“Yeah. Why don’t you date him?” I asked.
“I did. We’re just friends now,” she said.
“Uh huh. Why just friends?” I said.
“Because he can’t help my career and he’s not rich… enough.”
Josh and I were at the hipster Berliner Café, my current Come-To-Jesus spot. When my clients had screwed up so enormously that even Olympic backpedaling wouldn’t save them, I’d take them to Berliner Café to fire them, or force them into an act of contrition.
Today there was a table of three women—so thin—around 6 feet tall and 110 pounds, all angles, collarbones, hip bones and cheekbones. They were clearly addicted to dieting. Or something.
In the northeast corner table was a tiny Asian woman with 24-inch, platinum blond extensions who occasionally pecked at her laptop, but mostly chatted on her cell phone. Her conversations were loud and migraine-inducing annoying.
And of course, there he was. The short greasy guy with a three-day stubble and dirty blond hair: The Star—of course the male action star, the feral Celebrity Royalty of the moment—with about 20 extra pounds on his famous butt.
The Star was sitting with an even shorter nervous guy who looked like he had just graduated from the Ray Stark Producer’s Program at USC. I guessed the shorter guy to be an agent’s assistant who was assigned to run errands or babysit The Star. The assistant had styled himself in the agent-fashion of the moment: Lew Wasserman glasses—horn-rimmed, big and black—a shaved, bald white head and a $200 Macy’s suit.
I wondered—why was it that the male action star of the moment was never a millimeter over five feet six inches tall? The Star got nervous when he thought that I was looking at him. Please. Did he really think I was going to call the paparazzi when he inhaled a piece of German chocolate cake?
Actually, I was almost positive that one of the waiters already had. Like I cared about the Star. The cake, however, had endless possibilities. I would have asked The Star his opinion of the cake, but I knew the L.A. Etiquette for Interacting with Star/Celebrity Royalty in Public Places:
(1) No eye contact and absolutely no gawking.
(2) No verbal interaction unless The Star/Celebrity Royalty first speaks to you.
(3) If spoken to by the Star/Celebrity Royalty the only thing that you may say is: “I love your work.”
(4) If there should be an Accidental Public Encounter with a Star/Celeb and his/her Entourage, the non-Royalty must wait to be granted an audience with the Star/Celeb before joining the Star/Celeb’s Entourage.
(5) The Star/Celebrity Royalty always goes first and has priority in every situation, even if they have arrived three hours after their scheduled reservation/appointment—and you were 45 minutes early for yours.
Josh and I had been sitting there for about 15 minutes. I wasn’t going to give it much effort. I didn’t think that Josh—“the hot item”—was at my level on the L.A. Eco-Chain of Dating. And I had made that mistake before.
Josh gave me a funny look and almost scowled.
I had the strange sensation of being viewed as a consolation prize, like Halley had said, “No really, she’s a great girl.”
Josh wasn’t buying any of it.
“Tell me, Courtney,” said Josh, “how do you survive in L.A. as a single woman?”
Rude.
But intriguing.
That was the absolutely nastiest thing that you could say to any single woman above the age of 30.
“Well,” I said, “should I pull my hair back so that you can see my horns?”
Perhaps I should have employed a more graceful approach.
But ten years of practicing law had taught me how to verbally smack someone in the face.
And who was he to say that.
But more to the point: How did I get here?
I mean, what frightening vision of a compromised future had conspired to land me on a blind date with an “almost single” guy?
My girlfriends were once people that I liked. They did interesting things. They were photographing sharks. They were traveling through India. They were opening their one woman shows in New York.
I’m not exactly sure when they changed. I knew something had changed when I realized my female friends—Stanford, Yale, and Harvard graduates—were taking courses at The Learning Annex on “Finding the Man and Getting To I Do.” And that included the lesbians.
I realized my friends no longer used the f-word to describe themselves. In fact, it had become a rejected label, almost a point of contempt: Feminist.
At some point I realized that there was something more than just a change among my friends. It was something close to a cultural phenomenon. And then I recognized it: That Couple Thing.
That Couple Thing seemed to hit women at age 35 to 90. It had become a mega-industry that made billions in online dating services, self-help books, and seminars. And it had exploded more quickly than reality television, fad diets, and housing foreclosures.
It wasn’t anything obvious. It was simply a gradual shift in the landscape. Friends discontinued their grand ambition, big multi-year tracks, and bad boyfriends/girlfriends. Others quietly joined singles groups like “Athletic Singles." A few began submitting online personal ads.
Those who would never commit to marriage because “they didn’t need some piece of paper,” (translated: partner wouldn’t commit) settled into permanent, live-in relationships resembling marriage. Suddenly, they began “trying” for pregnancy—not preventing. And some even “tried” without telling their partners.
Even Stefan, empowered once the New York Times started carrying same-sex Marriages/Commitment Ceremony Announcements in the Style Section, began angling for an engagement ring from his partner, James. Given that Stefan had once had nothing but disdain for “the heterosexual trap of marriage,” this was a strange thing.
