What?
Don’t get me wrong; I’m very open-minded. In fact, my grandmother worked for a chiropractor before most people even knew what one was. But the idea of conception conflict causing my compromised kidneys was a little hard to swallow. Did that mean problems with, um, incontinence? That would greatly decrease my chances of ever finding a husband, wouldn’t it? I’d be a spinster forever.
The receptionist handed me the bill when I left, along with a self-addressed envelope for my convenience. The total was $75. It seemed a fair amount. But then it occurred to me that this was Michael’s doctor and that he had suggested I come here. He’d even made the appointment. Maybe he was intending to cover the expense since health insurance was never discussed in the contract non-negotiation.
When I got back to the house that afternoon, I put the bill on the desk downstairs where the mail usually stacked up. I didn’t give it another thought, except to thank Michael later and to tell him I felt fine and didn’t think I’d have any problems. I didn’t share with him the impending doom that I was sure lay ahead about me spending my life wearing Depends. That would be my own private torment.
The next night, as I was getting ready to lock myself in for the evening, I noticed a piece of paper on my dresser. It was the acupuncturist’s bill. I thought it odd but figured that Rosa, seeing my name on it, had brought it up. The next morning I returned it to the desk. That evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed it was back on my dresser. Again, I went downstairs and put the bill back and made a mental note to talk with Rosa. The next day the bill reappeared in my room. The bill went back and forth like that four times before I had a chance to tell Rosa to leave it on the desk.
“But, Miss Suzy, I didn’t put anything on your dresser,” she said in her Spanish accent.
Ohhhh. Judy was putting it in my room.
I paid the bill myself and, as with too many other subjects, never brought it up again.
I never thought I’d be one of those moms who would have trouble going back to work, but I did. I thought it was going to be easy to juggle everything, but half the time I run around with my hair on fire.
—Melissa Rivers
chapter 6
working girl
I was trapped at the house every weekend.
Okay, maybe trapped was a strong word. But when you can’t leave on a weeknight, sticking around for Saturday and Sunday essentially means that you’re stuck at home all the time, and trapped pretty much summed it up. The awkward situation became apparent quite quickly. Monday through Friday I was on duty twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t go out on Friday nights because I had the night shift with the baby, and I had to be back on Monday morning when everyone woke up. That left me forty-eight hours of blissful freedom starting Saturday morning. Of course, if I left the premises, I’d have to be back by Sunday night—any arrival after everyone went to bed would set off alarms. But leaving the premises required a car. And I didn’t have one.
Judy told me during my interview that I would be allowed to use the family’s Jeep Cherokee on my days off. This arrangement sounded generous to me, because I didn’t want to bring my less-than-reliable transportation to LA. Besides, the family also owned a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Porsche. Problem was, ever since I arrived, nearly every weekend they drove the Jeep to their beach house in Malibu. (Owning a second home just twenty miles away from the first seemed strange to me, but this wasn’t the only other residence. The family also owned a New York apartment, which Judy spent a great deal of time decorating long-distance. They kept quiet about their place in New York, because, as I was told, if people knew they had it, they would ask to borrow it all the time, which would be a big pain in the neck. I thought the whole thing was weird. What kind of riffraff, exactly, would ask to borrow their apartment?) To top it off, I didn’t even have a bicycle to get around in the city where the car was king. When I tried to explain the situation to Judy, she shrugged and said she was sorry she had forgotten about taking the Jeep to the beach house, but she didn’t like other people driving her Mercedes.
In the beginning, it didn’t really matter because I didn’t know a soul in Los Angeles. My social life revolved around the household staff, and I didn’t need to go anywhere to see them, anyway. And besides, I was tired. I retired to my room on my days off, where I’d read, catch up on my sleep, or write in my journal.
