The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (8 page)

While I’d never fit into my grandmother’s dress, I decided that I’d get one of my own. And so I went to a plus-size store in Harlem and picked out the loudest, sexiest dress I could find. It was hot pink Lycra, and the label said
Stop Staring
.

Kissing, Take Four: Jeff

I originally moved to New York to make it as an actress, but it’d been five months since my graduation from NYU and I was still unemployed. I wanted to persevere, but if I went to one more audition and heard, “You’re great, but . . .” I was going to go insane.

The
buts
always ended different ways. For the sake of my ego, I stopped listening. Usually it had something to do with the way I looked: “We’re looking for someone of a different build”; “You just don’t match the male lead”; or, my personal favorite, “This character eats less than you.”

It was embarrassing. After my parents had spent forty thousand dollars a year on my education, I was calling home and asking them for more money. I felt like the family gamble. I was the child who went to an expensive school and the child who promised she’d succeed. I was finished now and the gamble wasn’t paying off. I had to get an acting job, and I had to get one soon.

At the end of my rope, I read an ad in
Backstage
: “Actors wanted, FAO Schwarz.” I didn’t care what they wanted us for; I ran to the audition. When I got there, I had to read a monologue by Princess Pretty, and then test-demonstrate an unknown toy. I looked down at a blob of magnets, called it “the amazing whirly-bob,” and connected the pieces, mugging enthusiastically. I got the job.

Working as a toy demonstrator was actually more complicated than you’d expect; there was a ranking system for the actors and certain toys were considered better than others. For the first few weeks I had to rotate from toy to toy so that Chad, the FAO toy demo manager, could analyze my acting strengths before placing me on a specific product. I demonstrated anything from robo transformers to plush puppets. My least favorite, the preschool veterinarian kit, came with a stuffed puppy and doctor tools. For six hours I was supposed to fake diagnose an inanimate object and get other people excited about it. I would interrupt families as they strolled through the store, saying, “Spot is sick. Will you help me figure out what’s wrong with Spot?” And then I would hand the child a stethoscope while the parents waited impatiently. I might as well have said, “You and your family want to be left alone, but I’m an actor and I need attention.”

After two weeks of rotating, I was assigned to the Lee Middleton Doll Collection. It was a coveted position. Lee Middleton Dolls were supposed to be special, they were made to look exactly like real babies, and they were weighted in the head and in the bottom so that they actually flopped like real babies. Every day I dressed in a nurses’ uniform, and I worked with two other nurses-slash-actresses in the “adoption center,” a small cottage on the second floor of FAO Schwarz.

A typical day of work would go as follows: Parents and their children would go from incubator to incubator admiring all the babies. If they wanted to hold a particular doll, we would ask them to point it out to us. Then we would carefully lift the baby, playing up the fact that it was “real,” and hand it to them through the cottage window.

If they decided that they were serious about “adoption,” we would open the gate to the white picket fence that surrounded the cottage and invite them in. Then we would sit across from the prospective parent (usually a seven-year-old girl) in one of two rocking chairs and begin an adoption interview. “Do you promise to love and care for the baby?” “Will you read to the baby?” “Will you change the baby’s diaper?”

“Yes,” the little girls would answer with such sincerity.

And then the final question: “What would you like to name the baby?”

The girls always chose frilly names like “Princess Tiffany of Fairy Flowerland.”

We would write “Princess Tiffany” on the doll’s hospital bracelet, along with the D.O.B., which usually happened to be the previous day, and then we would fill out a birth certificate. We would hand the birth certificate to the little girl’s parents and say, “Now all you have to do is pay the adoption fee (
wink, wink
).”

Chad instructed us never to use words like
cost
,
purchase
, or
buy
, that would “break the illusion of the world.” All transactions were considered adoptions and the adoption fee was $120. And I should mention here—while the Lee Middleton Dolls were “special” they were a far cry from being worth $120. So we were encouraged not to mention the price until the end of the interview because at that point the child’s hopes would be too high for the parents to back out.

