David Geffen’s Doula
Posted on June 29, 2012
Since I was a kid I’ve been dreaming of the velvet mafia. I thought I would get to LA and throw all of my heart and soul into working for a, “power gay.” So, when a friend of mine at the Suckle N’ Sizzle told me about the secret, velvet, job fair, well, I was in. I heard Neil Patrick Harris would be there. I would’ve given my right rib to be his nanny.
I packed up my resume and put on my best power suit, a Tahari number I had left over from my summer job as a bank teller. Booth after booth of gay greeted me when I entered the convention center. There was a booth called, “Monster Up.” A Lady Gaga collaboration with twitter. It was some kind of social network for the goth-gay. If you like heavy black eyeliner and enjoy spending all of your time fumbling through grindr-like apps then it was the place to be.
I’ve never been cool like that. I simply wanted to be Neil Patrick Harris’s nanny. I figured it would get me a spare ticket to the TONYs every now and again and maybe a trip or two to New York. Plus, I thought Neil’s hubby, David Burtka, could teach me to cook in his spare time because lord knows we could all use an escape plan from the world that is Hollyweird.
I recognized Neil’s booth right away. They had hired a gaggle of young actors, around 12 years of age or so, to play imitation Doogie Howser, MDs. The pre-teens were running around in lab coats handing out pamphlets that extolled the benefits of becoming the nanny to Neil Patrick Harris’s twins. The pamphlet was impressive. It was an LGBT event picture of Neil and David gleefully smiling at the camera. The long list of celebrity, nanny perks for the right candidate appeared underneath them:
celebu-nanny benis: yearly teeth bleaching, honorary grand marshall for Sioux Falls pride parade, abercrombie and fitch discount, LA condom spokesperson, shamanic psychotherapy, native american sweat lodge membership, and a bi-weekly smart car share with the estate gardener
I mean, it was almost good too good to be true.
As I was taking in all the wonderful fringe benefits, I was approached by the blondest woman I had ever seen. She was pruned and tweezed and shiny. She wore a pencil skirt and a naughty secretary’s blouse, if your secretary shopped at Armani, that is. I looked at her face, perfectly framed by shimmering, golden hair, and I realized that I was looking at some kind of genetic freak. Her cheek bones, that swagger, the smell of sun tan lotion and sand coming off her…call me a tabloid junkie, but I knew I was looking at the result of some scientist mixing the eggs of Charlize Theron and Cameron Diaz.
“Wow, they can do that now?” I said aloud to know one in particular.
“What?” she responded furrowing her brow in that Hollywood way.
She was sizing me up. Was I cool and eccentric or just weird and maybe too Walmart?
“Ah, hi,” I stuttered.
“Hello?” she said, still not sure she should be wasting time on me.
“Ah, I wanted to apply for the Neil Patrick Harris nanny position,” I said with all the self confidence I could muster.
“That’s wonderful,” she said slightly surprised. “How long have you been a Boga practitioner?”
“A Boga practitioner,” she said again.
She sighed. “Yes, Boga. It’s the practice of baby-yoga. Yoga for babies. It’s one of the requirements of the nanny position. Along with a sensitive palate, in case David needs you to taste something in the kitchen. As well as a working knowledge of nautical astronomy. Neil-David would like their children to take sailing lessons as soon as possible. And, of course, you are fluent in Farsi?”
I stifled a laugh. “I’m sorry…Farsi?”
“Yes, Farsi,” she grimaced shooting me a look I won’t soon forget. “In case the twins are taken by Somali pirates.”
“Really? I didn’t know the Somali pirates spoke Farsi.”
“Someone down and around that African continent will speak Farsi and if they don’t, the twins will always be able to secure jobs with the CIA.”
“You’re joking,” I said.
“No, I am not. And I suggest if you want to work for the Harris men, you get your ducks in a row.”
With that, she clicked her heels and about faced. This wasn’t going well. I turned to leave knowing my hopes of becoming Neil Patrick Harris’s nanny where dashed. If you can’t get past the gatekeeper, you’re shit out of luck in Hollyweird. I looked up searching for the exit, but my path was blocked by the largest looking Cher lookalike I had ever seen.
“Excuse me,” I said trying to side step Cher.
A linebacker of an indiscernible gender stepped into my path. He grunted, put his hand on his chest to stop me, then he handed me a paper flower, and smiled.
“I think you know my son, Chaz,” said the Cher lookalike.
“Oh. Sure, of course,” I said.
“We couldn’t help, but overhear. It sounds like maybe that nanny job isn’t the right fit for you.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said dejected. “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go drown my sorrows in a McDonald’s double cheeseburger meal.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to drown your sorrows in a mojito off the sun-deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean?” crooned Cher.
“Just listen. My mother has a proposition for you,” demanded the wannabe Chaz.
“We’re representatives from the Geffen agency and we have a little bit of a matter that requires some discrete clean up,” she began.
I nodded for her to continue.
“I’m sure you recall that David Geffen was recently dating, Jeremy Lingvall, a hot stud of a young thing, 41 years his junior.”
My eyes widened.
“Well, it seems that their relationship has run its course, but Mr. Geffen is having a hard time removing Jeremy from the Queen Mary. He’s locked himself in the Captain’s suit where they last made love.”
“And it stinks in there,” grunted Chaz.
“Yes, there is a certain smell emanating from the quarters. It’s what you’d expect when a heartbroken, young, gay man locks himself in a room for a month. When you walk by the place, it smells of balls, sweat, and heartbreak. David is appalled. And you see, he’d like to bring Lance Bass and Ricky Martin aboard, but there’s no way he can – what with such a pungent odor wafting its way through the cabins. We were hoping you’d come under David’s employ and as your first mission, coax Jeremy out.”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s for me. I have a master’s degree in education. Child development is my thing. You know raising a child from birth to adulthood when their parents are too rich to do so,” I said.
“Ah, but this is a re-birth of sorts,” huffed Cher. “Once we get Jeremy out, I think David will be completely reborn and you can take part in that. You can help to raise his next boyfriend. He may need some extra college credits or an assistant to hold his records while he takes a DJ class.”
“Let me get this straight, you want me to re-birth David Geffen and nanny his next boyfriend?”
“Nanny? Nanny? I’m not sure that’s the right term,” said Cher searching. “It’s more like you would help in David’s re-birth process while cleaning up from time to time.”
“Like a doula,” Chaz farted.
Cher looked his way. Her eyes seemed to say, “I can take your sex change. I can take your pathetic music career, but please stop farting with your mouth.”
I put my hand to my nose and tried to flee.
“Yes!” Cher exclaimed stepping in front of me. “You’ll be David Geffen’s doula. Yes, that’s right. I want you to say yes right now. We’ve got a limo waiting for you outside to whisk you away to the marina.”
“Say no and I’ll fart with my mouth again,” grimaced Chaz.
“Yes, yes,” I choked out.
The next thing I know I was sitting in the back of a stretch watching the world go by. It’s funny, life never ends up being what you’d expect.
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