If the whole family was home and I wasn’t on duty, I only ventured out of my room to grab a sandwich or some cookies. After all, it was my precious time off, and who wants to run into their boss on days off? Lord knows I stuck out in their family like a pig in a flower patch. My concept of family time was playing Monopoly and water-skiing at the lake, not riding in a limousine to Disneyland and being escorted by a guard through the gates to avoid the lines. So I hid. Michael made it a priority to spend weekends with family, and they fluttered in and out on the Saturdays and Sundays they were not at the beach house. I’d listen at my door until I heard the Jeep pull away, then I’d search out the other staff. But sometimes the family stayed put, roaming around the house, and I’d twiddle my thumbs in my room for hours, unable to work up the nerve to ask to borrow the Jeep.
I knew that I had to force myself to get some semblance of a life, no matter how I did it.
One day while reading the LA Times, I saw a notice for a game-show audition in Hollywood on the next Saturday. Maybe I could win some money … or even a new car. At the very least I’d get out and do something. I called the number and signed up. I’d find a way to get there somehow.
After throwing on my classy little black dress, I trundled over to the studio in the truck that I had convinced Rosa to lend me. I didn’t have a clue how ludicrous I looked until I caught sight of myself in the security mirrors at the studio. The faded Chevy pickup lacked a front bumper but boasted a Baja Mexico license plate tied to the grill with bailing wire. And you couldn’t miss the enormous camper shell slapped on top. I reached out the window and handed the guard my confirmation number, faux diamond bracelet dangling. My face was framed nicely by the ring of red dingle balls tacked all along the headliner and by the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Have a nice day, ma’am,” he said, handing me back my piece of paper with a strange smile. “Just pull under this overhang and follow the arrows to the parking structure.”
I struggled to put the truck into gear. This was no easy feat, since someone had creatively substituted an eight ball for the gearshift knob.
Looking down, I could see the pavement through the floorboard from which the shifter protruded. The transmission made a grinding noise as I tried to keep one of my dainty heels on the clutch, the other on the accelerator. As I let up slowly, the creaky old truck lunged and jerked and finally lurched forward, passing under the overpass that read MAXIMUM CLEARANCE 8 FEET 6 INCHES.
To be honest, I don’t know that I even gave that measurement much thought until I was halfway through the garage and heard the awful sound of tin scraping against concrete. At first I thought it was just some machinery, and I continued on my merry way. I began to suspect there might be a problem when I glanced in my side mirror and saw sparks flying and then got a whiff of the burning steel. I pulled the hand brake and jumped out, only to see that the camper had been shaved down an entire inch. I looked around the parking structure suspiciously for the Candid Camera crew. No luck.
The actual tryouts didn’t go any better. And, of course, I was overdressed. The Bob Barker wannabe host judged contestants on energy, enthusiasm, and whether we had a genuine laugh. My real giggle wasn’t real enough, apparently. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t chosen. I bolted from the studio audience like I’d been shot out of a cannon.
After I caught my breath and started the ignition, I remembered that the truck was jammed up into the rafters. But what to do? In a moment of sheer brilliance, relatively speaking, I took a ballpoint pen from the dash and let just enough air out of the tires to lower the truck another inch.
Too bad I wasn’t trying out for MacGyver.
Later, when Carmen and Delma asked about my new star status, I admitted I didn’t even make it past the first cut. (But at least my auto shop teacher would have been proud of my ingenuity.) They all laughed and said that maybe I was a candidate for The Gong Show.
Maybe I should have stuck to the relatively unembarrassing confines of my room.
Okay. What lessons did I learn today?
I need to think carefully about my wardrobe before I go out in public.
I’m not as gregarious as I thought.
Apparently, a Maytag washer is not in the stars for me.
I shouldn’t drive other people’s cars.
P.S. How in the world did Tim Taylor’s grandma win the showcase showdown? Call Mom and find out.
P.P.S. Also have Mom ask Grandma Taylor if Ryan is really dating Tim’s old girlfriend. I hope it’s not true.