When the parents returned from the register we’d have the baby wrapped in a blanket—blue for boys, pink for girls. And then we’d check their receipt, hand the doll to their child, and say, “I’m sure baby Tiffany will have a wonderful home.”

One annoying aspect of the job was that when it was slow, I wasn’t allowed to socialize with the other nurses “on duty.” Again, according to Chad, that would also break the illusion of the world. If we weren’t working with a customer, we had to hold, rock, or bounce the display baby doll.

The display baby doll was on display for a reason. It could not be sold. Something terrible happened in the factory on the day of its birth because the doll’s fingers were not like the other babies. They had been molded together—making it look like it had flippers instead of hands. As if that weren’t bad enough, it had curly red Chuckie hair and scary green eyes, and its head weighed at least five pounds more than all the other babies’ heads. As a result, when you lifted the baby, its head would automatically flop back, and its little flippers would flip up—making him look like a tabloid monster baby.

Which is how the doll earned its nickname: Nubbins. And because Nubbins was for display purposes only, he didn’t have an incubator like the other babies. Instead, he was kept in a cupboard. This was especially disturbing because Nubbins had a knack for looking dead. So when you opened the cupboard you’d find him slumped over onto his enormous head with his arms flopped behind him, like he died in Downward-Facing Dog.

September and October are traditionally slow months at FAO Schwarz, and with no customers to attend to, we spent a lot of time holding, rocking, and bouncing Baby Nubbins. So much time that we actually started to resent him.

To entertain ourselves we invented a game. Actually, I invented it, but the other girls went along with it. The object of the game was this: While a nurse was working with a customer, you had to try to get her to break character by doing something horrible to Baby Nubbins.

For example, I opened all the drawers to all the cabinets in the adoption center and while another nurse was doing an adoption, I carefully walked down the aisle and rocked Nubbins’s head into the jagged edges of each drawer, while humming a lullaby.

My favorite form of torture involved chance. The orphanage was located around a corner, so if there were no customers in sight, and you felt like a floor manager wasn’t going to be turning the corner anytime soon, you’d take a risk, scoop up Baby Nubbins, and make out with him full on the mouth. It was fun to torture Nubbins in front of one another. But it was even better when there was a crowd of people standing outside the adoption center. It took real comedic timing. You’d change Nubbins’s diaper on the diaper-changing table, then you’d carefully lift him, and gently place him on your shoulder and burp him ever so slightly. At just the right moment, you’d drop the baby.

It worked every time. Everyone watching knew it wasn’t real, but when the baby hit the floor, they still jumped and gasped. And the best part was that they did it in sync, so it looked like a minor earthquake had just occurred.

I had to be cautious when I pulled stunts like this. I could not under any circumstances get caught or I’d lose my job. A job that, in spite of its ridiculousness, I really appreciated. I was paying rent, I was technically an actress, and my parents were off my back.

FAO also provided me with a whole new group of friends. I met a lot of other people my age, other actors. Jeff was one of them, the only coworker of mine that I’ve ever kissed. Jeff was average cute—tall, thin, borderline gangly. He’s the kind of guy you’d expect to play video games in online groups, and occasionally smoke pot. His job at FAO Schwarz was to play a toy soldier. He stood outside the store in a red-and-black uniform with shiny gold buttons. He wore a tall black felt hat, and there were red circles drawn on his cheeks. I noticed him on my first day at work and decided that since Christmas was approaching, Jeff would be my Nutcracker fantasy.

I’m not certain how our flirtation began. Actually, that’s not true. It’s just a little embarrassing, and not something I’d want my parents to know. During one of our breaks we played the game “I Never” in the employee lounge. It’s originally a drinking game but, since we were at work, we played a modified version. If someone said something they’d never done and you’d done it, instead of taking a shot, you just held up a finger. When you had all ten fingers up—
Oh, my gosh . . .
you were out! Okay, so not as exciting as the drinking game, but still fun. I was actually the one who suggested this version. We’d played it this way at church once. Let me tell you, it was a thrilling game, people were offering things like: I’ve never been to Wisconsin, I’ve never tried Dr Pepper, I’ve never thought about getting bangs.

