Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (17 page)

“Oh,” I said. “I’m supposed to be training for a marathon.”

“Oh—the marathon,” said Leslee. “Jennifer told me about that. How many years have you been trying to do it?”

We got our cigars and found the door to the balcony. As we opened the door, a blast that made me think of 50 people farting as aggressively as possible hit us in the face. It was the desperate smell of a group cigar smoke.

Suddenly, Leslee ran into a dark corner of the balcony and started retching into a wayward trash can. Then she finished, walked toward me, started retching again and circled back toward the trash can while continuing to retch.

This was a surprise.

One usually didn’t see a circle hurl unless it was New Year’s. I went to Leslee and held her hair until she finished retching into the trash. When she was finished, I left her resting on a bench on the balcony and went to get her something that would calm her stomach.

I ordered a Shirley Temple, no grenadine, no cherries, with my second drink ticket.

“That’s called a Seven-Up,” said the bartender.

The bartender asked me if I wanted a little umbrella in it. I told him that I wanted the umbrella, but not to bother putting it in the drink. It was pink.

I took Leslee to a bathroom and helped her wash the puke out of her dress. We then attempted to leave the Ivy & Elite event without attracting too much attention. Nobody noticed us, because the Harvard grads had brought a large group to the dance floor to teach them a new dance.

I didn’t recognize the dance, but it seemed that every five seconds they wiggled their hips back and forth and shouted out something that sounded a lot like “MAMBO!”

Leslee couldn’t drive, so I stuffed her in my car. She fell asleep immediately. Before I got her home, she awakened from her stupor.

“Meet anybody cute tonight?”

“No,” I replied, “but I got a pink umbrella.” I twirled it for her.

She rolled her eyes.

“Anybody ask for your phone number?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Really? An Ivy Elite guy wanted your phone number? Before you blow it completely, let me give you some advice that I got from my research.”

“Why am I so lucky?” I asked.

Leslee looked at me. “Because by the look of things, I think that you may be a little more clueless than everyone else.”

“Mambo!” I said.

“This is a good place to start.”

“Where?”

“Here,” said Leslee. “You have a weird sense of humor.”

“Since when is that a problem?”

“Since always, like every time I’m around you.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Guys want to be the funny ones. I mean, think about it, do you think these guys really want a wife with a weird sense of humor?”

“I think it’s important to have a good sense of humor, even if it’s weird. What else?”

“You’re cynical. And judgmental,” said Leslee.

“You know what I do for a living.”

“I know plenty of female attorneys who remain open-minded and fresh.”

“They can’t still be practicing,” I said.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Leslee, “they’re not. They’re married with children… you know, successful.”

“What about you?” I said. “You’re not married.”

Leslee shook her head ever so slightly, right-left, right-left, right-left. “
I
work at Hobeck, so
I’m
part of something much bigger than your little practice. We’ve been here for over 100 years. That makes me highly desirable in the L.A. dating scene.”

I looked at her. “So you want to keep practicing law?” I asked.

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “Only a masochist wants to keep practicing law. And you know about my research regarding your hair and makeup?”

“Yes. Your research has shown you that guys like less makeup and more hair.”

“Right,” said Leslee. “And you’re too tall.”

I looked at her and rolled my eyes.

“So start slouching,” she said. “And you need to acquire the acquisition gene.”

“What?” I said.

“You need to want things,” she said. “Lots of things, like big houses, new cars, and new furniture. You need to be the person who consistently spends too much at Christmas every year.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“You know what I mean.”

“But,” I said. “I already have everything I need.”

“That’s pretty sad,” said Leslee. “And by the way, I’ve seen your little post-graduate apartment. I sincerely hope that you want more than that.”

“Well, what’s the point?”

“The point is that you want and want and want. And you tell your husband that you want and want and want,” she replied. “So you make your husband ambitious, because to shut you up, he has to work. So you become the backbone that makes your husband successful, because through your wanting, he works harder than he ever thought he would. That’s how he becomes successful.”

I shook my head. I was confused. “Sounds like you become the catalyst that gives your husband incurable debt.”

“That’s part of it,” she said.

