It’s hard to decide who is prettier: Jennifer or Marshall. But I begin to wonder if Marshall is prettier than most of my friends. Make that all of my friends. And me.
The pin head is there also.
“Hi, Haggis,” I said. “There are fresh towels on the couch. The refrigerator is stocked with food that you probably won’t eat. Here are two extra sets of keys. Abyss is running around somewhere—don’t let her out. I’ll be back at 10 p.m.”
“Where are you going?” said Jennifer.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
Where I’m going is to therapy. Group therapy. After some incessant nagging from Roberta—“You know, I didn’t end our therapeutic relationship, we just took a break”—I return. And it’s like I’ve never been gone, but with a few twists. They’re all there: the former kiddie-TV actress who, beating all the odds, has done a Jason Bateman and managed to land on an adult primetime show; the nearly-divorced housewife (who wants to be a therapist); the wardrobe supervisor (who still wishes she were an actress), the guys who really don’t want to be there (who still don’t want to be there) and, “Frank? What are you doing here?”
“I thought it would be an interesting exercise for Group to observe Frank and Courtney interacting so we could all practice coping skills for dealing with an ex,” said Roberta.
More like she wanted to throw a stick of dynamite into the room to wake things up a bit, and maybe, just maybe, try out a few of the Interaction Exercises she had created for her new book, entitled, surprisingly enough, Coping Skills for Dealing with an Ex and Moving On.
“So I asked Frank to transfer back from the Wednesday Night Group, where I placed him after he and Courtney ended their relationship, to tonight’s Group, the Tuesday Night Group. And Courtney was told that she could begin participating in Group again,” said Roberta.
“You were in the Wednesday Night Group, Frank? Wow. How was it?”
The Wednesday Night Group was Roberta’s triple Platinum Group, a By-Invitation-Only Group rumored to include an orchestral new music composer who had won a MacArthur (Genius) Award, a painter who was featured on the cover of Art Forum when he was 26, a chef who created the East Side renaissance by opening a restaurant in Silverlake before it was considered chic, a professional lesbian who produced highly successful award-winning gay and lesbian themed films, and the others: the usual smattering of actors, writers, and directors, but these entertainment types had the distinction of working regularly.
For many years, I had longed for an invitation to the Wednesday Night Group, thinking if I had to be in Group, why not let it be this one. I dropped hints. Well no, I directly told her.
“I’d prefer to be in the Wednesday Night Group,” I’d say.
“But it wouldn’t do,” said Roberta, “because you’re needed in Tuesday Night Group, because you’re a Tuesday Night Person.”
I wasn’t really sure, but I thought that Roberta had a pecking order. I knew of the Wednesday Night Group and thought that there might be a Thursday night and maybe a Monday night group. If Wednesday Night was the Platinum Group, then we, the Tuesday Night Group, were either the Silver or Bronze Group.
“Courtney,” said Roberta, “you know we’re not supposed to discuss what goes on in Group.”
“Oh right,” I said, “I’m sorry. Confidentiality.”
I did my best to muffle a snicker, but it was uncontainable and got the best of me. I exploded with laughter… with the rest of Group.
We all knew that obsessing about who was in Group, what topics were discussed, and ongoing fights was widely done through emails and phone calls during the 24 hours following a Tuesday night session. Unfortunately, spending so much time kicked out of Group had left me no Group topics about which to obsess.
But then Roberta said, “The Group is being disrespectful to itself,” which made me think of a bunch of sheep walking around in a circle kicking each other in the butt with a woolly, cloven hoof and since I already had the giggles, I started laughing again, starting another tidal wave of laughter.
Roberta looked at me and shook her head left-right, left-right, left-right.
“I’m disappointed with you,” she said.
“Oh, me too,” I said, desperately trying to sound sincere, but since I had tears running out of my eyes and was attempting to stifle more laughter, I sounded more like a helium-altered cartoon character, and then hiccupped very loudly, creating another tsunami of laughter and crying.
