Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts

by Courtney Hamilton

  “Randy is 20 years old, six foot three, a nationally ranked snow-boarder…”

  “Sold! I’ll take ya, baby,” yelled the wise-cracking guy, who was dominating the audience judging, a category not necessarily wanted by the promoters, the M.C. growing a little edgy.

  9.3 on body, 9.2 on face, 9.0 on presentation.

  “What do you mean? What about all those stock options?” I said.

  “They’re under water,” she said. “Their exercise price is higher than their current price per share. So he’d lose money if he exercised the options now.”

  “Didn’t he exercise any options when the market was roaring?”

  “Nope,” she said. “He was waiting for the NASDAQ to hit 4000. And then he was laid off. Like most of Silicon Valley.”

  The NASDAQ was now being over-sold into submission, plummeting through every support level, finding no bottom.

  “So what is it?” I said. “I mean, the sex can’t be great because you two don’t sleep together.”

  “Frederico is 21 years old, six foot four, a competitive ballroom dancer…”

  “Baby, you already danced your way into my heart…” yelled the wise-cracking guy, the M.C. by now having given up.

  9.8 on body, 9.9 on face, 9.9 on presentation. A contender.

  “I don’t see you doing so well,” said Jennifer. “I mean, where’s your fabulous husband?”

  A good question. Of course, there was Stefan, I mean Steve. And Frank.

  “I don’t know how to answer that question,” I said. “But maybe it’s not about having a fabulous husband. I mean, if you have to change every fiber of who you are just to be with someone, how is that going to work?”

  “I could do that.”

  I knew she could. She had worked two jobs through college and managed to graduate summa cum laude. She had gutted her way through being an associate in a notorious sweat shop of a New York-based law firm and managed to keep her focus and stay partner track in securities litigation. She and Kevin had not bought a condo, they had bought a building, in an area of San Francisco so dubious we once considered them urban pioneers. But they had refurbished the building and each had close to a million dollars in equity.

  And then I knew: Jennifer’s competence had come back to haunt her.

  “Of course you could,” I said. “But it’s not whether you could. It’s whether you should. Let me just make myself perfectly clear. Marshall is a pig and he treats you terribly.”

  “Not all the time,” she said.

  “Only all the times I’ve seen you with him.”

  “I don’t want to be alone. I’m just sick and tired of being alone. I mean, do you enjoy being—what did you call it—in the reject pile?”

  A term I had not thought about for some time.

  “Well,” I said, “there is that. But don’t you think that no company is better than bad company?”

  “Definitely,” said a voice coming from the seat behind me. It was Josh.

  “Hey,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “Did you think I was going to miss seeing my clothes appear in the Faces of Tomorrow competition?”

  Last night, about 20 minutes after Marshall was done screaming at Jennifer, Josh appeared with several T-shirts and short selections. And pizza.

  “Marshall, I will break your arm if you even attempt to sniff one slice of that pizza,” Haggis had said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Marshall. “I learned my lesson. Those Velveeta nachos are still riding on my stomach like a fanny pack. But I would like to examine the clothes.”

  How fortunate for us to receive our own private modeling session, highlighted by the exclusive, professional techniques that alien-scanner thing had revealed to Marshall. “OK, so pick one person in the audience, way in the back, and stare at them like your eyes are lasers which are going to burn a hole in them.”

  Marshall, desperate to find the best outfit to show off what he considered to be his prize assets (surgically enhanced washboard abs and chest), trying on all possible combinations of clothing, walked through my sunken living room with its gray shag carpeting like he was working the runway. For 50 minutes.

  “Who is this guy again?” said Josh as he watched Marshall walk through my living room with his shorts on. “Jennifer’s boyfriend?”

  “Kinda,” I said.

  “Interesting,” said Josh. “Does Marshall know that he looks like a middle-aged Liz Taylor around her Cleopatra period?”