“Well, I’m ambitious. I can make the money.”

“Are you crazy? Do you know how much work that’ll take? Every woman I know, well, the
smart
ones, got rid of her ambition a long time ago. She gave it to her husband.”

We pulled up at Leslee’s apartment.

“Thanks for the info,” I said.

“Think about what I told you. I mean, you’re 35. It’s almost too late for you.”

I drove home and fed Abyss.

There was a message from Autumn, the Stepford D-Girl at Genie’s production company.

“Courtney, this is the third time I’ve called. Please call me. Jon Gene would like to have lunch with you.”

More like have me for lunch.

I made myself one of my favorite Velveeta creations: toasted bread, mayonnaise, tomatoes, with Velveeta melted over it. A Velveeta junior pizza. It tasted great.

And then I thought about what Leslee had said.

Later that week, I brought it up in Group.

“I was one of those women once,” said the nearly divorced housewife who really wanted to be a therapist.

“Which women?” I said.

“A woman who was truly successful. I had everything.”

“What happened?”

“I got ambition.”

“Isn’t it better now,” I said. “I mean, aren’t you more realized as a person?”

“I went from having a 6-bedroom, 5-bathroom, 6,500-square-foot home on Mulholland Drive with a large Mercedes to having a 2-bedroom, 1-bathroom apartment off Ventura Boulevard and driving a Saturn. Yes, I’m more realized, but I also can’t pay my bills.”

Roberta broke in.

“I feel that the Group is a little off course tonight. Our purpose is to discuss what you feel, not what you think.”

“Roberta, is it somehow not clear to you that we all feel horrible?” I said.

When I got home there were messages on my voice mail. Another couple messages from Autumn, Genie’s Stepford D-Girl, and six or seven empty messages which contained nothing but breathing.

Later that week Leslee called me.

“Oh hi, Leslee,” I said. “Are you the Breather?”

“The what?” she said.

“The person who keeps calling and breathing on my voice mail and cell.”

“Great. I see you’ve gotten yourself into another fine mess.”

“I’m just asking.”

“So Jennifer says I should keep helping you.”

“I can see Jennifer is always thinking of me.”

“She is. So is Bettina. Now there’s a woman with her head on straight.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s not exactly what her girlfriends used to tell me.”

“What?”

“Nothing. How’d you meet her?”

“Jennifer gave me her number. We went for coffee. It’s nice to meet someone down here who isn’t afraid of hugging and touching.”

“And that’s just the beginning.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Did she invite you to train for the marathon with us?”

“She did. But like I told you, even she knows it’s a joke.”

“That’s her opinion.”

“It is. But it’s also your friend Marcie’s.”

“Marcie.”

“She pronounces it Mar-cee.”

“Whatever…”

“It’s her opinion that I should keep helping you and maybe introduce you to some women who are successful role models. She calls the women the Civilian Royalty of L.A., like what I’ll be once I get married. You know, married well, never have to work again.”

“I might have heard something about this.”

For the past ten years.

“And I might as well tell you… all of your friends think you’re a mess.”

“Really? Let me guess. No boyfriend, not married, close to 35, not in a big law firm—just me and my little practice.”

“Exactly. So, there’s this Ivy & Elite Book Group coming up and I might—if they’re not too strict about you not really going to the right schools—you know those UCs—be able to bring you and your friends.”

“Hmm. A book group. Oh boy.”

“So I’ll let you know if I can bring you.”

“OK.”

“If I can get them to let you in, you should really come. I think it would really help you to see the…”

“I get it. The role models, Marcie’s…”

“Mar-cee’s—”

“Marcie’s L.A. Civilian Royalty.”

“Yeah. I’m getting another call so…”

My cell went dead.

About two weeks later I got an email from Leslee. The Ivy & Elite book group would “make an exception” and allow me, Bettina, and Marcie to come. It was going to be in the home of an Ivy Elite member named Elizabeth, who lived in Brentwood.

“But,” wrote Leslee, “please don’t let them see the car—the Honda—you’re driving. If you’re going to come in that, could you please park around the block, or somewhere they won’t see it?”

How Can I Be More Perfect For You?

