You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (11 page)

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.

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.

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 cheerfully. “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.

Carmen also told me that when Leticia left, there had been an unpleasant scene between her and Judy and that Judy had said she could no longer come in the house. A few weeks after that, Leticia had called Carmen asking to come back to visit Amanda. Carmen had to coordinate it carefully. Joshua couldn’t be there—he would tattle—and she was too scared to let Leticia in, so the meeting had to be on the sidewalk. I sympathized, but I told Carmen that I thought asking Amanda to keep Leticia’s visits a secret from her parents was too much pressure to put on a three-year-old.

Then I saw one of the reunions. When Carmen told Amanda that Leticia was at the gate, she dashed out the front door and pumped her little legs all the way down the driveway. There, as if outside prison walls, stood Leticia, a plump Hispanic woman grasping the black iron bars and pressing her face into the space between. My heart sank. Her smile lit up the street. It was clear Amanda adored Leticia. Little did I know that would be me someday, just another in a long line of departed souls.

I often found myself gravitating toward my friend in the kitchen and frequently chatted with Carmen as she concocted meals. On one afternoon, I watched idly as she stirred a large pot of cream of leek soup. She smiled, hummed, and happily dumped salt into the pot.

Shocked, I glanced up sharply. Michael prided himself on staying in excellent shape. He didn’t just dabble in aikido; he held a black belt, and he religiously followed a very strict diet. He absolutely forbade any
salt, butter, additives, or fatty foods in his meals. Michael and Judy watched the children’s diets, too, especially monitoring them for fats. Skim milk and tiny pats of butter for flavor, no fried chicken, no Big Macs, no chocolate milk shakes. Their Happy Meals consisted of grilled swordfish and yellow squash.

“Carmen!” I exclaimed. “I thought he didn’t eat any salt.”

Carmen didn’t respond. She just kept humming and smiling as the salt gushed into the vat.

“Little Soo-zita, Miguel”—what she called him when he wasn’t around; it was “Mr. Ovitz” to his face—“would not eat half the dishes he asks me to make if I did not put in a little flavor,” she said, laughing. “He loves all of my cooking; I put everything in that I need to make it
muy bien
. Then I just tell him it tastes so good because I am such a good cook.”

“Carmen, I can’t believe you put salt in his meals,” I cried, pushing her on the shoulder. “He thinks he’s on such a strict diet.”

What if he found out? She’d be fired for sure. I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to do something like that. But Carmen wasn’t worried. She often said that his low-fat diet was more important to him than Judy.