Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts

by Courtney Hamilton

“I thought you filled out your proper formal china collection fifteen years ago.”

  “I need a few additional pieces.”

  “Like the whole set?” I said. “So $10,391?”

  “Well, of course, Greg figured in the sales tax that you’d save us.”

  They had thought of everything.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think that you should get a job.”

  She looked at me with disgust.

  “What is your problem? Are you that jealous of me?” She threw down her napkin and left the restaurant at the exact moment that the waiter was approaching us with the check, a trick I was sure that she picked up from Greg.

  9

  The Ivy & Elite

  Aspire was a boutique Hollywood talent agency which started when five guys successfully stole most of the lucrative clients from the monolithic talent agency that had saved their careers after their last boutique agency had filed for bankruptcy. Despite being small creatures with odd shaped heads, munched hair, and pale, soft, expanding bodies which never saw a moment of exercise, they had perfected the mythology of their agency to such a pitch that they successfully concealed the fact that they never did an ounce of work for their clients—if the client was lucky. If cursed, an Aspire client could find themselves pitted against another Aspire client in the kind of agency self-dealing which always assured that Aspire would receive the maximum possible commission. By contrast, the cursed client would receive unreturned phone calls and a few sermons from a 22-year-old Aspire assistant on the glory of being part of the Aspire family and, most typically, a crushing career setback.

  Currently, the Aspire agents were so removed from the reality of their own deceit that they honestly thought of their actions as pure, and considered themselves to be the kind of agents who would have killed (literally) for a client. However, they were an agency which was totally void of self-awareness because they were successful. At this point, they were the kind of agents who could lay a big pile of toxic waste on the table while smiling at a major client with a confident, toothy grin and say, “Look what we’ve done for you.”

  I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me when I finally ran into one of those munched-haired Aspire agents. Of course it happened at an event that I would have sneered at three years ago.

  “Don’t be so judgmental,” said Jennifer. “You need to be open to new things.”

  “Boy, that makes me sad. That’s the line you used to get me to spend a month with you on Mykonos, which was fabulous. Now you’re using it to get me to go to an Ivy League ‘30s and Desperate’ singles event.”

  “I’m doing this for your own good,” said Jennifer.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The Ivy & Elite, a group which held singles events exclusively for the discerning gold-digger graduates from the Ivy League who hadn’t managed to hit pay-dirt while attending their respective schools, was clearly making a fortune off those profoundly deluded and thoroughly desperate graduates who still thought that attending the Ivy League made them better than everyone else, as if merely mumbling, “I went to Harvard,” somehow entitled them to a successful career, a wonderful spouse, and an upper-six-figure income.

  You couldn’t go to an Ivy & Elite event unless you had matriculated through some program in the Ivy League, however, the word “program” was loosely applied: Summer Programs, total Ivy League shams like the cash grab “certificate” or “credential” programs, or executive tune-ups/‌vacations—“courses in professional studies”—counted.

  I was there because Jennifer had begged me to help our law school classmate, Leslee, a recent transplant from the Bay Area, meet some people. Leslee, someone who never listened to anyone, thought that the best way to meet people—“her kind of people”—in L.A. was to attend a selective gathering.

  She was sure to be unique among the participants. She was one of the few in the room who had actually attended an Ivy League school and had received a degree.

  “But I don’t like Leslee. She’s mean. She’s a self-appointed expert on what men want,” I said. “And talking to her is like voluntarily attending a Bay Area Chamber of Commerce meeting. She’s a one-person booster club for the City of San Francisco.”

  “Have a heart. She’s lonely.”

  “What a surprise.”

  The last time I had seen Leslee had been at Jennifer and Kevin’s housewarming party. Sometime after she realized that she wasn’t going to land Kevin that evening—despite a near flawless performance by meeting his height requirement (under five foot six), not wearing a drop of makeup, slinging a thoroughly convincing but totally tired argument about the alleged Bay Area Superiority—she blew it. She tasted the wine in front of him. He turned cold. She wandered off and polished off the remaining two bottles by herself.