  Josh stayed about two hours. He, along with Haggis and Jennifer and me, voicing his opinion, helping Marshall select his first outfit for the competition. And then he took the empty pizza box to the dumpster downstairs.

  “Nicholas is 18 years old, six foot two, nationally ranked in competitive surfing…”

  The audience went wild for Nicholas, so I looked at him. The all-out fantasy of a Swedish beauty-Viking warrior. Blond on blond hair, the kind that had been lightened by many hours at the beach, the darkest color on his head being golden blond highlighted perfectly by his café latte tanned skin. Square jaw. Small nose. High cheekbones. Twinkly eyes, probably ice-blue or white-green. Perfectly proportioned upper body in a V-shape, strong legs to support him, ripped torso, tiny butt. Nicholas, not putting any preparation into this, probably having a buddy drive him to the competition after he woke up late, making a sloppy turn in his walk which almost causes him to fall, not even knowing how to walk the ramp, and at 18, not needing to.

  “You could run, but I’d catch you,” yelled the wise-cracking guy, “and baby, I’d never let go.”

  9.9 on body, 9.9 for face, 8.5 for presentation, the judges knowing he deserved a 1.0 for presentation, but realizing that a score like that would knock Nicholas, the best hope for a true Face of Tomorrow, out of the competition.

  “Has Marshall been up yet?” said Josh.

  “He’s coming up next,” said Jennifer.

  There he was. Poised. Regal. Taking it all seriously, thinking, “This could be my future, this is for real; I’m having my moment.” All the work, those modeling techniques from alien-scanner thing actually working, doing the walk, making the turn, body erect, head high, feeling the music, working it like he was in Milan with the Versace collection instead of in Santa Monica in a pair of Hang Ten trunks, the effect a little weird, like getting a gift enclosed in a classic aqua-blue Tiffany’s box with the white ribbon and black embossed lettering, and opening it, and finding a very, very, very nice Snickers bar.

  “Marshall is 42 years old, six foot four, a PhD in mathematics from Princeton…”

  The audience was dead silent for 10 seconds as Marshall walked—then a cough—maybe from the M.C. Restless, polite, scattered applause sprinkling through—some mumbling—a collective unease rippling through the audience.

  “You a little old,” yelled the wise-cracking guy, “but baby, I dig your spirit.”

  Marshall, hearing this, just finishing up the last 15 feet of his walk, throws in the tiniest butt wiggle, imperceptible to the judges from their position, the audience catching it and going wild.

  “You show ’em, baby,” screams the guy, the audience going crazy.

  “There’s your boyfriend,” I said.

  Jennifer doesn’t say anything.

  “That went well,” said Josh.

  8.7 on body, 9.3 on face, 10.00 on presentation, a high enough score to get him into the second round of the competition, which is starting in 30 minutes.

  “I gotta go,” I said.

  “Where are you going?” said Josh.

  “I’m running the L.A. Marathon tomorrow.”

  “Really?” said Josh. “You’re actually going to do it?”

  “I guess. Anyway, I’ve got to go get ready.”

  Josh walks me to my car after I say goodbye to Jennifer. I’ve made reservations at a downtown hotel near the start of the Marathon where I’m going to spend the night. Jennifer, Haggis, and Marshall have their key and
are going to stay in my apartment overnight without me. I’m hoping, but not expecting, that they will remember to feed Abyss, but just in case everything goes just like I think it will I’ve left extra food and water for her.

  “You know, people get hurt running these marathons,” said Josh.

  “Not at my speed.”

  “Well, if you’re tired or in pain, you don’t have to finish. You don’t have to prove anything. Just attempting it is more than enough.”

  20

  The Marathon

  It’s 7:58 a.m. and it looks like the Mayor is about to crank up the official tune of the L.A. Marathon, Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” And right about then it hits me that 26.2 miles is a long, long, distance, like to Long Beach, and I’m a little scared and have that twisty feeling in my stomach. What am I doing here? Who do I think I am? I could just go home and get back into bed and tell everyone that I ran it. Who would know?

