Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (23 page)

The point being that unless I only watch C-Span (which I am considering), I’m going to encounter your image, which by the way, has become very annoying.

But because you’re famous and people recognize you, you earn more money for one 20-week project than 1000 normal people will earn throughout their entire working lives.

So if you go to Best Buy to get a cell phone, don’t have that 375-pound brute, your muscle, give me threatening looks if, when I turn around while getting my price check on my new not-so-smart phone, I see you.

I want the price check. I don’t want to see you. In fact the words which form in my mind when I see you are, “Oh. No.”

I don’t want to talk to you.

I don’t want to ask you why you’re so short.

And I especially don’t want to watch your show.

Anymore.

I wait two minutes for alien-scanner thing fabulous ex-model and the alien-scanner thing jogging entourage to go away so I can begin my run.

It takes me about 90 minutes to run two and a half times around the park, eight miles. It’s about 8:30 a.m. when I finish. I’m walking by the Starbucks on my way back and I look in. And then because of what I see, I go in again.

“You’re still here,” I said.

“You didn’t run eight miles,” said Bettina.

“You didn’t collectively eat five cinnamon rolls and drink four cups of hot chocolate,” I said. “You’ll never guess who I saw running.”

“Who?” said Marcie.

I tell them.

“Why didn’t you come get us?” said Bettina.

“You wanted to discuss Tom Fricking West’s nanny,” I said.

“But this is bigger,” said Bettina.

“Much bigger,” said Marcie.

“Is she thin?” said Bettina.

“Her career is to be thin,” I said. “Of course she is.”

“After her second child?” said Bettina.

“Second child, fifth child, tenth child…” I said, throwing up my hands.

“Thin, huh,” said Marcie.

“Did you ask her how she lost the weight?” said Bettina.

“You know better than that,” I said.

She did.

You don’t talk to L.A. Star/‌Celeb Royalty, especially if the Star/‌Celeb is an alien-scanner model thing with alien-scanner model thing’s Muscle, because there are those unspoken but very well-known
Rules for Unexpected Encounters with L.A. Star/‌Celeb Royalty
in public places:

1. You never initiate conversation—Ever. If for some reason you’re forced to speak with the star, because you are trapped in an elevator with them which is stuck between floors for more than three hours, there is only one thing you can say, which is of course, “I love your work.” Then retreat as quickly as possible while breaking off eye contact.

2. If for some unknown reason the star/‌celeb should initiate conversation with you, look away, don’t acknowledge who they are, and answer the question quickly. Don’t pick up the conversation—they don’t want to speak to you.

3. If a star should venture into public in the basic-star disguise—dark glasses, baseball cap, baggy clothes—and you don’t recognize them and think that they are any other schlub—then it’s OK. They didn’t want to be recognized—and you didn’t.

But there are gray areas. If a star/‌celeb, even an alien-scanner thing, should suddenly be outside your door because some unimaginable situation should transpire, e.g. he bought a condo in your building for his militant Goth daughter, and he knocks on your door and you open it:

“Can I help you?” You say to the top box office star of the ’90s who—and you know this is not believable but it does happen—is standing there. Suddenly, you realize that your roots are showing and maybe these pants make your butt look like a lop-sided watermelon. But he doesn’t look so good either.

“Boy he’s short,” you think, which shocks you because ever since his first movie, you’ve been stunned by his beauty. Was he always
this
short? (Which is six or so inches shorter than you.) What a nose.

And he wants to know where the circuit breaker is. Since you do know where the circuit breaker is and you do know where the key is, you can take him and go down the elevator with him and show him where the key is. “In the flower pot,” you say, “clever, huh?” “Thanks,” he says, “ah…” and you can tell him any name you want because he will never remember yours, nor ever knock on your door again, so one day, a few months from now, you’ll wonder if you dreamed this or if it actually happened.

