Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts

by Courtney Hamilton

  I took my things upstairs to Jennifer’s guest room, a tiny room in the front of her flat which was always 15 degrees colder than the rest of her place. Despite the soft, lumpy bed which always gave me a crippling vertebra adjustment, I liked the room. It always gave me a bird’s eye view of the local street life, which, of course, also involved male and female prostitutes giving blow-jobs or dealers selling crack. Before I could get my fill of beautiful San Francisco, Jennifer walked in.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat,” she said.

  “What about the grass-goo you were drinking at the airport? Isn’t that all that you’re allowed to eat on your Chi-correction program?”

  “That was just for Haggis. Now I want some real food.”

  We walked to a local cafe, carefully choosing our steps so as not to step on the items laid on the sidewalk by drug addicts who were selling their clothing so they could buy some more smack. Somewhere in the middle of her second cream-cheese-smeared bagel, I got the story.

  “So Marshall,” said Jennifer.

  “Mr. Wise Soul, searching for a resting place in the infinity of the universe.”

  “Right.

  “The architect of your new body, and your new life.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I get to meet him…”

  “Tonight. So there’s a little glitch in our relationship.”

  “Which is…”

  “Well, you know I really like him.”

  “I didn’t think you would transform yourself into Malibu Barbie unless you did.”

  “And I really appreciate all of his advice and guidance.”

  “Yes, Bo, tell us how your first met John Derek.”

  “But there’s this little problem…”

  “I feel myself aging just sitting here…”

  “And I perfectly understand his position.”

  “More frightening words have never been uttered.”

  “Well, the truth is…”

  “Yes…”

  “He won’t have a physical relationship with me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. He won’t… well, he won’t touch me.”

  She let out a sigh.

  I looked around the room for a few seconds and watched two lesbians split a cinnamon bun by biting the bun and transferring it to the other with a sloppy, moany kiss. In the corner, three guys who looked like they should have been the opening act for Mötley Crüe raged that “the American capitalist machine is killing music.” Suddenly, the scream of hot milk being foamed by a Cappuccino machine blasted across the room. When was it that I came to hate the sound of bohemian pretension?

  But I was in pain. I knew that Jennifer and I had arrived at some new place, some new reality, where nothing ever again would be easy. Where you would never again be electrified by the mere sight of a tall guy with green eyes, and some day, a week, a month, a semester later, find yourself sneaking a kiss that would cause a sigh 17 years later. Where we would never again greet each other on a Sunday morning with a hangover, a sly smile, and an ounce of regret. Where we would never again be breathless waiting for him to call, and think it was destiny when we realized that he too loved The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, French fries with mustard, or the orchestral recordings of Juan Garcia Esquivel.

  “What’s the deal?” I said.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, Marshall works for Tibro Systems.”

  “Uh-huhhh.”

  “And I work for EBOL.”

  “Yes…”

  “And you know… Tibro had its IPO early this year.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “And it actually makes a product.”

  “There is a point in here, isn’t there?”

  “Marshall got a lot of stock options, because he joined Tibro when it was just some guys working in their mom’s basement. And EBOL hasn’t had its IPO yet.”

  “OK. And with the NASDAQ struggling for support at 1750, things aren’t looking good. Right?”

  “Exactly. And of course, it’s not the best time to have an IPO.”

  “A slight understatement.”

  “So Marshall’s stock options have vested. And he’s now a multi-millionaire, like about 35 of his co-workers.”

  “Cut to the chase.”

  “So he won’t touch me because he’s afraid I’ll get pregnant and go after his money. And he doesn’t want to complicate our relationship that way.”

  I had to look away.

  My head began to throb and I felt dazed.

  I didn’t know what to think or what to say. All those hard-fought moral battles for sexual and personal freedom of the late ’60s, fought in this very town, were suddenly thrown out the window for the San Francisco battle cry of the new millennium: Guard your stock options with your life.

  “And you’re OK with this?”

  “Wait until you meet him. You’ll see why.”

  That evening, Jennifer took me to a Labor Day/‌Non-Labor Day/‌Pink Slip party in a home of some internet czar in Palo Alto. The house was not one mile from the famed Sandhurst Road, the street where the entire high-tech explosion had started.

  I had expected to descend into some glass and wood Frank Lloyd Wright extravaganza created from virgin pine with running brooks and pools of koi fish swimming through the center of 50,000 square feet.

  What I saw was a 3-bedroom, 2.5-bathroom, California ranch house, circa 1974–78, with a carport and no garage, that was covered with linoleum and shag carpeting in approximately 2,500 square feet.

  It was identical to the millions of California starter houses that two-parent families with modest dreams had bought in the mid ’70s.

  “This is the home of an Internet czar?”

  “This is Palo Alto. They paid two million and they were lucky—there were five other offers.”

  This was rich.

  High-tech millionaires fighting to buy the very same style of home that middle-class families everywhere had bought in 1974.

