You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (34 page)

“Sure, I’d love to see your place,” I said. Then I remembered that I had Paul Bunyan in my car. “Oh. I forgot. I’ve got my boyfriend in the car. Could I come by tomorrow?”

“We wouldn’t think of it,” he said, smiling and putting his arm around Rhea. “We’d like to meet him.”

Sure you would
. But I didn’t want them to witness my great judgment in men. Oh my God. What was I going to do? One look at Ryan and Danny would think I just fell off the turnip truck.

My brain whirled with possibilities as I scooted back to my Celica. Miraculously, Ryan had remained in the car. Oh, it was worse than I thought. I’d forgotten he was wearing a tank top—one size too small, of course, with a Chicago Bears logo on the front.

“Okay,” I yelled, getting in the driver’s seat. “Get that Copenhagen outta your pocket right now so we don’t look like a couple of
complete
rednecks.”

“Suzy, you’re never gonna guess who I saw while you were inside. Robert Blake! Do you believe it?” he cried.

I sighed. “Any chance you have a collared shirt in the trunk you might be able to put on?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

We followed Danny and Rhea’s old BMW to their home high up in the Hollywood Hills. Somehow I convinced Ryan to stay in the car, and I dashed into the house.

I met six-year-old Audrey and three-year-old Lexie, and then Rhea showed me to Max’s room. I would share the room, sleeping on a twin bed next to the baby. She apologized for the accommodation, explaining that Danny’s mother and sister were coming soon from New Jersey for an extended visit, and they would need the guest bedroom. We had a pleasant conversation, and I left my résumé and thanked them for their time. They told me they would call me that night with their decision.

They were as good as their word. Danny called my sister’s apartment to say that they would indeed like to hire me, asking if I could start the
very
next morning.

When I arrived at 7
A.M.
, most of the family was asleep. Danny let me in, and I stood in the slate-rock entryway while he finished a phone conversation. I soon realized that he was talking to Debra. So they must have looked at my résumé after all. He spoke as if they were old friends. Encouraging. Danny seemed to be chatting about his latest film, and she was apparently updating him on what Timothy was doing. Danny looked up from his phone conversation and smiled at me winningly. It seemed possible that, just like at Debra’s, I might be a real person to this family; not just a milk-server, burper, and stain-remover.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to sit down, stand
until he was finished, or pitch in and start cleaning the kitchen. It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling. I realized that this was the problem with my career. It was always so hard to know my place and what was expected of me. It occurred to me that the awkwardness of living with your employer wasn’t something that would be solved by new circumstances.

But why was I thinking about problems? Here I was, getting an opportunity to work for a picture-perfect family, one that needed me, seemed normal, and would possibly appreciate my efforts. But as I stood there, I couldn’t muster up any joy.

I spent the day getting unpacked and finding my way around, but my heart (and head) was someplace else. My first night there I jotted down the thoughts that had been bugging me.

Danny and Rhea seemed to have it all figured out. They were public people who had busy lives working and raising their kids, but somehow they balanced everything well. They doted on their children and each other, and they didn’t fret over appearances. Their house in the Hills was unassuming. No long driveway with iron gates at the entrance; you just parked on the street and walked from the sidewalk through a gate into their courtyard. Just being around them made me feel better. It was easy to see that they really cared about the employees who helped
them run their busy household. They used to jump in the car to drive their housekeeper home themselves, and former employees were always dropping by to visit.

Lisa, the nanny who watched six-year-old Audrey and three-year-old Lexie, had been with them for three years. She lived in her own exterior apartment attached to the side of the house. Lisa loved the grunge scene, which seemed odd, given Danny and Rhea’s all-American demeanor. Lisa was nearly six feet tall and was as thin as a breadstick with jet-black dyed hair, a navel ring, occasional black lipstick and matching toenail polish. She also had something stuck through one eyebrow. It looked like a safety pin. I was kind of worried about her getting tetanus. I couldn’t picture chatting with her like I did with Carmen and Delma. But then again, I didn’t need the support here the way I did there.