  Part of this fantasy about not being in downtown L.A. listening to—there it goes, “I love L.A.”—and about to subject myself to a lot of pain is the hope that Haggis, that Face of Tomorrow—Marshall—and Jennifer, have done the right thing and left my apartment so that I can have a break. From them. Then I remember that I don’t even need to go home. I could just go back upstairs to my hotel room and order room service.

  But just as I’m about to try to find my escape route the race starts. And since the estimates are that 33,000 people are starting the race with me, I’m caught in a pack and pushed forward. I take it as a sign that someone, somewhere, wants me to run this marathon.

  At some point, although I am jogging at my normal pace, I realize that I’ve been listening to “I Love L.A.” for more than ten minutes, a fact which may indicate that I haven’t even crossed the starting line, which, a few minutes later, when I go over the starting bump, proves to be correct. OK, not the best start. Allegedly the chip given to me with my registration pack, tied onto my shoelaces, will set off my personal electronic stop watch when I go over the starting line. But I make a note to myself: Subtract ten minutes from my personal time when I finish just in case the chip fails me. That somehow makes me happy, like getting to subtract a pound or two from your weight after weighing yourself because you forgot to take your shoes off. Of course, it struck me a few minutes later that I was forgetting the fact that I might not finish at all.

  At mile five, I feel fine. We are down near USC running near Exposition Park. Maybe a little hungry—not a good sign, because this means all my carb loading—cookies, ding-dongs, pasta—has backfired.

  At mile 10, I’m cold. We’re running near Hancock Park, which gives me an opportunity to examine some of the more affordable real estate in Los Angeles that I may have overlooked. And then I realize that just the fact that I am thinking that Hancock Park represents affordable real estate means that my race-induced hallucinating, caused by a lack of food and water and physical exhaustion, has begun. At least I’m still coherent enough to know. But it’s OK because the hallucination is only about real estate. When I start seeing six-foot chili dogs running toward me I know that I’ve veered into the danger zone.

  At mile 15, we seem to be running through Korea Town. It seems like I’m running alone. Maybe everyone has finished the race. So I check the official clock and realize that we’re about two hours and 30 minutes into the race. OK, the elite runners—the Kenyans—God’s gift to the world of running, and those Russian women who claim to never train and can run a marathon in two hours and 18 minutes on a bad day—should be done. Where is everyone? And then I look to the sidelines of the race. The medical stations are jammed. The sidewalks: jammed with runners who have given up.

  The thinning out has begun. Those entering the Marathon “on a lark” with no training and not happening to be in particularly good shape are gone.

  But I’m still good, except that I thought that I saw a three-foot chicken taco, with a crispy, not soft, taco shell wink at me at about mile 16 just when I rounded the corner of Figueroa and 11th.

  And then I know I’m in trouble because I’ve hit mile 18, Heartbreak Hill, a three-mile hill angled up at a 45-degree grade. And I see another chicken taco, this one bigger, around five feet, winking at me through its crispy shell as I start the hill. In a brief moment of clarity I realize that seeing the chicken taco hallucinations isn’t a good sign. In fact, it generally means that I’m beginning to hit my wall, my own point of complete physical and mental deterioration.

  I keep going. It seems like that dream you have when you’re running, but not moving forward. But I am moving forward. Slowly. And then walking. And then giving running a chance for a few more feet. And then walking.

  I’m tired, hungry and cold.

  For a few moments I think about my friends. Maybe we all have our own path, our own timetable. And this is mine.

  At mile 21, I’m not really running anymore. It’s more like a fast hop because there is no more bend in my legs. They’ve locked and I feel like I’m pogoing rather than running.

  Someone holds up a sign.

  “You’re already a winner,” it says.

  Nice. A few scattered individuals still standing on the race course cheer for me. Or someone.

  The six-foot chili dogs have joined the chicken tacos standing along the race course.

  I get a little adrenaline and give it a push. Someone gives me a candy, hard, green, sugary, lime, to suck on. It takes my mind off the pain for a moment.