I had no need to hibernate in my room on weeknights, though. Michael stayed out with clients or attended meetings Monday through Thursday, with rare exceptions. And one or two nights a week he would send someone from the office to pick up Judy so the two of them could attend screenings, charity dinners, awards ceremonies, or parties with clients. The first night I observed this ritual, I assumed they had special plans because Judy sported a stunning black sequined dress. She seemed excited as she stood primping her hair in the hall mirror, waiting for a driver to pick her up. I was talking with her, telling her how great her dress looked, when the front gate buzzer went off. I figured the limo driver was at the intercom. But I peeked out the curtain to see a weather-beaten, dented old Volkswagen Bug idling in the driveway.
The driver, who was very young, stuck his head out of the window, waved, and honked the horn once. Seeing me at the window, he yelled, “I’m here to pick up Mrs. Ovitz. I can’t shut the car off. Can you send her out?”
This was the first time since I arrived that I actually felt sorry for Judy. She had looked like an eager Cinderella going to the ball until she opened the door and saw her pumpkin sitting there spewing exhaust. I watched the old Bug as it chugged out of the driveway, sputtering and backfiring. I later found out that Michael had a habit of sending whoever was handy in the office, in whatever vehicle they happened to own, to pick up his wife. That particular driver had been hired to work in the mailroom only three days earlier. It seemed possible to me that Michael didn’t know him from the Hillside Strangler. Yet, I had heard that when Michael started his agency, he had ordered new Jaguars for himself and for his partners. Apparently, in LA, you are what you drive!
And I drove a baby buggy.
When Judy was out with the Jeep during the day, I had to figure out an alternate way of fetching the kids from school. Joshua was in kindergarten at John Thomas Dye, an exclusive private school set high up on a hill, and Amanda attended half days with the three-year-old class. Carmen came to my rescue, offering to lend me her car. I was very grateful, but from the first time I took it, I was instantly aware of how out of place it was on the grounds of the private school. There I was, amid the Beemers, Bentleys, Jags, and occasional limos, pulling up in Carmen’s rust-colored Corolla. The bumper hung off precariously, and the paint peeled off in chunks. When I followed the parade of new cars making their way to the waiting children, I had to constantly rev the engine to keep it running—I didn’t know which would die first, the engine (of age) or me (of embarrassment).
I knew what they must have been thinking: Who the hell is that? And why does she keep revving that engine? What an eyesore. It shouldn’t even be allowed on school grounds. Can’t they do something about that, that … thing? I don’t pay fifty thousand dollars a year for this! Someone ought to call the headmistress.
I was sure Michael never gave a thought to his wife or children riding around in such heaps. He was known for his efficiency, after all, and they did get people from Point A to Point B. But was there logic to any of it? To these rules and regulations and rituals?
I still couldn’t see it. I kept stumbling badly, trying to adhere to their sacrosanct social code, but I blindly crossed some invisible line more often than not.
Especially with information.
In Cottage Grove, everybody knew who your parents were, where you lived, what kind of car you drove, and whether you had smuggled Bud Light into the homecoming dance. But in LA, you could control what you revealed about yourself. You could keep unflattering details close to the vest, or you could even invent a whole new persona. There was no Aunt Madge to pipe up, asking if your hair didn’t used to be more of a dishwater blond than platinum.
Michael valued such privacy immensely. He did not want his picture in the party pages of People. He did not want stories told about him. He had no desire to see his name in the gossip columns. But even more so, he didn’t want certain details revealed to anyone. One day he was practicing aikido in the workout room when the phone rang. I answered, recognized Dustin Hoffman’s voice, as a practiced staff member should, and said coolly (shrieking inside, though) that Michael was taking his martial arts lesson and would have to return the call. I relayed the message to Michael and got pursed lips and a slight shake of the head. He explained that no one had known about his aikido until a story had run just recently in a New York newspaper. He hated that and didn’t want any more talk of his martial arts expertise. Clearly, I had disappointed him.
