Chapter 4: Employee Handbook

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com


Hello, freedom fighters. Greetings from Brandywine Way halfway house.

So...

Late yesterday afternoon, after my walk on the beach, Roger pulled me into the kitchen with a sheepish look and said, “Now then, you’ve done nothing wrong... because there’s no way you could have known about this... I’ve only just found out myself..." -- he took a giant breath -- "but Madame has asked me to tell you that she doesn't want to see you."

I know I turned bright red, the whole bit, pit in the stomach, heart trembly, etc. I never knew I cared so much about this job. "Um --I'm sorry, Roger -- am I being fired?"

"Oh no no no dear, not at all. Is that what you thought?" He looked like he was about to say how droll, so amused at my fluster. "No, she has just asked me to ask all the staff not to walk in front of the house.”

All I could say was, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand?” Because I actually didn't know what he meant. Not walk in front of the house? I haven't been pacing the drive, or anything.

I mean...of course, I have to walk out of the house to get to the guest-house. The guest-house is, I guess, technically in front of the main house. In front and a little to the left. What...?

So he began clearing his throat and looking at the table and tried to clarify, and what emerged was that in fact what he meant by "she doesn't want to see you" and "don’t walk in front of the house" was in fact, stay out of Madame's sight, as in out of eye-shot, if I am not teaching Pilates.

As in, that’s what the 20’ hedges lining the paths are for...to hide the comings and goings of servants. (Surely this can’t be true. Surely the hedges are because there is no shade on the property??) And I would like to mention that at present, not counting Didier the personal trainer who is arriving this week from France, that there are 13 souls serfing the property, when you count the butlers, personal assistants, maids, security folk, sports-coaches, me, etc.; in other words, way more than people who actually live on this property without working.

That's a lot of people staying out of eye-shot, essentially sneaking around their "office."

So we can all acknowledge that I am not exactly working "hard" this summer so far, I really don't expect anyone to feel, um, sorry for me. It's a lot of waiting around. I wake up early, I wait. I teach Eloise. Or not. I wait for tennis and golf to be over. I teach Anastasia. Then I....do what? If Eloise doesn't want Pilates until after lunch...I guess if I had appointments in the city (which Virginie promised I would be allowed to make) it would be one thing, but basically I go to the beach and read a book, with my walkie-talkie in my beach-bag. Or I go back to my room and sleep (the sun does make one feel a little nappy, all that vitamin D).

Now -- my free time IS in fact confined to the beach, which is within spitting distance of a butler, and where I get great walkie-talkie reception -- which is important because I can be in the exercise studio post-haste when called. I can't really go into town because it's a 20-minute walk on foot, or a seven minute bike ride (there are ten -- ten!! -- bikes in the garage, though Virginie hasn't given me explicit permission to use them). And if a butler summons me to teach Pilates and I am not immediately in the exercise room ready to go, no one is pleased. So I am essentially on-call until everyone in the household who could conceivably want a Pilates session has had one. At the moment there aren't very many, but I have been informed that "guests are coming." Eloise's two other children, her brother, her mother, and several more fancy people whose names Virginie will not divulge. So potentially this is a lot of teaching. This is not *quite* the situation Virginie described when she offered me the job, but why quibble when I have no contract or record of the job description?


There were actually several bits of protocol about which I had been wondering, and they all had to do with my extensive leisure time. Such as: although I am perfectly fine with confining my free time to the beach, if I'm not teaching, am I allowed to lounge by one of the two pools? (Right;two.) The main-house pool is gorgeous; it is surrounded by a high wall, so it's incredibly private; the floor of the pool is tiled with matte dark blue tile so it looks invitingly un-pool-like, and there's a canvas "tent" at one end with more Pottery Barn-y furniture and a basket full of fresh towels that get changed daily....and no one is EVER there; Eloise only hangs out by the newer guest-house pool and can't see the main-house pool from there. It makes me salivate just thinking about lounging beside it.

But apparently the answer is no; no, I may not lounge by the pool, since I’m pretty sure she can see both pools from her bedroom window. (Disappointing... because I have it on good butler-authority that last summer Prini did nothing but lay by the pool reading, when she wasn't teaching.)

Or I can go to my bedroom, or just stay in the freezing subterranean gym all day. Or hang out in the enormous, cool, guest-house living room, but then I would have to talk to Gerry the annoying South African massage therapist...and of course we would then have to leave the room if a member of the household or a guest wanted to "use" it.

I actually have quite a bit of freedom. I just need to make sure Eloise doesn't see me while I'm having it.

Anyway.

This new bit of standard operating procedure is actually coming out now because of moi. Apparently, Eloise had seen me use her back staircase to get to the beach that afternoon of my very first excursion, saw it all from the birds’-eye perch of her vast bedroom window overlooking the sea.

I had gotten in the way of her pristine view.

SO: not allowed to use her private beach entrance at the back of the house. In fact, according to Roger, to get to the beach I must go all the way down the driveway and out the main front gates, around the corner to the road, make a right and then another right and use the public beach entrance.

It’s fine, really. It’s not a long walk out the front drive and around the corner, maybe seven minutes. But. Since the beach IS (LITERALLY) her back yard, the back yard of the house I am currently sleeping in....I mean, am I crazy? Isn't it a little offensive to hire someone to stay in your home, and expect them to jump when you call, and then tell them to stay out of your sight...?

I mean, I exist. I am not a toy on the shelf.

Except I kind of am, and this is exactly what Eloise is paying me to be. A Pilates-teaching-toy that she can put away when I am not in use.