  There were about 100 people in their early 30s jammed into what my parents would have called the rumpus room, handing around their latest example of the market downturn: the pink slip. Snippets of conversations concerning touring Thailand, or the new home in Los Altos, or recent art purchases came my way, so it was hard to determine the crowd anxiety level regarding their collective unemployment as I ate everything in sight on the non-L.A. banquet spread (real food here), and everyone else proceeded to drink themselves silly.

  As I stuffed my third helping of steamed fish with plum sauce into my mouth, I saw Jennifer coming toward me with her arm around a tall, almost good-looking guy who seemed to be examining his appearance in every reflective surface in the house. He seemed to be looking through me, and then I realized that he was, because he was looking at his reflection on the mirror behind the banquet table to which I was glued.

  “Wow, Haggis has really done well with me,” he said.

  “Courtney, this is my Marshall,” said Jennifer.

  “What does that mean?” said Marshall while he picked Jennifer’s arm off of his shoulder.

  “Well…?” said Jennifer. “I’m going to get a drink.” She disappeared into the pink-slipped crowd.

  “It means she’s happy to know you,” I said.

  “Oh. I guess that’s OK,” said Marshall.

  We sat in silence for what I counted to be 17 seconds on the digital wall clock.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” I said.

  “No, wait. I wanted to ask you something.”

  “OK.”

  “Jen says that you work in the entertainment industry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I was wondering if you know anyone who represents actors.”

  “In film, television, theater or commercials?”

  “Well, all of it. How about models?”

  “Yes, to the first question, and yes to the second.”

 
; “How about spokespersons?”

  “What, does your fresh-off-the-bus cousin from Tulsa want to be an actress-model-spokesperson?”

  “No, actually, it’s me.”

  “You?”

  “Well, now that I’ve vested, my therapist told me I should go for it and I’ve decided to pursue what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “To become an actor-model-spokesperson? You graduated from Princeton.”

  “So did Dean Cain. And look, he got to play Superman in that TV show and then he got to do Ripley’s Believe It or Not. But I have a plan.”

  “You do? What is it?”

  “Well, Haggis and I have been working to prepare me for the Faces of Tomorrow competition.”

  “The Faces of Tomorrow competition? The model search?”

  “Yes. I evaluated my chances, and I think that I have a good possibility of winning.”

  “Did Haggis tell you that? Is that why you have made him a rich man? Because except for the fact that you’re probably 25 years older than every other contestant, that would be a realistic possibility.”

  “That’s valuable information. Perhaps I should get some Botox injections.”

  “Sure. It’ll take a good five years off your age.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  “Excuse me. I need to find Jennifer.”

  I walked away without turning back.

  I found Jennifer at the banquet table picking her way through the carcass of the steamed fish remains. I looked at the brown shag carpet and tried to collect myself, but instead of coherence I was struck by the need to eat a big piece of Velveeta.

  “Uh oh,” said Jennifer. “You’ve got that faraway look in your eyes. Thinking about Velveeta?”

  “At moments like this, I miss it so.”

  “If the need overwhelms you, try deep breathing.”

  “That was two minutes ago. And the desire hasn’t left me. I think I’m getting the shakes.”

  “Hold on. I think I saw a cheese platter somewhere.”

  “Already found it. It’s real cheese. Goat cheese is not going to work.”

  “Hold on. I think I saw something else.”

  Jennifer scurried away, and left me in the middle of a deep breath.

  “Will this work?” said Jennifer.

  “Cheese Nips? Are these being served?”

  “Not exactly. I found them in the kitchen. They looked ignored.”

  “So you liberated them?”

  “For you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I ate about ten and felt less anxious.

  “So that guy you introduced me to?”

  “Marshall.”

  “That couldn’t be Marshall.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that was a gay man.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do. Let’s think about it. Refusing to touch you added together with wanting to enter the Faces of Tomorrow competition at age 42 does not equal a straight man.”

  “There are good explanations for this.”

  “There always are. The most likely one being that Marshall is not as that pumped-up pin head described him.”

  “Haggis.”

  “Right. Marshall is not a wise soul searching for a resting place in the universe. He’s a gay man who’s desperate to burst out of the closet.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” said Jennifer.

  I left the next day. Jennifer told me she couldn’t drive me to the airport because she had to work out with Haggis.

  As I sat on the plane, I read the online New York Times. While scanning the “most emailed” section, I noticed an interesting item: E-Weddings had held a moderately successful initial public offering. That meant that Frank’s fiancée, Tracey, was most likely a millionaire. Maybe even a multi-millionaire.

  I called him as soon as I got to Baggage Carousel 4 at LAX.

  “So, how’s America’s newest millionaire?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “E-Weddings. Tracey. The IPO.”

  “That’s her money, not mine.”

  “But, you lucky boy, you’re marrying a millionaire.”

  “Well, it’s complicated.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the IPO happened six months before I thought it would.”