Michael expressed this kindly, in soothing tones, actually putting his arm around me. The effect was odd. I sensed that he did appreciate my work but that I’d have to zealously guard against making more mistakes. It would be years before I read this Paul Newman assessment of Michael, but I could certainly relate to the contradiction: “He’s a cross between a barracuda and Mother Teresa.”
I just never felt like I could relax around him. I knew I wasn’t the only employee who felt that way though. Carmen had confided in me that after working there for seven years, she still never felt at ease.
It’s funny: even though he’s not a tall man, Michael somehow has a presence of enormous stature. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. His very being just demands respect. When he says jump, you not only say how far and how high, but how long would you like me to keep jumping, sir? Maybe it’s because he’s always so impeccably dressed. Even when he returns from working out, his plush robe looks starched. Maybe he makes Delma iron it.
I continued to figure out all kinds of things about my new home. One of them was why there was no answering machine or voice mail. I would have thought someone so powerful would surely screen his calls—no telling who could get hold of his home phone number, though it was certainly unlisted. Later I realized that there was no need for such electronic devices. There was always someone home, usually at least four or five people. Although many times Judy was frustrated with the messages she received, because—except for me—everyone on the staff was a native Spanish speaker. It was difficult for them to write in English, but Judy got upset when she couldn’t tell who had called. So they started coming to me after they had taken a message, asking me to spell the names correctly. I was happy to help.
I certainly knew the names. Phone calls from the stars came in every single day.
The closest I’d come so far to meeting a celebrity in person was Michael’s partner, Ron Meyer, who wasn’t really a celebrity—though he did look a lot like Sylvester Stallone. But I spoke to many industry giants on the phone. I wasn’t prepared, however, for the call that came one particular afternoon. Joshua picked up the phone to answer it, taking a break from watching Top Gun for the hundredth time. I couldn’t believe my ears.
It was Tom Cruise.
I was so excited that I ran to the extension in the kitchen and quietly picked up the receiver to listen. I stopped breathing.
“Hi, Tom,” Joshua said excitedly. “I’m just watching you in Top Gun, and my favorite part is when you go into the spin!”
I was about to go into a spin.
“Hi, kiddo,” Cruise said cheerfu
lly. “What part is on now?”
“Oh, the part where you say ‘I have a speed for need,’ ” Joshua blurted.
I suppressed a laugh and covered the mouthpiece, but I continued hanging on his every word.
“Uh, oh, that part,” Cruise stuttered.
He was so sweet. He remained on the phone with Joshua for five minutes, answering all his questions about the movie. Although he had a vested interest in being polite, since he had been essentially discovered and was represented by Michael, I think he really got a kick out of talking to his little fan. I could hear that he was at a loud party, but he never rushed the conversation.
Finally, he asked if Michael was home, and Joshua yelled out, “Daaaaaddddddyyy! The Maaaaverick is on the phone.”
It took everything I had to hang up and not stay on to listen to that wonderful voice, but my sense of propriety and self-preservation finally kicked in. I placed the receiver back on the hook very delicately.
A couple days later, Delma and Gloria came to me, all dimpled up with smiles. They said they had a love message for me from a Thomas Cruz, and they wondered if they had the spelling right. They loved teasing me about my little crush, which was only growing since I heard his voice live. Maybe he’d visit someday? Imagine. They’d have a field day with that one.
My friendship with the other girls in the house grew deeper, and I gradually found out more about the recent history of the family. Carmen had also been close to a previous nanny, Leticia, who had worked there when Amanda was a baby. Between Leticia and me had been the other young nanny I was told about when I interviewed. She had lasted only two months. Carmen told me more about the girl, who had apparently been very snobbish. I couldn’t imagine how lonely she must have been—the conversations and laughs with Delma and Carmen were a large part of what was sustaining me. They were much more of a family to me than my Hollywood hosts. I was, however, beginning to understand why my predecessor decided she wasn’t cut out for the nannying life.
You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny Page 8