But I *swear* my indignation is on behalf of the whole staff: not only are they meant to run around a hundred times a day back and forth between house and pool and other house, but they must be invisible doing it. I suspect that, being new to this world, I have a bigger problem with this mindset than the butlers do.

Roger could sense that this new request of his was causing a reaction, which was not his intention.

He looked at me coaxingly, like I shouldn’t really be upset, and said, “Quite normal, really, when you’re in service, you’re meant to be discreet...” He trailed off and I just looked at him and said, “I really wouldn’t know, Roger. I’m sorry. I've never been in service.”

The way he pronounced it, I could instantly tell that being In Service was one of those phrases that contained a whole unspoken set of mental parameters, thoughts having to do with duty, and stratification of class, and status, and accepting your lot.

Or it was Being In Service like Being In Training, or In the Middle of a Residency, or In Tech, or Of the Cloth...you just do what you're told and don't ask questions because It's Not Your Place.


Then I called my mother and relayed this whole event – difficult with the shitty cellphone reception – and she almost started crying. “What,” I said. “It’s a retarded policy, but not really worth mourning. Eloise is just...ridiculous."

And she sighed and said, “Kyra, it's not just that. It's....you have a masters’ degree. For god's sake. I didn’t raise you to be anyone’s servant.”

**

I mean, even the theater is a fascist state, as plenty of my teachers have explained. Certainly as an actress I have more often felt like an obedient child than an artistic collaborator, and it certainly never occurred to me to really be insulted; directors just...get the last word. Or are, you know, egomaniacs. You know going in that they make all the final decisions. So why should *this* bother me so much?

(Well... then again, in the theater no one tells you to stay out of eye-shot. Ostensibly you've been hired because people like to look at you. I would even go so far as to say that the first reason most actors become actors is that they enjoy being looked at...)

I mean, the British butlers seem to have less of a problem seeing themselves as members of a lower caste. It's as if they gain status by working for someone with power. (In which case everything must be *quite* a little comedown after working for the Queen.) Never mind that they get treated like a lower form of human, they are working for someone doing something lofty in the world. Somehow this confers self-esteem to Roger. That, and the fact that they get paid very handsomely.
All the butlers own property. In fact, Jean-Luc owns a Porsche and a house in the Pyrenees, so the fact that he isn't joining us this summer because he has angina, at the tender age of 42, after working for Eloise for 5 years (I found out that little tidbit from sweet Pierre) is somewhat...cushioned.

(I would like to take a moment to say that I have not been paid for my first week and a half. Which is fine, but let's add in the money for sessions she still owes for, from back in the city -- three of which she canceled at a moment's notice. One time she canceled when I was already at the hotel. Once she asked me to come back two hours later. Virginie instructed me to bill them for every hour I waited, and according to my standard 24-hour cancellation policy, and not to feel bad about it. Which I didn't. What I feel bad about is not being paid. What good is having a policy if they only pay you when it's convenient for them? How do I ask for money when even the butlers don't get paid on time? How do they do it?)

But right now, faced with being thrust into an archaic social stratum...I am suddenly obsessed with my American-ness, my in-bred "all men are created equal."

Which of course doesn't mean what I would like it to mean.
I mean, just because I'm American doesn't really give me equal-status-ness with a gazillionaire.

It's just, here's how we do it in non-Europe.
(A list of charming cultural habits to make life go down a little easier):

- Even in relationships of unequal status (like boss/employee) we try to act like we're all the same. It may be hypocritical, but it seems more polite not to let people know at every turn that they have less status than you do.
- Bosses act like their staff are members of a "team."
- When orders are given we preface it with a “Would you mind....” or a “Sorry to bother you...”, generally punctuated by "Please" and "Thank you."
- We love to talk about collaboration.
- Teachers let students call them by their first names and beg them to ask questions.
- We are encouraged at every turn – since the 60’s, anyway – to challenge authority... and this is a right when you live in a democracy... People feel empowered. Even if they’re not. I like this bit of subterfuge. It may be the only lie I like.

Maybe this isn't even non-Europe protocol. Maybe this is protocol for Artsy, Park-Slope-Reared Children of the Mid-70's Who Grew Up Listening to "Free To Be You And Me."

**

Of course, this is her home. I am essentially her guest on her property. I have no rights. I have no contract. She is housing me and feeding me and I work very, very few hours a day. I don't own magazine imprints or have lunch dates with Vietnam-era presidential advisers to talk about the state of the middle east (yes, that was today's agenda, accomplished via helicopter).

It just never occurred to me that I therefore am somehow a less-important human being than Eloise, just because I have less money, power, influence... maybe I’m naive.

Oh god. I am *so* naive.

In fact, maybe what's driving me crazy is that I have NO influence, money, power, or position in the world, and Eloise is a dingbat who has tons of everything, and I am her exercise instructor. Between a master's degree (come on, in ACTING?!) and a rich ex-husband, it's clear which path leads to having influence on the world.

Here's what's funny to me: when she hired me, Eloise had made such a big deal about wanting only "the best.” I make no claim to that label; but it's true that I have been doing this for a long time, and I know I am a good teacher. And I know, I KNOW, “the best” -- of anything -- would never, ever, ever allow themselves to be told to stay out of sight.

I guess I can quit if I’m that offended.
But as we all know...
I need the money. And we all make compromises.
And so...
I'm not going anywhere, except to the beach via the front entrance.
With a copy of William Makepeace Thackeray's "Vanity Fair."

Viva la revolucion.