  At mile 24 I’m freezing and shivering. I’m not sure how, but I slip and fall over the 10,000 paper cups left by the runners coming before me at one of the water stations.

  I’m down and my right leg hurts. It’s bleeding.

  A medical volunteer runs over. “Are you OK?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  The volunteer lifts my right leg.

  “There’s a little swelling here at the knee cap,” she says. “I think you’re done.”

  Just then, I see two large rabbits on the side of the race course, standing with the chicken tacos and chili dogs. Only the rabbits seem to know my name.

  “Courtney!” yells one of the rabbits. “Over here!” I look over at the rabbit.

  It appears that the rabbits are holding a sign which says, “COURTNEY WE KNEW YOU’D MAKE IT!”

  I decide not to pay attention.

  “Friends of yours?” said the medical volunteer, who by now has applied a bandage to my knee.

  “You see that too?” I say. Well, I can feel her, so the medical volunteer is real.

  “Looks like you have a couple of fans,” she says.

  The medical volunteer is finished with me so I limp over to take a closer look at the sign-carrying rabbits.

  Only it’s not rabbits. It’s Bettina and Marcie wearing plush Easter-bunny ears, pink velvet with white inlay on a headband, sold at the local drug stores for $3.99 at Easter. They have a black smudge on their noses, black whiskers painted on, and cotton tails pinned to their butts.

  “Is it really you,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” said Bettina.

  “Well, I’m in the hallucination portion of my run and I just saw a six-foot chicken taco wink at me. And I don’t see a Starbucks within 200 yards.”

  “For your next marathon I think that you should re-think your outfit,” said Marcie.

  It’s them.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “We’re here to be your rabbits,” said Bettina.

  “My what?”

  “We’re going to make sure you finish the race,” said Bettina. “We’re going to run the last two miles with you, like the rabbits do at dog races.”

  “I’m not sure I can do it,” I said.

  “We’ll make sure you do,” said Bettina.

  “Even if we have to carry you,” said Marcie.

  “It’s just like you to let me do all the work and then show up at mile 24,” I said. I started shivering. “I really don’t think I can do this.”


  “Sure you can,” said Bettina. Bettina walks over and throws one of my arms over her shoulder on her five-foot-one body. Marcie walks over and places my other arm over her shoulder on her five-foot-one body.

  “Sure you can,” said Marcie. “You always could.”

  They drag me forward, staggering under my five-foot-ten body.

  “Wait, wait…” I said. “If I agree to do this, you aren’t going to run around telling people that you ran the entire race with me, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said Bettina.

  “Never,” said Marcie.

  They jogged the last two miles with me as I finished the race in just under five hours.

  “Not five hours,” said Marcie recounting the story in years to come, “we finished the race together in 4 hours, 50 minutes, and 33 seconds.”

  “We?” I’d say.

  “We finished with you,” said Bettina, “Remember?”

  In the months after the Marathon, the bubble—the real estate bubble—would officially burst, the stock market would have days where it plummeted 500 points, and most of the fuel which propelled the lifestyles of my friends would end, dramatically changing their lives.

  Marcie realized that she might never get back together with Greg and decided to begin working again. Rather than attempting to find a job practicing law, she started a new business. She created a business as a pre-school application specialist, someone who helps parents create the right pre-school application such that they would appear to be “the right match” to the feeder pre-schools of Los Angeles’ most exclusive private schools.

  Greg, well-versed in the cycles of real estate, predicted that the real estate bubble was going to burst and sold the last holdings in his real estate portfolio in the spring of 2008. Currently, he is creating a portfolio filled with distressed or foreclosed properties. His new accountant girlfriend is helping him find great bargains.

  Harvard Law grad June (from the Ivy & Elite Book Group) attempted to get a job in a law firm. After sending her resume around for an extended time, the only legal job she could get was an unpaid internship as she had no experience and had been out of the working world for 10 years. June might be partnering with Marcie in her business.