

Six weeks later, he dropped a box with four glasses in it on the bathroom floor as I was dashing to an interview.

“THESE HAVE SPOTS ON THEM!” he screamed.

I should’ve seen the signs. He started examining my nails in front of friends. “Look at these!” he’d say with disgust. I think I knew things had gone too far when he threw out half of my wardrobe one day while I was in class.

“It’s time someone taught you how to dress,” he said.

But here he was, at Jennifer’s party. It was another chance to hear his opinion on everything.

I turned around, went back upstairs, and found Byron.

“You look stressed out,” said Byron. “Why don’t I give you a massage?”

“OK,” I said.

We walked into Jennifer’s freshly painted bedroom and closed the door. Fifteen minutes later the door flew open.

“Oh,” said a familiar voice, “there she is.”

Byron pulled himself off me. He was naked. My dress was wrapped around my neck.

Andre, Karen, and Susan stood there staring.

We attempted to take cover under a comforter. Just then, Jennifer walked by, did a double-take, and starting whooping with laughter.

“Let’s go,” said Andre. Karen and Susan walked out of the room. Andre started walking out of the room. He stopped at the door and turned around.

“You haven’t changed. You still have a taste for that pretty boy crap,” said Andre.

Byron put his clothes back on. I rearranged myself. He promised to take me windsurfing in Santa Cruz in the morning.

I went to get some water and found Jennifer shaking a martini.

She couldn’t stop laughing.

“At least you didn’t dilute your gene pool.”

“I see you’ve been talking to Marcie.”

“Well, you know Marcie,” said Jennifer, “she may be insane, but she’s not wrong.”

“I think Andre got what he truly wanted: San Francisco Civilian Royalty. I hear that she’s very nice,” I said.

“Your marriage would have been horrible,” said Jennifer.

My head hurt and I felt awful. “Does that even matter anymore?” I said.

Jennifer put her arm round me. “Don’t do this,” she said.

“Do what? All I know is that Andre is married and seems happy. And I’m still floating through the L.A. Eco-Chain, make that cesspool, of dating. And alone,” I said, and then covered my eyes with my hands. “
Still alone
.”

From across the room, I could see Andre opening the wine he had brought to the party. He poured a third of a glass, looked at it, swirled it, smelled it, and then tasted it. He poured another third of a glass and gave it to Karen. Karen glanced around the room and… did she sigh? She then picked up the glass, looked at it, swirled, smelled it, and then tasted the wine as Andre nodded his head.

I’m sure it was an excellent French Burgundy.

Revisionist History

Marcie called me with an unusual request. She wanted to borrow my wedding dress, the one I had bought for my wedding to Andre.

Marcie was five foot one. I was five foot ten.

“Well, if we were closer in size, it might be OK. But if I give it to you, I’m never going to be able to wear it,” I said.

“So what,” said Marcie. “At least I’ll put it to good use. No one thinks you’re ever going to use it.”

I thought about it.

“No,” I said.

“But I really need it,” she pleaded.

“I’ll be honest with you. For whatever reason, your request really pisses me off.”

I heard Marcie sigh. “Won’t you consider it? I really need it.”

“I did consider it, Marcie. And the answer is no.”

“God, you’re selfish,” she said and hung up before I could answer.

One day later, I got a call from Bettina, Marcie’s matron of honor.

“So the wedding dress…” said Bettina.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“You really should do more to help her,” said Bettina. “It’s not every day that your friend gets married.”

“Uh huh.”

“This is a good thing,” said Bettina, “because at least someone will use that dress.”

“Funny,” I said. “Since I paid for it, I was planning on wearing it.”

“You know, I think you’re forgetting how much she needs this dress,” said Bettina. “And you know how much this means to her.”