And, if a star/‌celeb is the little sister of your best friend from high school and you can’t believe that she’s
this famous
because you were convinced no one from your high school would ever amount to a damn and as an
actor
? How likely is that? And you didn’t exactly support her ambition because, well, you didn’t think she had the looks to be an actor, which is stupid because who looks like an actor, but partially you think you might be right because it’s absolutely amazing that she has been successful, but she has, and she actually gets to play a great
smart
lawyer—who is smarter on television than you actually are in your own legal practice and has much more interesting clients—which makes you kinda mad and somehow reminds you that if you are bothered by this you are watching too much television, and perhaps she is the one actress in America with a degree from Harvard who will not be forced to play an unimaginably stupid prostitute in the one role which will win her acclaim because, well, she’s
fat
and has made a platform of it. And she looks fabulous.

Hey wait a minute, you were supposed to be successful, you were the big deal in high school and she was, well, kind of a mess. No one in your school thought anyone would be
this
successful. But there she is. What happened to me?

But your best friend from high school invites you to a brunch at her house and
she
is there. So you can say something other than “I love your work” because they don’t expect that and you know her from
then
.

I leave Bettina and Marcie at the unavoidable coffee franchise with the resume of Tom Fricking West’s nanny.

Ten days later.

“I just love my new nanny,” is the message Bettina leaves on my cell. “She’s fabulous.”

A few days later.

“Bettina is a little concerned,” said Marcie.

“What do you mean?” I said, placing my phone under my ear so I could hold my Velveeta.

“Her nanny showed up late three times the first week.”

“True late or L.A. late,” I said.

“True late. 60 minutes or more.”

“Interesting. Did she ever check her references?”

“I don’t think so,” said Marcie.

“Hmmm.”

“And then she arrived on Monday morning with $575 of purchases that she said Bettina’s kids desperately needed.”

“Like what?”

“A baby monitor. Those Einstein Baby tapes. Stuffed animals.”

“Nice of her to give those things to Bettina’s kids.”

“She didn’t give them. Bettina is expected to pay for them and reimburse her for overtime for buying those things.”

“But her kids are in elementary school. They’re too old for that stuff.”

“I know,” said Marcie. “What’s that squishy sound?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh no, you don’t still eat that awful Velveeta, do you?”

“No,” I said as I spit it out, “of course not.”

At Group that week everyone contributed endless snotty remarks about my alien-scanner theory.

I mean they were very supportive.

“This star/‌celeb thing really resonates with you,” said the former kiddie-actress.

“I mean really… what does that mean? Can anyone help me?” I looked around the Group.

“Courtney…” said Roberta.

“What?” I said. “You said I could do whatever I wanted in here. Can’t I ask for help?”

“Not if you’re going to be provocative,” said Roberta.

Oh here we go.

“OK,” I said. “I’m sorry if I was provocative.”

Not really.

“Does it bother you that you’re not a celebrity?” said the former kiddie-actress, long between shows.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Does it bother you that you’re no longer a celebrity?”

“That’s not very nice,” said the divorced housewife.

“Since when was this about being nice,” I said. “Look, this is Los Angeles. We don’t have tradition. We don’t have royalty. So we’ve invented our own royalty: stars and celebrities. An illusion of someone having a better life. But you stop being a celeb when no one other than your friends and family gives a damn about you anymore. Does that mean that you stop having a better life?”

Roberta was shaking her head left-right, left-right, left-right.

The former kiddie-actress started crying.

“Doesn’t anyone want to say anything?” I said.

No one did.

And then there was the inevitable message in my voice mail.

“I think that you should stop coming to Group for a while,” said Roberta. “You’re very, very disrespectful. And you’ve become a lightning rod for the Group’s anger.”

Whatever.

A Dinner

Josh wants to take me to dinner.

“Why?” I said.

“It’s a thank you. For being so nice to me when I was so sad.”

“You already said thank you.”

“But I want to say it in person.”

“What if I eat?”

“I expect you to.”

“Have you been dating?”

“Cody was it.”

“D-girls don’t eat.”

“She ate.”

“What?”

“Salad.”

“Leafy salad or Cobb salad?”

“Leafy.”

“With dressing?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll take that as no. Anything else?”

“Fish.”

