Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts

by Courtney Hamilton

  “Are you kidding me?” she said. “Only a masochist wants to keep practicing law. And you know about my research regarding your hair and makeup?”

  “Yes. Your research has shown you that guys like less makeup and more hair.”

  “Right,” said Leslee. “And you’re too tall.”

  I looked at her and rolled my eyes.

  “So start slouching,” she said. “And you need to acquire the acquisition gene.”

  “What?” I said.

  “You need to want things,” she said. “Lots of things, like big houses, new cars, and new furniture. You need to be the person who consistently spends too much at Christmas every year.”

  “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “But,” I said. “I already have everything I need.”

  “That’s pretty sad,” said Leslee. “And by the way, I’ve seen your little post-graduate apartment. I sincerely hope that you want more than that.”

  “Well, what’s the point?”

  “The point is that you want and want and want. And you tell your husband that you want and want and want,” she replied. “So you make your husband ambitious, because to shut you up, he has to work. So you become the backbone that makes your husband successful, because through your wanting, he works harder than he ever thought he would. That’s how he becomes successful.”

  I shook my head. I was confused. “Sounds like you become the catalyst that gives your husband incurable debt.”

  “That’s part of it,” she said.

  “Well, I’m ambitious. I can make the money.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you know how much work that’ll take? Every woman I know, well, the smart ones, got rid of her ambition a long time ago. She gave it to her husband.”

  We pulled up at Leslee’s apartment.

  “Thanks for the info,” I said.

  “Think about what I told you. I mean, you’re 35. It’s almost too late for you.”

  I drove home and fed Abyss.

  There was a message from Autumn, the Stepford D-Girl at Genie’s production company.

  “Courtney, this is the third time I’ve called. Please call me. Jon Gene would like to have lunch with you.”

  More like have me for lunch.

  I made myself one of my favorite Velveeta creations: toasted bread, mayonnaise, tomatoes, with Velveeta melted over it. A Velveeta junior pizza. It tasted great.

  And then I thought about what Leslee had said.

  Later that week, I brought it up in Group.

  “I was one of those women once,” said the nearly divorced housewife who really wanted to be a therapist.

  “Which women?” I said.

  “A woman who was truly successful. I had everything.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got ambition.”

  “Isn’t it better now,” I said. “I mean, aren’t you more realized as a person?”

  “I went from having a 6-bedroom, 5-bathroom, 6,500-square-foot home on Mulholland Drive with a large Mercedes to having a 2-bedroom, 1-bathroom apartment off Ventura Boulevard and driving a Saturn. Yes, I’m more realized, but I also can’t pay my bills.”

  Roberta broke in.

  “I feel that the Group is a little off course tonight. Our purpose is to discuss what you feel, not what you think.”

  “Roberta, is it somehow not clear to you that we all feel horrible?” I said.

  When I got home there were messages on my voice mail. Another couple messages from Autumn, Genie’s Stepford D-Girl, and six or seven empty messages which contained nothing but breathing.

  Later that week Leslee called me.

  “Oh hi, Leslee,” I said. “Are you the Breather?”

  “The what?” she said.

  “The person who keeps calling and breathing on my voice mail and cell.”

  “Great. I see you’ve gotten yourself into another fine mess.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “So Jennifer says I should keep helping you.”

  “I can see Jennifer is always thinking of me.”

  “She is. So is Bettina. Now there’s a woman with her head on straight.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s not exactly what her girlfriends used to tell me.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. How’d you meet her?”

  “Jennifer gave me her number. We went for coffee. It’s nice to meet someone down here who isn’t afraid of hugging and touching.”

  “And that’s just the beginning.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Did she invite you to train for the marathon with us?”

  “She did. But like I told you, even she knows it’s a joke.”

  “That’s her opinion.”

  “It is. But it’s also your friend Marcie’s.”

  “Marcie.”

  “She pronounces it Mar-cee.”

