The world was not meant for people with excellent long-term memories. For those of us cursed with this particular genetic mutation, you can never see a person in the present moment without remembering your feelings about that person when you last saw them, as if it were yesterday, and not ten years ago, that you wanted to tell them that you would rather jump into a bucket of your own bile than speak to them again.
Even as I moved through my mid to late teens at a school which I knew would be the last outpost of my childhood, I somehow knew that Genie was squandering the precious years of his students’ educations with his endless exercises and humiliations. Under the guise of “the training in theater,” his program was nothing more than a sandbox for him to work out his inner demons in a human lab of 18–22-year-olds. In exchange, those students who had blindly followed him were guaranteed to graduate with no skills, some misguided theories, and debt that was so enormous that they would be servicing it well into middle age.
As I stood with my client at the reception after the awards ceremony and tried to avoid Genie, I didn’t know how to react when I saw him striding toward me, a bantam rooster in an Armani Tux. But that didn’t stop him.
I felt like throwing up.
“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Fake. All grown-up and wearing black. Aren’t we a little professional robot now,” said Genie.
“I’m gonna go get a drink,” said my client, who was beginning to have a relationship with alcohol that was more than social.
Just then, a waiter came by with a tray of hors d’oeuvre.
“Oh look,” I said to Genie while gesturing to the waiter, “another successful graduate from your program.”
“Well, well,” he said, “tell me again what mindless occupation you’ve put yourself in? Oh, that’s right—you’ve sold out and became an attorney. Such an appropriate profession for you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My ambitions ran deeper than becoming an assistant with an MFA from your world-renowned theater arts program.”
“Don’t go away. I’m not done with you,” he growled as he walked over to hug the female lead in his production.
As I watched him work the room, I looked for my escape. The bathroom looked likely. My client, who had discovered that he didn’t have to pay for the drinks, was endlessly exploring the possibilities of an open bar.
I glanced back at Genie and saw that he was pressing the flesh with a group of baby-agents who had just made their highly publicized exit from their monolith parent agency and started their own boutique agency. Then I made a run for it.
“You can go to the bathroom later—now we’re going to talk,” Genie said as he pushed me into a corner. Funny how fast that little guy could move.
“Genie,” I said, “what do we have to say to each other?”
“Well F… I mean Courtney… it is Courtney, isn’t it?” he said as he smiled and revealed a set of choppers that had been permanently stained by over 40 years of daily hits on a bong. “I want to show you what it is to be alive.”
Oh no. His lines hadn’t even changed. And it still had the same result. I was suddenly seized with the knowledge that I had to go do my laundry.
“Genie,” I said, “enough. You used that line on me over ten years ago. Did that ever work on anybody?”
“You bet,” he said. “Why do you think I kept using it all these years?”
“Who would fall for that?” I said.
“What do you mean?” said Genie. “It was so easy. Maybe a girl say… was a little depressed, or missed mom and her boyfriend back home where she had been the star of her high school play… or maybe had just realized that she was young, fresh and pretty but so were the other 5,000 girls who got off the bus here every year… You don’t think that some of them wouldn’t jump at the chance to maybe help their career out a little bit by spending the night with a person who was powerful and connected?”
“Oh, I get it. It’s a numbers game. But who was the powerful and connected person in this equation?”
“Bitch,” he said.
“How many people have you used this line on tonight?” I asked.
“I didn’t stop to count,” he said.
“What a surprise.”
“Damn. You still think too much,” he said.
If that wasn’t the classic line that every guy used when his attempts to hustle a girl were going south.
“Let me recount the obvious to you,” he said raising his voice, and attracting a little more attention than I had hoped to get. “I just won an Emmy. And not just any Emmy, but one that counts. And I’m here alone. And by the looks of things, your escort, the one that’s over there dismantling the celery sculpture, is more interested in eating for a week than anything that could happen with you tonight.” I looked over to find my client eating the center of the vegetable display.
“And to be honest with you, Fakie, um, Courtney, I think you’re special,” he said.
“The bathroom,” I said. “I really need to go to the bathroom.” I struggled out of his grasp, spilled half my drink on him, and bolted into the bathroom.
Inside, it was impossible to see anything—it was packed, the lights were dim, and all of the approximately 50 women circling around the bathroom mirrors were wearing spaghetti-strap clingy little black dresses, push-up bras, beige lipstick, and four-inch stiletto heels—which brought them up to the imposing height of five foot four.
Oh No.
I was trapped in a bathroom with The Stepford D-Girls from Hell.
The Stepford D- (D for development) Girls from Hell were the mutant troops of women working in the entertainment industry who had the mind-numbing job of finding fresh new writers or hot new literary materials that could possibly be developed into a feature film or television series. They generally worked for abusively awful people who were nothing short of insane in a career which involved endless breakfasts, lunches and dinners with anyone who could help them keep their jobs. They always had two-syllable porn names like Amber or Kara, aspired to Armani but could only afford Forever 21, and seemed to be of the same uniform height and weight with the same long, straight hair which fell to the middle of their back and was parted in the middle. And as they all frequented the same plastic surgeons, they all had the same cheeks, noses, and ridiculously symmetrical facial structure which masked any individuality and made them—despite race or ethnicity, which ranged from Ireland to Sierra Leone—look the same.