The FAO Schwarz employee version was much more racy.

“I’ve never been arrested,” one of the shorter elves from Connecticut volunteered. Santa and a guy who did LEGO demos both held up a finger.

“I’ve never been caught having sex in public,” Princess Pretty offered. A nurse, one of the piano dancers, and a security guard all put fingers up. By this point in the game most people had five or six fingers in the air—my hands were still in my pockets.

And then it was my turn. I had a good one, too, one I was sure would get everyone. “I’ve never been to second base,” I said enthusiastically. (Regular-people second base, not the Mormon version—I’ve totally held hands before.)

“What?” One of the elves gave me a quizzical look. “In baseball?”

“No,” I said. “You know, second base.” I gestured toward my boobs.

The room burst into laughter. “No one has ever touched your boobs?” Jeff asked. “How is that even possible?”

“How old are you?” Santa interrupted.

“Twenty-one,” I said.

“But she’s Mormon,” Karla, a nurse I’d become better friends with, blurted out.

“Mormons can’t have their boobs touched?” Jeff asked.

“We’re not supposed to.”

“Why?”

“It can lead to other things.”

“Like what?” Jeff challenged.

“I don’t know . . . ,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be
aroused
.”

Apparently using the word
aroused
was a faux pas. The group started laughing hysterically, and it was, “Oh, does this arouse you?” and “Have you been aroused lately?” spoken one to another in proper British accents.

In the midst of this, Jeff turned to me. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll touch your boobs.”

“What makes you think I want to have them touched?”

“You do, I can tell.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” I said, “but I’m doing just fine without it.”

Jeff looked directly into my eyes. “By Christmas,” he said, “I will touch your boobs,” like it was part of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” or something.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: twelve ninnies nipping, eleven peaches peaking, ten knockers knocking, nine mammories mounting, eight maids a-milking, seven sandbags shaking, six pink-nosed puppies, five nipple rings, four fun bags, three French hills, two tittie jugs, and a partridge in a pear tree!
Normally this would be considered sexual harassment, but since Jeff was average cute, I let it slide. The whole “Attractive Boy + Sexual Repression = Ethical Hypocrisy” equation.

The group was still laughing when the bell rang, putting an end to our game. “I love the sound of that bell,” the shortest elf announced. “Every time it rings, I get so
aroused
.”

After that, on slow days at work, when no one was looking, Jeff would walk by me holding two plush pumpkins pressed against his chest. Another time he stole the letters
B
,
O
,
O
,
B
, and
S
from an alphabet puzzle and left them outside my locker. I told him that under no circumstance would he or anyone be touching my boobs. Then I took two light sabers from the Star Wars section, held them in an X across my chest, and pranced around the store. My reaction only egged him on, of course.

Again, I was cautious not to get caught. Losing my job for sexual misconduct would be even worse than losing it for inappropriate handling of a plastic baby.

We sent secret messages back and forth—a topless Barbie, a plastic cow with enormous udders, a breast pump from the maternity collection—for about a month. It was actually pretty fun—seeing as it was the most male attention I’d had all year.

After all the build-up, we both understood that there was bound to be some sort of follow-through. So one night, when Jeff and I happened to walk out of work at the same time, we didn’t go to our respective subway stops. We lingered.

Since work was our only common bond, we talked about how we both thought that the elves were pretentious. And how we felt badly for the actor assigned to Band in a Box, because the demo kit was missing half the instruments. That’s when Jeff asked, “You hungry?”

“Always,” I said, and then immediately regretted it because it made me sound like I was
always
eating. Which, when you weigh two hundred fifty pounds, isn’t the kind of impression you want to make.