Rabbi Francis O’Toole was the spiritual leader of a Westside synagogue that comprised born-again Jews, therapy-fried Episcopalians, guilt-fleeing Catholics, and pretty much everybody else who walked in the door. His Shul was a refuge for the disenfranchised—depressed from their recent job losses in the entertainment industry—who tended to be cautionary tales for the rage-of-the-moment drugs, cults, and sexual practices that had ravaged Los Angeles during the past 25 years.

Like many in his congregation, Rabbi O’Toole’s acceptance of Judaism in his life was the result of a tortured spiritual and emotional odyssey. Never popular as a kid, he had formed several punk bands which had briefly flashed on the L.A. music scene in the early ’80s, the most notorious being his last band, Dry-Gun-Fly, a band known for creating mood by cranking up their smoke machine during their rock anthems.

When Dry-Gun-Fly exploded due to a lethal combination of drug-heightened ego and a general inability to determine who was rightfully sleeping with their Marilyn Monroe look-alike female lead singer, Francis smashed his guitar during their last concert at Madame Wong’s and never came back. There would be no more 3:00 a.m. runs to Cantor’s Deli. It was over.

His next stop was a brief journey into EST. The “BIG MESSAGE” they were supposed to give him? Talk about stupid. It was nothing more than sadism with a therapy twist. And he resented being told when he could go to the bathroom.

He then became a disciple of the Guru Gorabi. After giving the kid-Guru all of his worldly possessions, he discovered The Universal Truth: The Guru was a fat, pimply-faced, dull 16-year-old who farted when he ate broccoli. Francis tried to retrieve his beloved 4-chamber bong, his Fender amps, and the mother of pearl roach clips which were given to him by some girl he had met at a Devo concert. But no such luck. The Guru knew when he had scored some good booty.

After spending some time on a kibbutz in Israel, he discovered two things: (1) this communal farming thing was for the birds, and (2) ab-busting physical labor was not what he wanted to do.

He also acquired a ferociously entrepreneurial wife named Sabre who pretty much figured that Francis was her ticket to the big time, that being American citizenship and the position of Rebbetzin in an affluent American congregation.

The citizenship she got hands down, but the Rebbetzin, the rabbi’s wife? That meant Francis had to become a rabbi. How was that going to happen? He really liked Christmas and that big fat ol’ smokey Easter ham he ate every spring. He was a Christian. But she pushed and campaigned and nagged.

Sometime after Sabre became profoundly unbearable, Francis had a vision. Sure, being an Herbalife distributor, his current gig, was OK, but wasn’t he meant to do more than push biodegradable soap and overpriced vitamins?

Being a Rabbi actually give him everything he craved as a rock star. People would come to hear him. People would look to him for guidance. People might even revere him—all this, even without a current hit on the Billboard 100. He would never ever have to worry about fitting into tight clothes or being cute. He could eat. And besides, the Herbalife distributorship was not doing that well.

He converted to Judaism.

He slogged his way through rabbinical school and got a position as a junior rabbi in a large synagogue. Although given trivial duties, non-existent support, and thought generally to be an intellectual bantam-weight, he found a formula which made him a hit with the disappearing younger members: Rock-the-Shabbat. If his time as an Herbalife distributor had taught him anything, it had taught him this: to be successful, you must identify with the customer and find out what they want.

As Rabbi O’Toole was roughly the age of the quickly disappearing younger members of the synagogue, he knew what they wanted. Those assimilating sons and daughters of the affluent congregation, growing up in weather-wonderful Los Angeles County, wanted to be cool. They wanted to be in a band. They wanted to defy their parents—at least while they were in school. They wanted their religion made fun and easy, like everything else in their life. They wanted sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll.

The sex and drugs he couldn’t deliver on, but the rock-n-roll… He put together a house band in the synagogue made up of various musician wannabes and installed himself on guitar. He called the band Mo-Zest-Flock.

Sabre was ecstatic. Not only did she get to be the wife of a rabbi, but after dogging Rabbi O’Toole every waking moment for three weeks she got to be the lead singer. Once again, Francis O’Toole was sleeping with the lead singer of his band.