“Broiled with nothing on it?”

“There was something on it.”

“Balsamic vinegar doesn’t count.”

“You’re tough.”

“I know how it goes. Why don’t we go to IHOP?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I know this restaurant in Monterey Park.”

“What?”

Monterey Park. No pressure. No pretense. No celebs.

“I was thinking of this new restaurant on Melrose that’s gotten rave reviews…” said Josh.

“Hmmmmm…”

“Something wrong?”

“Well…”

“What?”

“It’ll be celeb hell, which means that we don’t have a chance of getting seated for two hours.”

“I thought you liked celebs. You work in the industry.”

“You’re joking, right?

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I live in Brentwood. That’s adventure enough.”

The parking lot is full. People must leave the restaurant before there is room. And there is absolutely no street parking because this is a neighborhood where you must have that little sticker on your car to park or get towed. So the commercial area is jammed and the residential area is off-limits. Bad planning. Bad, bad planning. A seven-car line, extending one block down Melrose. Traffic has to come to a dead stop in front of the restaurant. All with reservations.

“Go in and tell them we’re here,” said Josh.

“It won’t make any difference,” I said. “Unless we’re both there, it won’t count.”

We call and explain. The hostess tells me that unless we are in the restaurant in five minutes she will give our reservation away. We circle the block again. Finally a space in the lot clears. As we turn into the lot we have two minutes to go. But the valet fumbles and the machine which issues the parking tickets is out of paper.

“Just take our keys!” Josh says as he tosses his keys to the valet. We sprint into the restaurant with the valet chasing us, screaming, “I… can’t… do… that.”

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry,” said the smiling hostess with the whitest white porcelains capping her teeth—and where did she get the money to pay for that? Josh, a panicked valet, and I are all standing with the hostess. A guy comes by and squeezes her butt and—oh yeah, that’s the celebrity owner/‌chef—and I know where she got the money for those porcelains, and maybe her boobs.

“But we made it with 30 seconds to spare,” I said.

“Not by my watch. I’m sorry. It’s the policy of the restaurant. We gave your reservation away,” said the hostess who is wearing what looks suspiciously like Gap khakis, a T-shirt with a
stain on it
, and flip-flops. Maybe they’re fancy flip-flops.

“But go into the bar, and if you work with me I’ll get you in,” said the hostess.

“When did this become a group project?”

“Excuse me?” said the hostess.

“We’ll be in the bar,” said Josh.

“We should go.”

“No. I want to try this restaurant,” said Josh.

“We won’t be seated for two hours.”

“The hostess likes us. She’ll fit us in,” said Josh.

“I don’t think so.”

I’m right.

Seated at 10:00 p.m., after watching eight groups of celebs who maybe have reservations, but kiss the owner of the restaurant, “Congrats on opening this place,” “No congrats on that big opening weekend…”

The food is good. And Josh and I are having a nice time eating forbidden foods: beef, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach.

“Man, who makes creamed spinach?” I said. “But it’s great.”

“I think after the cream, they topped the mashed potatoes with sour cream,” said Josh.

“It’s great,” I say, with the biggest smile on my face. I love fat. I love fat food. I love to eat fat food.

And then I see him. Alien-scanner thing ex-TV star, who played a sensitive TV doctor who fought “the system” to save his patients, but truly is a major twit with an inflated sense of his own worth, bearing down on us at one o’clock.

“Don’t breathe.” I wonder if Josh can stop his heart.

“What?” said Josh.

“Stop talking. And hold your breath.”

“Why?” said Josh. By then it’s too late.

“It’s over.”

“What? Why?” said Josh.

Alien-scanner thing ex-TV star stops at our table. He’s weaving and bumps into three tables on the way to ours.

“Beef,” he said. “I haven’t had beef in two years.” Our waiter—not exactly present during dinner—appears at our table.

“We’d love you to sample all the beef you want, as a gift from us,” said the waiter. “Go back to your table and we’ll serve you.”

Nice try. I suddenly see the owner/‌chef, someone who would normally stare through me, hovering.