  “Whatever…”

  “It’s her opinion that I should keep helping you and maybe introduce you to some women who are successful role models. She calls the women the Civilian Royalty of L.A., like what I’ll be once I get married. You know, married well, never have to work again.”

  “I might have heard something about this.”

  For the past ten years.

  “And I might as well tell you… all of your friends think you’re a mess.”

  “Really? Let me guess. No boyfriend, not married, close to 35, not in a big law firm—just me and my little practice.”

  “Exactly. So, there’s this Ivy & Elite Book Group coming up and I might—if they’re not too strict about you not really going to the right schools—you know those UCs—be able to bring you and your friends.”

  “Hmm. A book group. Oh boy.”

  “So I’ll let you know if I can bring you.”

  “OK.”

  “If I can get them to let you in, you should really come. I think it would really help you to see the…”

  “I get it. The role models, Marcie’s…”

  “Mar-cee’s—”

  “Marcie’s L.A. Civilian Royalty.”

  “Yeah. I’m getting another call so…”

  My cell went dead.

  About two weeks later I got an email from Leslee. The Ivy & Elite book group would “make an exception” and allow me, Bettina, and Marcie to come. It was going to be in the home of an Ivy Elite member named Elizabeth, who lived in Brentwood.

  “But,” wrote Leslee, “please don’t let them see the car—the Honda—you’re driving. If you’re going to come in that, could you please park around the block, or somewhere they won’t see it?”

  10

  How Can I Be More Perfect For You?

  Rabbi Francis O’Toole was the spiritual leader of a Westside synagogue that comprised born-again Jews, therapy-fried Episcopalians, guilt-fleeing Catholics, and pretty much everybody else who walked in the door. His Shul was a refuge for the disenfranchised—depressed from their recent job losses in the entertainment industry—who tended to be cautionary tales for the rage-of-the-moment drugs, cults, and sexual practices that had ravaged Los Angeles during the past 25 years.

  Like many in his congregation, Rabbi O’Toole’s acceptance of Judaism in his life was the result of a tortured spiritual and emotional odyssey. Never popular as a kid, he had formed several punk bands which had briefly flashed on the L.A. music scene in the early ’80s, the most notorious being his last band, Dry-Gun-Fly, a band known for creating mood by cranking up their smoke machine during their rock anthems.

  When Dry-Gun-Fly exploded due to a lethal combination of drug-heightened ego and a general inability to determine who was rightfully sleeping with their Marilyn Monroe look-alike female lead singer, Francis smashed his guitar during their last concert at Madame Wong’s and never came back. There would be no more 3:00 a.m. runs to Cantor’s Deli. It was over.

  His next stop was a brief journey into EST. The “BIG MESSAGE” they were supposed to giv
e him? Talk about stupid. It was nothing more than sadism with a therapy twist. And he resented being told when he could go to the bathroom.

  He then became a disciple of the Guru Gorabi. After giving the kid-Guru all of his worldly possessions, he discovered The Universal Truth: The Guru was a fat, pimply-faced, dull 16-year-old who farted when he ate broccoli. Francis tried to retrieve his beloved 4-chamber bong, his Fender amps, and the mother of pearl roach clips which were given to him by some girl he had met at a Devo concert. But no such luck. The Guru knew when he had scored some good booty.

  After spending some time on a kibbutz in Israel, he discovered two things: (1) this communal farming thing was for the birds, and (2) ab-busting physical labor was not what he wanted to do.

  He also acquired a ferociously entrepreneurial wife named Sabre who pretty much figured that Francis was her ticket to the big time, that being American citizenship and the position of Rebbetzin in an affluent American congregation.

  The citizenship she got hands down, but the Rebbetzin, the rabbi’s wife? That meant Francis had to become a rabbi. How was that going to happen? He really liked Christmas and that big fat ol’ smokey Easter ham he ate every spring. He was a Christian. But she pushed and campaigned and nagged.