  “Yeah…”

  “You know the drill. Those stock options are her separate property.”

  I did know the drill. Since E-Weddings had its IPO before Tracey and Frank were married, those stock options were Tracey’s separate property. Frank would get no part of the options unless they appreciated.

  “Frank, you know as well as I do that you’ll get some money from those options.”

  “No. No. She took care of that. She downloaded a prenuptial agreement from the E-Weddings website.”

  “And…”

  “She made me sign away any claim on those stock options forever.”

  “Even the interest?”

  “All of it.”

  Well. I suddenly had a much higher opinion of Tracey Anne Bingham.

  “You never made me do that,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “But Frank, your wedding is in six weeks,” I said. “You’re still going through with it, right?”

  There was silence on the phone.

  “Frank?”

  “I think I need to speak to Roberta.”

  When I got home there were a couple of messages from the Breather. Autumn, the Stepford D-girl in Genie’s company, had left a message and Genie had grabbed the message mid-call and left his own remark, “Look, Fake, you’re being very unprofessional. I expect my calls returned…”

  Then there was a message from Josh.

  “Since you’re a girl who likes to eat…” said his message.

  Oh, where was this going?

  “I thought maybe I could take you to dinner to thank you for helping me out that night I wasn’t doing very well.”

  Hmmmm.

  “What do you think? Should we go to ‘Berliner Café’ again?”

  Definitely not.

  Josh’s message ended with some nice words about me being a good person and some additional words of thanks. I took this to mean that he didn’t have a shred of interest in me.

  Two weeks later I received a card stating that Tracey and Frank’s wedding had been cancelled. The card included a short message instructing that those guests who had sent presents would have them returned.

  I never did get my lava lamp returned.

  A few months later Bettina ran into Frank at a Westside Yoga studio. Frank told her that he was working the sound for a USC film student’s short film. He didn’t say much about Tracey. He just told her, “Tracey was great. And it was fun to be with someone so young. But it just wasn’t right. And I have so much work to do.”

  12

  Celebrity L.A.

  “I’ve got a new nanny,” said Bettina, biting into her cinnamon Bun. We were sitting in Brentwood in an unavoidable coffee house, the one that had a franchise on every corner in the known civilized world. It was Sunday morning at 7:00 a.m.

  It was a hot day for October, a time of year in which the temperature usually dropped to a crisp 68 degrees and the leaves on the few deciduous trees turned a subtle orange-red. This year the temperature seemed stuck at 100, as if the seasons refused to change and September, usually our hottest month, was to continue for 61 days instead 30.

  The heat, combined with the Santa Anas—dry, hot, and blustery winds that periodically unnerve the region—created a twinge of anxiety for anyone who had been in L.A. for over five years. It was fire and earthquake season.

  Fires burned in the Simi Valley and Malibu, areas that were perpetually suffering some natural disaster. My gut told me that a little earthquake, probably a 4.2 on the Richter scale with its epicenter near Northridge, would follow in the next few days.

  The usu
al crowd of vets from the local V.A. Hospital, the ones who were going through drug rehab, lined up for coffee. And the weekend bicycle guys in bicycle pants were there. When those guys in those tight black bicycle pants walked by, I was never sure where to look.

  I think some of the guys in tight black bicycle pants wearing flashy form-fitting red-white racing shirts splashed with team names like “Sponzi” or “Verti”—names that sounded like ice cream or opera composers—actually took a ride on those $5,000 Italian bikes. But I knew all of them were single. A $5,000 Italian bike was just like vintage Japanese movie posters or a faux wine collection: single guy gear, the kind of things a single guy bought to make himself seem interesting before every extra dollar went into private schools or mortgages.

  When it wasn’t too noisy with cell phones we went to the Coffee Joint Tehran, the Irano-chic coffee house across the street. It served this hairy cake, a white coconut cake with tiny lavender frosting flowers on it. The new coffee house, a San Francisco transplant located one block down in the location of the former Italian restaurant where Nicole Brown Simpson last lost her glasses, had not yet become a spot for us. It had tea but no sticky buns with icing.

  “I didn’t know you had a nanny,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Marcie. “Everyone has a nanny.”

  “Why? You’re not working, Bettina,” I said. “Aren’t they expensive?”

  “Of course,” said Marcie.

  “I need time for myself,” said Bettina.

  “Don’t you get about eight hours per day while your kids are in school?” I said. “How can you afford this? I thought the deal was that you quit being an artist so that you could stay at home and raise your kids.”

  “Everyone has a nanny,” said Marcie.

  “How much does this cost?” I said.

  “The usual,” said Bettina.

  “What does it usually cost?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Bettina.

  “But your husband can’t be making more than $55,000 per year. Who’s paying for this?” I asked.

  “That’s not important,” said Bettina.

  “It’s not,” said Marcie.

  “Not your in-laws.”

  “You’re missing the point,” said Bettina.