Although I shared a room with the baby, I had the privacy of my own bathroom. Max took to me immediately. He really resembled a miniature Danny, except he had lighter hair that stood straight up on his very round head. He giggled a lot and fussed rarely. He was sweet, but I would not fall in love with him. No matter how much I enjoyed him, I had to guard myself. I couldn’t force myself through a heart-wrenching separation again.

Maybe I finally understood why Joshua didn’t let new people get close.

Every day Rhea and I would head off to Paramount Studios with baby in tow, where I took care of Max while watching the rehearsal. (We might have had more room to play at home, but he was very young yet, and Rhea wanted every opportunity to be with him during her breaks at work.) On the first day, everyone sat at a long table right in the middle of the bar area that was the center of every episode. The casual dress of the cast members surprised me. Most of them looked like they had just rolled out of bed. When Rhea walked up and introduced me, they all said, “Hi, Suzy the new nanny,” in unison.

“Did you come from that Baby Buddies agency?” asked Ted Danson. “That’s the one we always use.” Apparently, they had to use nanny agencies frequently. I learned from Peggy, the DeVitos’ house manager, that Ted’s wife, Casey, hired one of Rhea’s former nannies to work for them.
Casey, whom Peggy described as a little odd, had thrown the girl out on her ear one day with very little explanation. Since she had no money or family nearby, she had turned to Rhea for help. Rhea kindly took her in. Casey then called the house a few times to give Rhea an earful about how awful she thought the girl was, but Rhea cut her short: “I don’t want to hear it. I want to help her out, at least until she gets another job. She has nowhere else to go.” I was learning how much Rhea really cared about others, regardless of their social status.

Rhea then showed me to her dressing room. Nothing fancy. In fact, the stairs leading up to it were sort of like what you’d find in a warehouse (complete with not-so-nice graffiti, the kind that you might find in a bathroom stall at a truck stop. I squinted and tried to make out what it said when no one was looking:
For a good time, call Shelley Long at …)
. Rhea’s dressing room was just one small box in a line of small, square rooms. Max and I set up camp there.

I found everything fascinating. Four days a week, the writers and the entire cast would meet around 10
A.M
. Rhea said it was a real problem getting everyone there on time, including herself. The director had tried everything to get the cast to be prompt. They had even gone through a period where they had donated money to charity for every minute they were late. But according to her, that hadn’t seemed to make a difference. She said the problem was that a few of them would be there ready to rehearse and then someone would be missing. Everyone would get tired of waiting, and then a couple of people would go make phone calls. When the person who was holding everyone up arrived, they’d be missing the other cast members. This frustrating cycle usually occurred
every day
.

When they finally corralled everyone, the show kicked off with the cast sitting at a table reading the script and ad-libbing. Sometimes the jokes would fall flat, and they’d change lines to make them funnier. All the writers would laugh uproariously at their own jokes. It seemed to me that if you had written the line, you knew what was coming. Couldn’t be all that much of a funny surprise. But they all seemed to really enjoy themselves. On Fridays the cast conducted a full rehearsal. The taping would take place that night in front of a live audience. Max
and I sat alone in the bleachers for the run-through, and it felt as if I was spying on a family that lived in an odd dollhouse. Cameras dotted the set, none of the rooms actually had four walls, and of course there was no ceiling. Guys straight out of the Mr. Universe contest rolled the cameras and cameramen around on some kind of platform on wheels.

I quickly learned that everyone highly valued the actors’ time, and the cast only stepped into the shots at the last possible second. The producers used stand-ins to determine the lighting and camera angles. These people didn’t need to look like the characters, but it was important to be the same height so the production team could adjust everything correctly. Each of the stand-ins wore cardboard signs that hung around their necks with string, labeled
WOODY, KIRSTIE
, etc. The stand-ins answered to the actors’ names, and sometimes these poor people would literally have to stand in one place for an hour while the cameramen got their angles and marked the spot on the floor with an X. Once the directors got everything perfected, they would call the actors to come and recite their lines. Whenever I felt that others viewed my job as unimportant, I thought about the stand-ins.