“Oh, Blanche, I really want that double-banded Cartier ring, you know the one…”
“I’ve seen it,” I said—on every gay man in the greater West Hollywood metropolis.
“But James said we don’t need to because we’re already committed.”
“A pity,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Stefan, “especially since I was having so much fun planning our wedding.”
Not two weeks after I broke up with Frank, Marcie came over for some coffee. After I made her some of my famous homebrew, she sat down.
“Uhh. Strong coffee. Can you put some more milk in?”
I gave her the milk. She put in half a cup.
“That’s better,” she said, “but your coffee cups don’t match.”
“I have matching ones.”
“Then why aren’t you using them? And that yellow sweater—why are you wearing yellow?”
“I like yellow.”
“It doesn’t like you. It makes you look… too yellow,” said Marcie while looking over my sweater.
“What’s up?” I said, hoping to change the subject. “How’s the wedding going?”
“OK. Ahh, do you think that there’s any chance that you and Frank will get back together?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. I think we’re almost definitely completely broken up.”
“Because I’ve decided to have a joint bridal and bachelor party. And I’m going to do ‘a couples only’ party. But since you’re almost definitely not in a relationship, you can’t come. You get it, right?” said Marcie.
“Not really,” I said while looking away and attempting to sound nonchalant.
“Look,” said Marcie as she inspected the coffee cup in her hand. “I know you introduced me to my fiancé. But I want to have a couples’ party. And you aren’t a couple. So you can’t come.”
“Uh huh…” I said while looking out the window.
“But I am going to give you some advice,” said Marcie. You should never wear yellow. So give me that sweater. I think it’s right for me.”
“I’m keeping it.”
“I’m
just trying to help you.”
“Still keeping it,” I said.
Marcie stood up and walked over to the door. “Well I have to go because I have a lot of planning to do. So—remember—I’m not going to invite you to my couples’ party. But don’t worry, I’ll find some way for you to be part of my wedding,” she said as she walked out the door.
I called Marcie’s maid of honor, Bettina, for an explanation.
“What’s to explain?” said Bettina. “You’re not in a relationship, and you’re kinda… stale.”
“How can I be stale?” I said. “I just got out of a relationship that I ended.”
“You aren’t married… and you know… you’re kinda running out of time.”
“I’m in my 30s.”
“For now… but you know, you didn’t close the deal. Again,” said Bettina with a slight under-tone of disgust.
“So let me get this right,” I said. “Because I didn’t get Frank to marry me…”
“You have to wonder…” said Bettina. “Why is that? I mean, is there something wrong with you… like you’re weird or going into the pile of the unwanted. What do they call that?”
I knew what they called that: an outcast.
“Oh really,” I said. “You know, I’ll find someone, I always do.”
“I don’t know, Courtney. I’m beginning to think that you might need some retooling… maybe a little help.”
“And you, Bettina—a lesbian—are going to give it to me?”
“At least I got married,” said Bettina.
“Yes you did,” I said, “to a gay man. How’s that working out for you?”
“You haven’t told Marcie, have you?” asked Bettina. Before I could respond, I heard a crash, a screaming child, and Bettina say “kid emergency” as she hung up her cell.
Interesting.
Or not.
More like typical female Schadenfreude—joy at someone else’s misery. It was part of the drill, part of the unsaid Female Scorecard that we kept with our female friends since age 12 or 13, the moment we understood that we were in competition for something we didn’t even understand—the attraction of other people. The Female Scorecard was pretty simple: If one of your friends should suddenly be alone—not in a relationship—it gave you a point on your mental Scorecard if you happened to be in a relationship at that time. Likewise, if you fell out of a relationship, it gave your girlfriends a point on their scorecard if they were in a relationship—because they were in a relationship and you weren’t. Yes, it was petty and ridiculous, because even your friends who were in stupid relationships with abusive idiots thought they were better than you, because you were alone and they were in a relationship.
Why? Because after ending a relationship the hard part came. No, not being alone.
The hard part was getting back into a relationship, because getting back into a relationship meant that you were going to cycle through those humiliating L.A. Singles Activities such as:
#1. Wine for Social Climbers—Along with pretending that you give a damn about cigars, wine courses at any of the restaurants or wine shops, a single’s playground, the first baby step in distancing yourself from your ancestry in Butte, Montana—necessary for those who have decided that it raises one’s social profile to B-Level Civilian Royalty—to know the difference between a Chardonnay, a Viognier, and a Sauvignon Blanc, and a good combination with:
#2. Restaurant of the Moment Finders—Generally, the activity of the sedentary, overweight, male crowd, a group more familiar with the Food Network than anything on ESPN, who are characterized by the elaborate game of food expert that they play with thinly-veiled condescension. The ones with ambition pretend to be a partner in the Celebrity or Civilian Royalty LLP which has just opened the restaurant of the moment. The more arrogant ones pretend to have discovered the obscure restaurant in L.A. County that served a delicacy—eel marinated in yogurt—which you never dreamt of eating.
#3. Museum Trustee Wannabes—Certified single jerks hoping to meet Civilian Royalty, who play an elaborate game of one-upmanship at art-related functions while knowing nothing about art and not having the cash to become a museum trustee.