But they were not depressed. They were suicidally cheerful. Of course, they all took Prozac.
I drank what was left of my drink, hoping to numb what might be coming next. It wasn’t working. I thought about spending eternity in a bathroom stall, and then realized it was better to face Genie than die from overexposure to D-girls.
I walked out… and straight into Josh.
“Oh…” I said. “Hi.”
“Courtney,” Josh said. “Can I get you something to eat?” he said while holding up a plate of buffalo wings.
“Please,” I said, “if you have a shred of humanity in you, help me. There’s a bad memory walking around here, and I need an escape.”
“Sorry. I’m here with somebody,” he said, looking a little sheepish.
Just then, a woman wearing a spaghetti-strap clingy little black dress with pushed-up cleavage, beige lipstick, and four-inch stiletto heels which brought her up to the imposing height of five foot four came over and attached herself to Josh’s arm. These D-Girls were everywhere.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Cody.”
“Congratulations. I’m in hell,” I said. Just then, Genie saw me and walked straight over.
“Here comes my bad memory,” I said.
“Could I borrow your friend for a minute,” Genie said as he yanked me aside.
“Help!” I mouthed to Josh and Cody.
“Let’s go,” said Genie as he shuttled me toward the door. Out of nowhere, my client appeared.
“I’m ready to go now,” he said.
“Take a bus, junior. She’s with me,” Genie growled and dragged me toward an exit littered with extension cords.
I tripped over a cable and hit a tray of stuffed mushrooms, which drenched a group of Stepford D-Girls. Genie dragged me four feet before he released me.
Three hundred people turned and watched us, a silence punctuated only by the sound of a cocktail glass hitting the ground.
“Courtney, could we go home now?” said Josh and Cody, appearing at my side.
“What’s this? A carpool to the Emmys?” said Genie.
“Kinda.” I said.
Genie shook his head and let out a sound of disgust. “Nice try,” he said.
Josh and Cody began herding me toward an exit. “I’m going,” I said.
Genie shook his head right-left and frowned in disapproval, “Too bad. I could’ve given you the night of your life.”
I sighed with relief. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Genie grabbed my arm as I began walking away. “Remember,” he said, “I know how to find you.”
Josh and Cody were kind enough to escort me and my client to our car.
“I owe you.”
“That’s right,” said Josh.
Genie must have struck gold with his “alive” line, because I saw him walk out with a girl wearing a spaghetti-strap clingy little black dress with pushed-up cleavage, bright lipstick, and four-inch stiletto heels which brought her up to the imposing height of five foot four, an inch shorter than Genie.
“I really had a good time tonight,” said my client as I drove him home. “Would you like to do this again?” he asked.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
I left him off at his apartment in the Fairfax and waited until he safely got in the front door. He stumbled in. I’m sure he spent the next two hours barfing up the vegetable display.
7
The Eco-Chain of Dating
Most people love San Francisco. I think it’s a retirement community for people in their early thirties. I don’t know why, but once my friends move to San Francisco they end their careers as investment bankers, attorneys, and doctors and act like retired people: The men become samba dancers who compete internationally at the amateur level, BuJews (Jewish Buddhists) who study yoga and vegetable preparation, or acrobats who learn juggling and balloon-sculpturing before running away to join the circus. By contrast, my female friends have their own version of SF retirement: They become steroid-taking body-builders who pump iron and compete in the Ms. Universe Circuit or dance choreographers who recreate indigenous Native American dances and other lost sacred folk rituals, or ranchers, dairy farmers or organic produce growers in lesbian-only farm collectives that always fail after 18 months.
But one thing really bothers me about San Francisco. Every time I visit, some recent transplant who thinks that they’re special just because they live there starts the same argument that I’ve heard over a thousand times: San Francisco vs. L.A.—Why San Francisco is better. And occasionally I run into someone so ridiculous that they actually want to fight with me just because I live in L.A. And when I tell them, “Look, we don’t care. We like San Francisco. It’s a very pretty food court,” it just makes them crazy.
I had flown up to San Francisco to go to Jennifer’s housewarming party which conveniently happened right after the Emmys, a moment when I desperately needed a retreat from my L.A. life. God knows why, but Jennifer had decided to move to San Francisco. Actually, I know why.
L.A. is the kind of town that people are always leaving, as if the ultimate act of maturity is to surrender the year-round beautiful weather for some destination that is more “real”—where you can experience the seasons—like Seattle, Boston, or Phoenix. However, once the ex-Angeleno discovers that “real” means 320 overcast–rainy days per year and bi-polar depression (Seattle), three months of bad weather and nine months of winter (Boston), or 150 days per year where you could fry an egg on your driveway (Phoenix), they tend to return. Quietly.