  “You wear too much makeup, and your hair is too short,” said someone from the darkened corner of Jennifer’s hallway.

  “Hello?” I walked over to where the voice came from. “Oh. Leslee. It’s you. What are you doing here sitting by yourself?”

  Then I saw the empty two bottles of wine. “Oh, I see,” I said.

  “You know, you’re never going to get married,” she said.

  I looked at her. “Uh huh…”

  “Because I’ve done an empirical study. And my research has shown me that men don’t like women who wear too much makeup,” she said. “And they especially don’t like short hair.”

  “Well, it’s good to see that Harvard degree isn’t going to waste.”

  “At least I’m not wasting it being a low-rent attorney with her own practice,” she said.

  Not 90 seconds later, Mr. Yum—Byron—walked me into a bedroom for a massage.

  “I’m serious,” Leslee yelled as we walked away.

  “Of course you are,” I said.

  “Who’s that?” said Byron.

  “Oh, just a delegate from one of those Bay Area booster clubs.”

  “You’re funny,” he had said, as he massaged my shoulders.

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  I think it was Latin Night at the Ivy & Elite because when I came in the door some Harvard grads were attempting to lead about twenty Ivy Elites in a group Samba. There were also four deserted pool tables that were covered with empty plastic cups from the crowd of Ivy Elites having animated conversation in their general area.

  The general smell of a large fart permeated the room—cigars. Of course, about twenty Ivy Elites were on the balcony choking on inexpensive cigars.

  “I see you didn’t take my advice about the hair or makeup,” said Leslee as she met me at the door.

  We paid our $50 entrance fee, which gave us two drink tickets, one free cigar, and a chance to mingle with the “best and brightest” of Los Angeles.

  We walked over to the bar.

  “Ladies,” said the bartender, “in keeping with this evening’s theme, tonight our drink specials are Margaritas, Dos Equis, and shots of Tequila.”

  “Margarita, no salt,” I said.

  “Tequila,” said Leslee.

  “On second thought, make that a Shirley Temple with three, and I mean three, cherries,” I said.

  “What are you, six years old?” asked the bartender.

  Well. His chance for a big tip had just been shot.

  Leslee was in her element. She flirted with Bill, a trust and probate attorney (a certified specialist) from Boston. “Don’t you just hate Los Angeles,” she said. When Bill told her that he liked L.A. because he could ride his bicycle during the winter, her interest waned.

  “You should see San Francisco,” she said. “By the way, I work at Hobeck, Berman.”

  Bill gave her the strangest look when she mentioned Hobeck, Berman. Was that a look of sympathy? And then he told her that he had been to San Francisco and it reminded him too much of Boston. Leslee moved on.

  Don was from the research and development division of a large tobacco conglomerate which was famous for its targe
t market: children in third world countries. Mid-conversation, Leslee excused herself and motioned for me to join her.

  “How much do you think he earns?” she whispered to me.

  “Well, probably not enough to make you happy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “No, I’m kidding,” I said, “other than the fact that he may be creating lethal products, he seems fine.”

  “Nah,” she said. “I’m going to get more tequila.”

  Hmmm. She was way past her two drink tickets.

  “You know, you may want to slow down. I’m sure that free tequila they’re serving is not exactly Don Julio. And nobody said you had to drink the worm tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  I walked over to the pool tables and overheard a conversation between two women who were attempting to play pool.

  “I took my entire salary in stock options,” said a small, dark-haired woman as she laid down a fresh scratch.

  “I just don’t think you’re Ivy Elite material,” said Bettina, three days after Leslee had invited me to the Ivy Elite event. “I think you should pursue Dr. Ted. I mean, he’s a doctor now. He could be making decent money.”

  Marcie was silent. I tried not to look at her.

  “Don’t you think so, Marcie?” said Bettina.

  Marcie found out that Ted was a doctor around the time that Ted asked me why he never got to meet my friends.

  “I have my needs, you know,” said Dr. Ted.

  “He’s got a look,” said Marcie, after I had him over with some of my friends.

