It struck me that the Standishes had a disregard, or at least a casualness,
about consumer goods that my family did not. The Standishes were rich; my family
was middle-class in a upscale neighborhood, which, anyone who's seen John
Hughes movies knows, feels a lot like being poor. I went to school with twelve-year-old
girls who wore mink coats and carried $300 Louis Vuitton purses, and when my
mother bought me a fake fur coat at a resale shop and gently suggested
a Louis Vuitton knock-off, this felt like the biggest injustice in the world. I was a babysitter
with too much free time on her hands, a giant two-story house to roam, and the
clock ticking at $6 an hour.
I guess I felt I was owed something. And, not surprisingly, I started to shoplift
around this time. Just little things — mostly Wet N Wild makeup at Eckerd's,
gummi bears at the candy store. And I would go into dress shops in the mall and
ask to try on their most expensive gowns. I looked older than I was, so they believed me when I told them
I was going to prom. Once I put a dress on hold and never returned. I actually
did plan to buy it, though I'm not sure if that makes me sound any more reasonable.
Mrs. Standish, being a well-to-do, beautiful woman (with a striking resemblance
to Saturday Night Live's Jan Hooks, if you remember her), had a closetful
of fun for the teenage girl dying to play dress-up. Some of it was too
fussy
for
my taste — high-collared silks and brocade vests and cashmere cowl necks — but
she had a few racy numbers. The size-six leather pants, of course. A pair of
knee-high patent leather boots (in red!). I didn't wear her clothes often,
but when I did they gave me not only a thrill, but also a comfort. I wonder if
this is what cross-dressers feel. The bolt of electricity you get from discovering
that — finally — the person staring back in the mirror isn't just
your boring old self.
At this point, I would like to point out that, despite my many indiscretions, I
was not a snoop, and I was not a perv. Yes, I stuck my nose where I shouldn't
have, but it wasn't to find secrets or get dirt on the Standishes, whom
I genuinely liked. Some of my friends, fellow babysitters, were terrible snoops,
and they had sordid tales of porno tapes and Valium and infidelities. All the
makings of Cinemax at Night. Meanwhile, it was years before I realized
the tiny
white skullcap in the bathroom cabinet was a diaphragm. I couldn't have
cared less about the Standishes' sex lives; I had a different purpose in mind.
I was some kind of pathological borrower of lives.
I could have been the roommate who takes your clothes without asking. I could
have
been the friend who gets the same haircut as you. Instead, I was a babysitter
with too much free time on her hands, a giant two-story house to roam, and the
clock ticking at $6 an hour.
But then, I started drinking. And that's when I really got brazen. I mean,
drinking is probably the part of this story most people will understand — oh,
of course, teenagers drink! — but it's the part of this story that I totally knew it was wrong. And I did it
anyway, and I didn't care.
makes me feel the worst. Because until that point, it was almost innocent. Weird,
creepy, but innocent, almost as if I didn't know any better. When I started
stealing booze, I did know better. I totally knew it was wrong. And I did it
anyway, and I didn't care. I started with a few airplane bottles from a
collection near the wet bar. Then I started stirring Vodka into my orange juice
while the kids slept upstairs. Eventually, I was bringing empty mason jars (mason
jars!) to fill with rum and tequila, which they kept in these ginormous bottles
even a Kennedy couldn't dent. It bothers me now that I never felt an ounce of
guilt. Was I simply that bratty and entitled? These people were paying for me
to take
care of their children, and
I went home with twelve ounces of Bacardi weighing down my purse.
What I don't know, what I never knew, was: are all babysitters like this?
I don't mean to ask if all babysitters prance about in your clothes and
swill your booze — obviously not — but do they all come into your
home
dragging around these private little insanities? Do you notice, do you sense,
do you even care? If the kids are safe and the house is still standing, maybe
it's all part of the bargain.
©2007 Rebecca Jones and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Rebecca Jones is the pseudonym of a freelance writer in New York. |
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