#4. Political Activists—Young, youngish Westsiders usually involved in environmentally-related causes, who hope to possibly get an invitation to a Celebrity Political Royalty fundraiser or find a date at various political functions.
#5. Non-Practicing Catholics/Christians/Jews—Usually a gathering in the form of a non-religious fun service such as a “Shabbat for Singles,” populated by those date-seeking individuals who were raised as Catholics, Christians, or Jews but who are now completely indifferent to the subject of organized religion.
#6. Elite College Alumni Singles—The absolute poser group of them all, frequented by those who haven’t made good on their prestigious educations, but still are under the illusion that having an Ivy League education means something when you’re 37 years old and still working as an assistant.
#7. Online Dating/Friend Set-ups—Everyone knows someone who claims to have made this work. However, the other 99.9999 percent have found this to be morbidly depressing.
But there sat Josh. Somehow, he had passed an unspoken L.A. category, that being: “Got the First One Out of the Way.”
I don’t know when it first struck me that people were looking at first marriages like affordable first homes, like an item to be acquired and discarded on your way to something better. For some reason, it was presumed that women would be lining up for him.
Josh seemed pretty pleased with himself. He was not the slightest bit embarrassed by his “almost single” status.
He seemed empowered. It was as if—for him—his failed first marriage had given him greatly enhanced desirability.
And I was alone and never married.
I wondered if I needed to do a quick reevaluation of our positions on the Eco-Chain.
I looked at the menu. Had I made some enormous mistake by booting Frank? Frank and I would have had a horrible, horrible marriage—I wanted kids, a house, and recipes involving Velveeta cheese. He wanted In-N-Out burgers and all-night gambling at that place off the 710 Freeway. We would’ve slogged through a couple years, wasted a lot of time, and then divorced.
I’m pretty sure that was the scenario.
It would have been awful.
But maybe I, too, could’ve felt greatly enhanced desirability and perhaps even elevated my status on the Eco-Chain.
I sipped my non-fat cappuccino and looked at Josh.
He didn’t want me.
He was going to date the circuit—actresses, models, sexy/dangerous/industry types—before he would date a human. And I was very human.
I knew I would never hear from him again.
“Don’t you want to ask me the questions?” said Josh.
“What questions?” I said.
Josh eyed me.
“Don’t you want to know what I do?”
“No. OK. Whatever. What do you do?”
“I’m a manager…”
“Do you like German chocolate cake?” I said. I flagged the waiter over.
“What?” said Josh.
“Because it looks like they make a really good German chocolate cake here. And I was wondering if you’d like to split a piece?”
Josh looked puzzled.
“I’ll have a small Cobb salad with no dressing, egg, Roquefort or bacon. And water. No bubbles,” he said.
Of course, the West L.A. meal. Some flavor, few calories and almost no fat.
“And could you show me where the bathroom is?”
The waiter pointed to the back and Josh stood up and walked away. I didn’t know if he would come back.
I gave the waiter my order.
While Josh was in the bathroom, our order arrived: A small Cobb salad and water for Josh. Baby back ribs, mashed Yukon potatoes, and that German chocolate cake for me.
It was a date-killing, relationship-squelching meal for any
woman on the fat-obsessed Westside, a perfect mixture of moxie and self-loathing. I didn’t care. I was hungry.
I dug into the mashed Yukon potatoes.
Across the room, the table of skinny-addicted girls were staring intently at me. They looked visibly alarmed and were just barely shaking their heads left-right, left-right, left-right.
Before I could get the fork in my mouth, Josh sat down.
“Oh. You got the German chocolate cake. I thought you were kidding.”
“Want some?”
I pushed the cake toward him.
“Real food. I forgot what it tastes like,” he said.
He ate half of my mashed Yukon potatoes and five out of eight of my baby back ribs. I think I got a bit of the cake. No one touched the Cobb salad. In between bites, we had a decent discussion about music. I was pleased to learn that he had traveled past the outer-border of civilization for most Westsiders, La Brea Boulevard. And I was shocked to discover that he was familiar with the major business and cultural center near the intersection of the 101 and 10 freeways: Downtown Los Angeles.
One hour later Josh walked me to my car.
“Well, thanks. It was nice of you to do this and stick it out,” I said.
“It’s not often that you get to have a real conversation,” said Josh. “You’re not like anyone I know.”
“Since when is that good?” I said.
Josh kissed me on the cheek and made sure that I got into my car safely.
I told Bettina and Marcie about the date the next morning as we trained for what looked to be our third failed attempt at the L.A. Marathon. We usually met at one of the four unavoidable coffee franchises on San Vicente Boulevard, and then ran down San Vicente between Bundy and 26th Street and around the perimeter of the Brentwood Country Club. Our goal was to eventually run to the Santa Monica Pier and back.
“What kind of car does he drive?” said Marcie.
“You know I don’t care about that. I didn’t ask.”
“No, well what does he do?” said Marcie.
“He’s the manager of something.”
“Like what? A Walmart, a car dealership?” said Marcie. “How do you know where he is on the Eco-Chain?”
Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts Page 4