  “I don’t know, Marcie, he’s not what you’re looking for,” I said.

  “You’re just jealous that I could have something that you want, when you should be happy for me.”

  Dr. Ted would call me and tell me details.

  “I had her come to my office and had a little fun with her while there was a patient behind the next screen.”

  Around the same time, Marcie would call me with her version of the encounter.

  “He’s really romantic,” said Marcie.

  “I hope this is what you want,” I said.

  “It’s what you want, but I got it,” said Marcie.

  Ted began to complain.

  “Her butt is too big. And she keeps asking me how much money I’m making,” said Dr. Ted. “I’m sick of her.”

  Marcie began to get serious.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I think Ted is going to propose to me,” said Marcie. “He told me that he wanted a change in his life. I think he’s truly ready to be serious with me.”

  “Mazel tov,” I said.

  Ted stopped calling her and never returned her calls. Marcie accused me of stealing him from her.

  “I didn’t know that you stopped dating him. I tried to warn you about him,” I said.

  She didn’t say much, but soon after it was over, she left for Prague. When she came back, she was dating Russ, the accountant in the adult entertainment industry.

  “Hey,” said a small guy with an odd shaped head and a weird haircut. He was wearing a suit which was about two inches too short for him.

  Since I had been virtually invisible to everyone all evening, I figured that he wasn’t talking to me. I moved away.

  The small guy appeared at my elbow again.

  “Hey Katie,” he said.

  I turned around.

  “You talking to me?” I said.

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Well, to begin with, my name is Courtney.”

  “Right. Whatever. That’s what your friend at the bar told me.”

  I looked over to the bar and saw Leslee, who appeared to be keeling over—with laughter.

  “You know, my friend doesn’t look well,” I said. “I better go check up on her.”

  I looked over to the bar, silently mouthed a nasty word as I rolled my eyes.

  “Relax,” he said. “She’s just stretching.”

  “More like retching,” I said.

  I looked over again. Leslee had stopped laughing and appeared to have attracted her own little nightmare—an Ivy Eliter who, even from ten yards, was clearly wearing a hairpiece.

  “So,” I said, “you are…”

  “Richard. Your friend says you work in the entertainment industry.”

  “Well…”

  “What do you do?” he said while looking around the room. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear someone with a strong New Delhi accent belting out “Stand By Your Man.”

  “I do wardrobe for adult entertainment videos,” I said.

  “Oh, too bad. I was hoping that you were one of the writers from Wesleyan. I’m a lit agent. From Aspire. So where are they?”

  “I have no idea. But…” I said as I started to walk away, “if I find them, I’ll send them over to you.”

  He lurched forward and grabbed my arm. “I’m not done with you. Where’re you going?”

  “I’m going to get a drink,” I said.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “You need to convince me that this evening hasn’t been a total waste. How do I get invited to come to the set?”

  “Of what?”

  “Butt Detectives II.”

  “I’m an attorney. Entertainment. No porn.”

  “I knew that. Ivy League Law School?”

  “No.”

  “Undergraduate?”

  “No.”

  “Why’d they let you in?”

  I stared at him.

  “Represent anyone good enough for us?”

  I yawned.

  “OK,” he said. “Give me a contact number. I’ll take you to lunch. Then I’ll find out.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said.

  I gave him a contact number—a real one—which I quickly realized was a mistake. I mean, Richard was nowhere near my level on the L.A. Eco-Chain.

  Richard wandered off. Before I lost sight of him, I saw him standing in a group of people. I think he found those Wesleyan writers.

  I wandered through the room surveying the crowd. “Boots,” a song close to my heart, was being mangled by someone in the Karaoke room. I walked in.

  It was Leslee. She was tone deaf. She finished and walked over to me.

  “You rebel, you,” I said.

  “I didn’t know I had it in me,” she said.

  “You blew me away.”

  And everyone else. The room was totally empty.

  “Where is everyone?” said Leslee.

  “I think they’re out on the balcony with their free cigars.”

  “Oh yeah. Let’s go get our free cigars.”

  “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 at
tention. 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.