  Sometime after Sabre became profoundly unbearable, Francis had a vision. Sure, being an Herbalife distributor, his current gig, was OK, but wasn’t he meant to do more than push biodegradable soap and overpriced vitamins?

  Being a Rabbi actually give him everything he craved as a rock star. People would come to hear him. People would look to him for guidance. People might even revere him—all this, even without a current hit on the Billboard 100. He would never ever have to worry about fitting into tight clothes or being cute. He could eat. And besides, the Herbalife distributorship was not doing that well.

  He converted to Judaism.

  He slogged his way through rabbinical school and got a position as a junior rabbi in a large synagogue. Although given trivial duties, non-existent support, and thought generally to be an intellectual bantam-weight, he found a formula which made him a hit with the disappearing younger members: Rock-the-Shabbat. If his time as an Herbalife distributor had taught him anything, it had taught him this: to be successful, you must identify with the customer and find out what they want.

  As Rabbi O’Toole was roughly the age of the quickly disappearing younger members of the synagogue, he knew what they wanted. Those assimilating sons and daughters of the affluent congregation, growing up in weather-wonderful Los Angeles County, wanted to be cool. They wanted to be in a band. They wanted to defy their parents—at least while they were in school. They wanted their religion made fun and easy, like everything else in their life. They wanted sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll.

  The sex and drugs he couldn’t deliver on, but the rock-n-roll… He put together a house band in the synagogue made up of various musician wannabes and installed himself on guitar. He called the band Mo-Zest-Flock.

  Sabre was ecstatic. Not only did she get to be the wife of a rabbi, but after dogging Rabbi O’Toole every waking moment for three weeks she got to be the lead singer. Once again, Francis O’Toole was sleeping with the lead singer of his band.

  Unlike most Los Angeles synagogues, Rabbi O’Toole had no problem attracting younger members. In fact, his congregation was exploding with them. His Rock-the-Shabbat was an enormous hit and heavily attended. But the more senior rabbis became jealous, and somewhat fearful for their jobs. A small internal campaign was waged, and Rabbi O’Toole was ejected on the basis that his Judaism was not philosophically compatible with the synagogue’s existing philosophies, something to which the rabbinical staff had not given a second thought when Rabbi O’Toole was covering hospital visitations and funerals.

  But Rabbi Francis O’Toole wasn’t flustered. He had been anticipating this action for one year, and in fact, planning his departure.

  Relying heavily on his experience as an Herbalife salesman, he and Sabre created a corporate structure for their synagogue which ensured that he and Sabre could never be fired. There would be no board of directors, no officers, no pesky president of the synagogue to appease over parking spaces or who got to carry the Torah this week. He and Sabre would have all of the power, and be accorded the title “Head Distributors.” Everyone else would merely be their salesman.

  But it wasn’t just his Herbalife years he relied on. His rock-n-roll experience was put to good use. Instead of having a permanent location, Rabbi O’Toole used the model of the “disappearing nightclub which only the chosen can find” for his synagogue.

  Sometimes they were in a vacated Koo Koo Roo, which still smelled of roast chicken. Sometimes they were in the bottom of an abandoned building. Sometimes they were in the abandoned offices of a bankrupt law firm.

  What was left of that blond mane, bleached white by so many summers at the beach, was in a pony-tail that went down to the middle of his back. And of course, Mo-Zest-Flock, led by Sabre’s original vocal stylings, rocked at every Shabbat, and his young congregation danced, pounded on the walls, and clapped themselves silly.

  Whereas most synagogues followed a line of Judaism which generally fell into orthodox, conservative, or reform, Rabbi O’Toole’s had an original vision of Judaism which he called, “progressive-eclectic.” In truth, progressive-eclectic was a unique goulash of modern management orthodoxy, personal-empowerment psychology, and flagrant irresponsibility, for which he always attempted to find basis in the Torah through his original interpretations.