Although a native of L.A., Jennifer had issues with the national perception of Los Angeles. It bothered her that her home town was associated with the many exploding controversies of Rodney King, O. J. Simpson, Monica Lewinsky and the Menendez Brothers. It disturbed her that L.A., a city which thrived off an industry based upon illusion, had given Arnold Schwarzenegger a context in which to create his political viability as a candidate for public office—as a Republican. Finally, it just killed her when she realized that L.A. would never be considered cool (like Seattle), or important (like New York), or desirable (like Boulder): It would only be considered superficial.
Not long after that, she bought a two-story flat in San Francisco with Kevin, a classmate from law school. She lived in the upstairs, he lived downstairs.
Kevin was a partially domesticated animal in that he knew enough to buy a flat, but thought that he should furnish his little condo (currently worth $1,000,000) with his childhood bunk-bed and an abandoned futon which he found on the street. He was also that unusual breed of San Francisco male who considered himself a member of the counter-culture while earning $675,000 per year working as a corporate transactions associate in the law firm which had produced most of Ronald Reagan’s Kitchen Cabinet.
The worst day of Kevin’s life was the day Jerry Garcia died. He insisted, despite all reports to the contrary, that Jerry died of “natural causes.” Kevin never recovered, and soon, very soon, he too would retire: He wanted to quit practicing law to teach drumming classes in male-bonding groups.
I wasn’t a big Kevin fan. To begin with, he had his own very specific criteria for dating women, which Jennifer and I referred to as “The List.”
She couldn’t live in Los Angeles.
She couldn’t be taller than he was.
She couldn’t drink—at all.
She couldn’t make any decision, even a minor decision such as “turn left here” in the relationship.
She couldn’t work in a job that he didn’t like—or at all—if he didn’t want her to work.
She couldn’t eat meat, cheese or carbs—carbs were for losers.
She couldn’t be a lawyer.
She couldn’t make more money than he did.
She couldn’t ever get to his money.
She couldn’t be more than five years older/younger than his age.
She couldn’t be religious, but had to be spiritual.
She couldn’t be concerned about her physical appearance.
She couldn’t wear makeup.
She couldn’t just be pretty—she had to be naturally beautiful.
Of course he ended up alone. But there was one other reason I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his friend… make that closest friend. Because that best friend was my ex-fiancé, Andre.
Andre was the most ambitious person that I had ever met. He had to be. He had never quite gotten over how promising his future looked from high school. Boy most likely to succeed. Eagle Scout. Editor of the school paper. Captain of the swim team. Recruited by Stanford, Princeton, Yale, Dartmouth, and Harvard. By the time I met him at law school, Andre had gone through four careers.
Film Critic.
Art instructor.
Commodities Broker.
Steel Manufacturer.
He was 32. He knew more about French Burgundy than anyone I had ever met and endlessly lectured everyone on the proper techniques for tasting wine: “Pour, look, swirl, sniff, taste.” He made the best veal meatloaf I had ever eaten. When I knocked on his door to get a class assignment, I noticed that his law school dormitory room was filled with the latest cookware from Williams-Sonoma. He was not gay. He was desperate.
Somewhere around 30, Andre discovered that the train to upper-middle-class heaven was pulling away and he was not on it. He was looking at a lifetime of creative odd jobs and a struggle just to pay the rent. All that high school promise and no pay off.
We were together for three years.
Six months before the wedding, Andr
e’s mother announced that she had bought a full-length white ballroom gown to wear to the wedding, and “Was that all right?” I told her, “Sylvia, there’s only one person at my wedding who’s going to be wearing white. If you’re not the bride, it’s not you.”
Four months before the wedding, Andre discovered my greatest flaws: I had said, “Congratulations” instead of “Best wishes” to the bride at a mutual friend’s wedding, I didn’t know how to screw bottle caps on correctly, and I couldn’t turn out the lights the right way. He was relentless in his campaign to correct my poor breeding and insisted on choosing my wedding dress for me.
Two months before the wedding, Andre announced that he had just entered therapy and discovered that he had never loved anyone, including me.
When he left, he took all of the furniture, bedding, and cooking utensils. He also wanted back the ring, and his mother wanted back the diamond chip stud earrings which she had given me as an engagement present.
After a small skirmish, I gave him the ring and studs back because I had no use for a low-grade miner-cut diamond with too many inclusions and some cheap diamond studs that were obviously bought off the Home Shopping Network. I figured Sylvia needed those studs to go with her full length white ballroom gown.
I was left with one gray futon, an armless chair, and a cat named Abyss.
But here we were again, looking at the opportunity to see each other for the first time in six years. I had heard that he had married a woman who, for Andre, had it where it counted: in the bank account. It was a great match for a guy whose daily mantra was, “You can marry in a day what you’d take a lifetime to earn.”
Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts Page 9