“I can see that we’re not going to get any work done here tonight,” said Roberta.
“No,” I said, “let’s do something.”
“OK. So, Courtney, how are you?” said Roberta.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Fine. This guy asked me to marry him.”
“What?” said the divorced housewife.
The laughter ended suddenly.
“What?” said Frank. “I didn’t know you’d started seeing someone?”
“Frank,” said Roberta, “how does that make you feel?”
“He’s fine,” I said. “Frank’s already been around the block a couple of times since we broke up.”
“Don’t speak for him, Courtney,” said Roberta.
“Look, it’s over. Frank and I weren’t right for each other. It would have been a horrible, horrible marriage. I told him very specifically what I wanted. Remember that night at the Copper Pan, Frank?”
“Yeah…” said Frank.
“…and he wasn’t having any part of it,” I said. “What more is there?”
“Is that the way you feel, Frank,” said Roberta.
“Well…” said Frank.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” said the former kiddie-TV actress who now has a show. “I don’t feel seen. I mean, she’s back for ten minutes and how come it’s suddenly all about her? I have needs too, you know.”
“God forbid anyone should take the attention away from you,” I said.
“Courtney,” said Roberta. “The Group is a safe place for everyone, even if it has moments of disrespect”—disrespect, a bad word to say, because again I think of the sheep walking around in a circle kicking each other in the butt with a woolly, cloven hoof, which makes me start giggling.
“God, you’re a mess,” said Roberta.
So I begin listening to the former kiddie-TV-actress-who-now-has-a-show, a real adult primetime network TV show, spend the next 30 minutes revealing her pain. She is angry, still, so angry at her mother who worked as a housekeeper so that she could help support her daughter’s ambition to become a kiddie cable TV star with the pictures, the endless auditions, the agents, the managers. After that was over, and because some admissions officer thought that her daughter would make a very interesting addition to the class, her mother continued to work as a housekeeper so that she could send her to Yale, the best drama program in the country.
“She makes me feel so guilty,” she said.
“She should,” I blurted out, “your mother scrubbed floors on her hands and knees until she was 62 years old so that you could have a career shaking your hooters on a Tuesday night secret agent show.”
The actress, forever playing some secret-undercover-super-CIA-FBI-KGB-female 007-type on her new network show, ensuring that she was always undercover as a prostitute, stripper, model, cocktail waitress, lap dancer, French maid, in some unknown Eastern European–Middle Eastern country sounding vaguely familiar, like Rekazistan or Biraq, ensuring that her Yale drama school degree could be used so that she could play out the primetime fantasies of the producers in some almost soft-porn kind of way, wearing short, short skirts, bustiers, push-up bras, wigs, leather, latex anything, tight, short with a lot of cleavage.
And suddenly I knew.
I hated this.
“You sound profoundly ridiculous to me,” I said. “And I wish so much that I could call your mother and be appropriately grateful. For you. For our generation, who was given so much and has done so little.”
Silence in the room.
“But maybe I should call my own mother,” I said, “and see if I can find some way to thank her—despite being insane—and she is—for all those violin lessons, expensive instruments, and summer programs she sent me to when she didn’t really have the money.”
No one said a word.
“No one wants to engage—be present—with me?” I said. “Roberta?”
Nothing.
“I’ve been in therapy a long, long time. Too long. And you, Roberta, still think I’m… what did you just call me? A mess?”
“Well, I didn’t mean…” said Roberta.
“Yes, you did,” I said. “I’ve spent so much more time in a therapist’s office than I ever have in a church. Or maybe it should be a synagogue. I’ve spent so much time—in fact, over half my life—feeling. Being present. Wondering how to behave. And let’s not forget, I’ve spent a lot of money, over $80,000, coming to you, my various therapists through the years, for the answers as to how I should live my life, as if you or psychotherapy would give me answers, the answers, as to how I could have a successful and fulfilling life, like if I just stayed long enough, said the right thing, proved myself worthy, you would open the secret drawer and show me the little book which contained the answers to the meaning of life—you would show me how therapy was supposed to replace traditional morality. And you don’t have any answers, do you, Roberta? It kills me to know that with the money I’ve spent, I could have owned something—a condo, maybe even a house—on the Westside!”