  Short of singing “Jesus Loves Me” there was very little behavior which was unacceptable in Rabbi O’Toole’s synagogue on Shabbat. In fact, it was unusual to go through a Rockin’ Shabbat with Rabbi O’Toole and not see a minimum of twenty people talking on their cell phones while others checked email on their iPhones or ate Chinese food.

  You wanted to read from Torah but weren’t Jewish? Come on up and join the other Roman Catholics who preceded you. You were thinking of converting but thought it was too difficult. Don’t worry. Come to synagogue for a while and when you’re ready we’ll have your conversion in someone’s swimming pool during a barbecue.

  Rabbi O’Toole was doing something that no other rabbi had done. He was making Judaism accessible and acceptable—to Catholics, Christians, Buddhists, and Mormons. And the crowds who stuffed into his “location of the week” showed that his take-what-you-want-and-leave-the-rest version of Judaism, his progressive-eclectic, was speaking to a large group of Southern Californians, few of whom ever actually bothered to convert.

  By the time I actually walked in the door, I think that things had gone a little too far. Sure, who hadn’t heard of Rabbi O’Toole’s infamous “How to Survive the High Holidays” lecture, a speech which all but admitted, “The holidays are a drag, but what are you going to do?” When I finally stumbled on the secret location, he was on to something much bigger: Comparing the biblical prophets from the Torah to ’60s, ’70s and ’80s television characters.

  It was one thing when he compared Ruth, the Moabite who joined the tribe of Judah, to Alf, the alien, who joined the tribe of humans. I could almost understand his analogy of Jews, searching for a homeland, to the Tribbles on Star Trek, facing diaspora. But the day I got off Rabbi O’Toole’s “Judaism made Accessible” train was the day he told the story of Rachel and Leah by comparing them to Marsha and Jan, from The Brady Bunch. Even for a religious lightweight like me this was too much.

  “You see, although Marsha was older than Jan she was the babe whom everyone wanted to date, just like Rachel.” I looked around the room and counted eight people who put their cell phones away as Rabbi O’Toole paused to see how his brilliance was affecting his congregation. “And Leah, like Jan, is the daughter that her dad needs to get connected, well in this case, he needs to marry her off… and we all remember how jealous Jan was of Marsha.” OK. I was embarrassed to realize that I, like everyone else in the congregation, did remember this, having watched more than m
y share of Nick at Nite. More to the point, I had that stinging moment of self-recognition when I realized that I knew much more about The Brady Bunch than I ever would about the Torah.

  “Thank God I live on the Westside,” said some guy. Yes, I thought. Only on the Westside would you get challah with pesto in it. I was standing outside at Rabbi O’Toole’s latest secret location, the Yoga studio of a gym in Brentwood which was rumored to have once had O.J. Simpson’s football jersey hanging in it.

  “Aren’t you, uh…?” I turned around. Some guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and jeans was talking into his cell phone which was plastered to the side of his head. “No, I can’t go to the Lakers’ game with you tonight. My restaurant is opening.”

  He wasn’t talking to me. I started to walk away.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said Mr. Cell-Phone, who stopped me by grabbing my arm.

  “Aren’t you… Cathy?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said as I walked away.

  “Stop!” said Mr. Cell-Phone.

  “Where did we meet, where did we meet?” said Mr. Cell-phone, eyeing me.

  I knew where we had met.

  Mr. Cell-Phone was that pompous guy Richard from the suicidally boring Ivy & Elite mixer.

  “We met at an Ivy & Elite mixer. And your name is Richard.”

  “Right. And you’re… Connie?”

  “Courtney.”

  “Right. Didn’t I get your phone number and everything?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  He had.

  “Because if I did get your number, I was definitely going to call you. I mean, I never take someone’s phone number unless I’m going to call them.”

  Silence from me.

  “Well, how’d you convince them to let you in here… Connie?”

  “Courtney.”

  “Right. I mean, this place is pretty exclusive.”

  “Richard, this isn’t an Ivy & Elite mixer.”

  “I know. But…”

  “And I think I have the credentials that this place might be looking for.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”