From the minute that I was picked up at the airport I was a kitchen slave.
“We need more music,” yelled Jennifer while attempting to clean up her condo. “And can you make some brownies?” she begged.
Kevin, a guy who could write software code, claimed that he was completely incapable of reading the instructions on the brownie box and mixing together the contents of two separately packaged plastic pouches.
Six hours after I decided that no one would notice if I didn’t make the brownies, the party started. It started raining and some buff-boys arrived: No chicken chests, no sagging butts, no sickly green-white complexions. I knew instantly. They weren’t lawyers.
“Byron” could be described in two words: Mr. Yum. His light brown hair had blond streaks in it from his hours of windsurfing in Santa Cruz. He had no fat on his body, because he was training for the Boston Marathon. His cheekbones were perfectly placed on his face and appeared to reflect the light. He had no visible means of support. He and his friend “Jessie” were the eye-candy of the evening. What better way to enjoy the party.
While discussing the intricacies of windsurfing with “Byron,” I saw Kevin standing with a small, dark-haired woman who was pointing at me. Who had the bad breeding to point and obviously speak about me? And then I found out. That wasn’t just anyone with bad breeding: That was Andre’s wife, Karen. He was here.
I went downstairs to Kevin’s condo where a secretary from his firm was wearing gold lamé bicycle shorts and teaching everyone how to do a “Latin Love Dance.”
Charming.
And there he was again. Andre had never been thin. In fact, he had the metabolism of a girl. If he even looked at food, his butt and thighs exploded. Lord, the years had not been kind.
He looked like he had gained ten pounds for every one of the six years we had been apart. His hairline had disappeared, recreating itself as the “Before” picture for a Rogaine advertisement. And by the tone of his voice he sounded… well… bitter. Make that bitter and grumpy. Imagine. What happened to the boy most likely to succeed?
From the back of the room I could hear him lecturing to the same group of dope-dealing losers who had idolized him during law school, droning on about the Burgundy he had brought to the party as a present and the proper techniques for drinking it.
“Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste,” he said. “That Cab—the one they’re serving—is so… immature.”
Nothing, except his waist, hairline, and bank account had changed.
Andre was the type of person who had to be the center of attention at all affairs. On one occasion, we all trooped out to the brown shag carpet track-condo that one of our law school buddies, Joe, had let his parents buy for him and his live-in girlfriend, Barb. Like many misguided people, Barb had made the deal: in exchange for financially and emotionally supporting Joe during law school, Joe was expected to marry her when he received his first tangible job offer.
On this particular occasion—which I later came to understand was really for the purpose of splitting up the hash which Joe had recently scored—Barb was attempting to make leg of lamb. Andre was beside himself, wondering if she was going to overcook the lamb. He left the hot tub—where he and the boys were sampling the hash—and took over the kitchen under the guise of “giving Barb a hand.” When I walked into the kitchen I found him lecturing Barb on the correct technique for preparing lamb, making a gravy, whipping the potatoes, and writing down the wines he felt were appropriate to accompany the meal. He then sent Barb to the store to get the wines while he set out the place settings and served her dinner.
Then he taught her how to pour the wines. “Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste,” he said in front of eight very high classmates.
During law school, I joined a gym to discourage the inevitable big-butt that would develop once I graduated. Andre stopped by my class one day and then began taking the class on a regular basis. Before the first week of sessions ended, I heard him lecturing our aerobics instructor with ways to improve the class.
Even on the evening that we were breaking up, Andre couldn’t control his relentless need to be the center of everything. It so happened that my mother, Julia, had made arrangements for us to have dinner with her and some house guests at the Copper Pan on the very day that Andre had told me he didn’t love me. Ever fearful of Julia, he insisted on coming to dinner with us, despite the fact that he had pronounced our engagement “over” two hours before the dinner. During dinner, he took it upon himself to instruct Julia’s French house guests on the proper techniques of drinking wine.
“Pour, swirl, smell, taste,” he said to Julia’s shocked guests.
“Thank God. I always despised that pretentious ass,” said Julia, when I told her that Andre and I had broken up. “And besides, I worried desperately about what your children would look like. How could you ever date him?”
That, of course, was the question of the decade.
Dating Andre had been the beginning of an experiment.
I called this experiment “Dating the Others.”
It was an experiment based on dating people to whom you were not physically attracted.
The origin of the period came from dating the last musician whom I would ever date, a trumpet player from Alabama named Lucius. Lucius was so hot that Julia, a woman who was never at a loss for male companionship, actually started dating him behind my back.