I looked around the room. All heads were down, not even giving me eye contact.
“But I think I have the answers… well, my answers,” I said.
“What?” said the Group in almost unison, leaving me wondering who else in this room had never dared to say that they shared my confusion.
“Well, for one thing, it’s time to leave,” I said. “This. For good. But the other thing is that I think that I want to try to live as moral, humane people have for thousands of years. And there is a manual for that, and an endless interpretive commentary.”
“Unfortunately, Courtney, our time is up,” said Roberta. “It sounds like you have a lot of anger toward me which I think we need to address alone… in our next session.”
“Forget it, Roberta,” I said.
The Group gasped in unison.
“Feeling an Ancient Pain?” I said to the Group. “In the wallet?”
“We need a few sessions to say goodbye,” said Roberta.
“Kids’ tuition coming up, Roberta? Or is it time to trade in the Bentley for the new model? Sorry, Roberta, I’m not going to spend what’s left in my IRA saying goodbye to you. Unless you want to give those sessions to me for free?”
Roberta sat in silence with her head down.
“Oh, nothing to say? I just want you to know, Roberta, that I’ve been lying to you for years. I’ve wanted out of therapy so much that I started telling you what I thought you wanted to hear, and you didn’t even…”
“That’s enough,” said Roberta. “So is this it… you’re not coming back—to Group or anything?”
“That’s right,” I said. I stood up and faced the Group, my Tuesday Night Group.
“I wish… all of you… the very best,” I said. “You too, Frank.”
I walked out the door and straight to my car.
When I got out of the elevator in my apartment building, I could hear a deep baritone voice singing what I thought was Papageno’s Aria from Mozart’s Opera, The Magic Flute.
“Pa-pa-geno, Pa-pa-geno, Pa-pa-geno,” projected through the stucco walls of my apartment building, not deadened at all by the stained indoor-outdoor carpeting which graced every hallway. I didn’t know we had an opera singer in the building, who was staying… in my apartment?
As I opened my door, Marshall, mid-aria, turned to greet me.
“PA-PA-GENO” roared out of his mouth.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, “there’s a talent portion to the Face of Tomorrow competition?”
“Marshall sings opera in an amateur group,” said Jennifer.
“Really. Where’s Haggis?”
“Out buying us more grass goo,” said Jennifer.
“SOME GUY NAMED JOSH CALLED, HE’D LIKE YOU TO CALL HIM,” sang Marshall.
“Josh?” said Jennifer. “I thought…”
“Josh?” I said, pleased.
“YES, JOSH,” sang Marshall, “CALL HIM. CALL HIM. CALLLLL HIMMMMMM.”
And then I smelled something so familiar and so delicious. “What are you two eating?” I said.
Jennifer started laughing.
“You have to ask?” she said.
“Where is it?” I said.
“On the coffee table.” And there it was in all of its gooey, sloppy splendor. Velveeta nachos.
“Good Lord, Marshall, are you sure you should eat this?” I said. “This is a butt builder if there ever was one. “What about all that work you had… did for the competition?”
“I’m planning on running with you tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll burn it off.”
And he did want to run. They all did.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I said. “I really am going to do about 10 miles.”
“Sure,” said Marshall.
“You bet,” said Jennifer.
I didn’t even know if I was going to do it. It was an overcast drizzly day that clearly could become a downpour. Seventy-two hours before the marathon. I wanted to take a little run to stay in shape, something short enough not to get hurt and long enough to keep my muscles warmed.
I also wanted a break from Jennifer, Marshall, and especially Haggis before I killed them.