About a hundred people—all outrageously enthusiastic—would attend the final taping on Friday night. The cast always seemed to buzz with opening-night jitters, even though the same scenes had been rehearsed countless times before. As the cameras rolled, the director stood to the right and looked into a monitor, watching the action that was going on just a few feet away to see how it looked on the television. After each scene, the director and some of the writers discussed their thoughts with the cast. Sometimes they would reshoot and reposition the props. (No, the beer was not real.) Everything was painstakingly scrutinized and rearranged by the director. Production assistants also had to shuffle walls around because the set next to the bar acted as almost every other room you saw, from the pool room to Rebecca’s office to Carla’s house. When the scene switches dragged on, a stand-up comic appeared, the same guy who warmed up the audience before the taping with one-liners, magic tricks, songs, and free chocolates.

One morning, Kirstie joined us on the ride to work in Rhea’s station wagon. She and Rhea had an easy, friendly working relationship, and she
had slept over the night before. Sitting beside her, I noticed that she hadn’t had her roots done in a while. I was surprised at how gratifying it was to see such a put-together star look like a regular person, flaws and all. She was hilarious, too. She told us her dad had called the day before to inform her that her prom picture had just run in one of the tabloids. He was not happy about the magazine getting ahold of his daughter’s photo; why hadn’t anyone informed him that you could get money for that kind of thing? Had he known, he could have sold it himself. In fact, he was planning to haul out some old family albums and see if he could make some quick cash. Kirstie thought her dad’s idea was a riot. She had a wacky side, too. She urged Rhea to bring the kids to her house in the Valley, where she kept all kinds of exotic animals. The girls would usually listen wide-eyed to her stories about monkeys and ferrets.

Danny and Rhea had a lot of friends like that—normal and unpretentious. I was beginning to see that the nice ones stuck together in Hollywood. The DeVitos were always taking in actor friends who were down on their luck, getting them parts in movies and even lending them money. They had a lot of faith in people.

Life with the DeVitos had a whole different vibe than life with my first employers. For one thing, the new place was a happy home. I could tell that Danny and Rhea were really in love because they were always so playful with each other. One day while we were driving to the set, Rhea’s car phone rang, and she pushed the speaker button.

“Hello.”

“Hi, sweetie.” I could hear Danny’s voice.

“Hi, Dan. What’s up?”

“Are you on the way to the set?”

“Yes, dear. Why?”

“I’m just driving the ole Pontiac. Man, this thing is great! And I was just sitting here thinking about how much I’d like to jump your bones in the big backseat of this ole thing. You know what I’d like to do?” He giggled.

“Danny, you’re on the speaker phone, and Suzy’s sitting right here, darling.”

Silence.

“Oh, sorry about that, Suzy.” He giggled again. The line went dead.

Rhea laughed and explained that he was driving her car, the first one she’d ever owned as a teenager. This was typical; they saw the fun and nostalgic value in something like a first car. I started thinking that I should have kept my first car, a ’66 Mustang, the one my understanding parents let me paint hot pink.

Lisa and I were the only live-in help; the rest of the DeVitos’ staff went home at night. The house manager worked Monday through Friday. The lone housekeeper also came in five days a week and frantically tried to keep up with the busy household. She didn’t always succeed, but I don’t think Rhea even cared that dust lingered on the end tables or that the kitchen floor needed a good scrubbing. The cook appeared for a few hours a day, making dinner each night and serving it. She was from Oregon, and I loved talking to her about Cottage Grove. We both laughed because we actually missed the endless rain in our home state. The staff also included a guy who served as Danny’s assistant. He was in his mid-twenties, and he was so funny that conversations with him kept me doubled up with laughter. One day he told me about trying to be a sperm donor when he was hard up for cash in college. He was bummed because the clinic had informed him that none of his “tadpoles ever took,” so he couldn’t keep donating. There was an awkward silence for a minute. “Oh my,” was all I could come up with. Then I started laughing uncontrollably. He didn’t seem to mind.