Lucius was also so selfish that he never once paid for a meal, called gift-giving on holidays “bourgeois,” and acknowledged giving me nothing on four consecutive birthdays with the comment, “Why should I spend my hard-earned money on you?” With any other guy with his looks, I probably would have rationalized his behavior by calling it “bohemian” and letting it go, even though I had basically supported him from the first night we were together and he moved in with me. But when he took my car to Canada for four months without telling me and then refused to return it, I grew weary. After months of negotiating, he returned my car with a flat, broke up with me, and then called me every night for 17 days to tell me, “I’m an artist and you’re nothing.”
I know that there is no guy on the planet who would ever intentionally date someone to whom they were not attracted, unless it’s for money or a better place to live—it’s simply impossible for them to even conceive of the idea. But after Lucius, I thought, well, if the good-looking ones treat you terribly, maybe the non-attractive ones will be nice to you.
“Of course Lucius treated you terribly,” said Marcie after we broke up, “you violated the Eco-Chain of Dating.”
“How so?” I asked.
“You know what I’ve always told you. Don’t date above. Don’t date below. Only date people at your level. Lucius was much higher than you on the Eco-Chain,” said Marcie.
“Lucius was a raging alcoholic,” I said.
“Then you two should have been on the same level,” said Marcie.
The Eco-Chain of Dating was a system created by Marcie when we were twelve years old. Its purpose was to help us select our boyfriends. Back then, the criteria were whether our boyfriend was “cute” and popular. It was a mistake to follow her criteria; we missed out a lot of terrific, smart guys who would go on to have great lives.
But by the time we were in our twenties, Marcie had expanded the Eco-Chain to be the “L.A. Eco-Chain of Dating” to help us select our husbands such that we would, through appropriate self-selection, enhance our given gene pool and possibly become part of L.A.’s Royalty.
Marcie’s L.A. Eco-Chain of Dating
Marcie’s “L.A. Eco-Chain of Dating” was defined such that potential dates could be designated to the following Eco-Chain Levels:
I. (1) A Level – Entertainment Royalty (Top of the Food Chain) First-generation money that had made it big in some aspect of the entertainment/sports industry. Very public. Very dangerous. If truth be told, this was always a recipe for a disaster and not marriage material unless you have an enormous trust fund and an army of l
awyers at your disposal with which to prepare yourself for the most likely outcome: Divorce. Mercurial, flakey, philandering, subject to drugs, sporadic violence, immaturity, plastic surgery (on you), cult religions, bankruptcy, diets, therapies and always—the fad of the moment. This was a dangerous spouse to entertain for anything more than the 18 months necessary to obtain the material for a “tell all” book or a quick payout (especially if that prenup attempted to make you sign away child support, in addition to alimony and community property). Physical Appearance Requirements: The physical appearance of the entertainment royalty is not important as long as he/she is fantastically successful and wealthy and can find those individuals to whip him/her into shape if the need should arise. Many who marry these individuals find themselves publically making statements such as, “He/She is truly spiritual,” or “He/She is really quite sensitive,” or “He/She is so worldly,” to explain how they could marry a very successful troll. However, if you’re the person marrying the entertainment royalty, your physical appearance is very important and will continue to remain very, very important. But don’t worry: after a few years as an A Level entertainment spouse, your basic genetic material will be so altered that you won’t recognize yourself.
I. (2) A Level – Civilian Royalty (Top of the Food Chain) Unless it was from high-tech, the A Level Civilian Royalty was usually second or third generation non-entertainment money from business, oil, or land. Although quietly running the city and its cultural institutions, this group is generally well-educated, but also mercurial, flakey, philandering and has a tendency to treat marriage like a pro sport. Not necessarily marriage material, unless you yourself have the enormous trust fund and an army of lawyers at your disposal, 51 percent of the stock, or have managed to land and stick in marriage (with kids) for more than ten years without a prenup. Physical Appearance Requirements: For Civilian Royalty, not important, unless you are a younger member of the Civilian Royalty Family whom the family is attempting to use (a la Ivanka Trump/Aerin Lauder/Andrew Firestone) to restore the image of the family business or a younger image of the family business. Of course, if the Civilian Royalty is marrying someone 40 years younger there can be issues, especially if the chosen spouse is 20 years or more younger than their children by their first, second, or third wife. If you are marrying the Civilian Royalty, then you will probably spend $$$ per month on “maintenance” issues and be on a diet forever as your job will be to look good on all occasions.
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.”
Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts Page 10