When Haggis returned with his grass goo he immediately sniffed the air. He walked into my sunken living room and sniffed.
“Where is it?” he said. He opened the curtain on my faux fireplace and sniffed. He went into the kitchen and sniffed. He opened the French doors into my vanity/bathroom and sniffed. And then he opened the closet.
“Just what I expected. Aaaahhh!” he yelled. “What’s that?” Abyss came trotting out with a Velveeta fondue mustache-goatee on her face and nuzzled my leg, leaving a greasy stain in the image of a hairy smiley face on my pants which I knew I would never get out. She had gotten into the nachos plate, which Jennifer and Marshall had hidden in my closet 15 seconds before Haggis opened the door.
Haggis walked out with his evidence, the remaining two soggy chips and the plate, licked free of Velveeta by Abyss.
He looked at me.
“You really are an unhealthy influence,” he said. “After all the work I’ve done with these two.”
I looked at Jennifer and Marshall. They turned their faces away.
“So leave,” I said. “This is who I am. I’m addicted to Velveeta. A Velveetaholic. I own it. Wait. I take responsibility for it. This is the food I have. All of you know me and knew what to expect. So leave.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I just think that…” said Haggis.
“No, you don’t,” I said, “that’s what you don’t do… Think. Because if you did, you’d confront your clients, your two paying clients, who ate this stuff. It was their choice.”
“But you need to know how bad…” said Haggis.
“No, I don’t need to know anything out of your mouth. I just need to know that if you—someone who’s not even a friend—ask for and accept my hospitality, you aren’t going to insult me in my own home. And let me tell you, Haggis, it’s only because I have the most marginal thread of tolerance left in my body that I don’t say what I think of you and…”
“Courtney, don’t!” said Jennifer.
I sighed.
And then I gave Haggis my nastiest possible look.
“That must be my marginal thread of tolerance talking to me,” I said.
“Gee, I’m tired,” said Marshall. “Why don’t we all call it a night?”
“An excellent idea,” said Haggis.
We started jogging at a
fast walk pace, 13 minutes per mile. More like a fast crawl. I heard a few gasps, a few pants, but I pretended not to notice.
After about a half mile we came to the perimeter of the park just before we crossed the street.
And then I saw them.
“Oh no,” I said.
I stopped abruptly, the way you do when you think you just ran into an ex-boyfriend who seems to be with someone who you quickly realize is much better looking than you are.
“What is it?” said Jennifer.
“Look,” I said.
There she was. Alien-scanner model thing, alien-scanner model thing’s fabulous husband, alien-scanner model thing’s trainer.
Alien-scanner model thing’s Muscle had already assumed the pose, standing on the edge of the group, sending us threatening looks.
Haggis took three steps in front of us, assumed the pose, and sent alien-scanner model’s entourage threatening looks.
“Is that…?” said Marshall.
“It is,” I said.
“Wait a minute. No… Reggie?” shouted Haggis. “Reggie McDougal, you little girl. Is that you?”
Alien-scanner’s Muscle looked at us carefully.
“Haggis?” said alien-scanner model thing’s Muscle. “Haggis, you fat head. Is that you?”
Haggis runs across the street and embraces Reggie. Reggie speaks to alien-scanner model thing, apparently introducing Haggis to her entourage. We wait on the curb, observing rule #4 of the L.A. Etiquette for Interacting with Star/Celeb Royalty in Public Places:
Rule #4
“During an accidental encounter with a star/celeb and his/her entourage, the non-royalty must wait to be granted an audience with the star/celeb before joining the star/celeb’s entourage.”
Haggis motions us to come over.
Before I can say anything, Marshall and Jennifer sprint across the street. I wait at the curb. Haggis turns toward me and motions me to come across the street. I start across.
Just as I reach the curb, I hear Marshall say to alien-scanner model thing, “It’s impossible to believe, but you’re more beautiful in person than the most beautiful picture which I have ever seen of you, and I think that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts Page 27