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Jersey Boys
I spent my sixteenth summer as a mothers’ helper on Long Beach Island, New Jersey.
My friend Barb Decker introduced me to the Gordons. She was their regular babysitter and I became their occasional.
Barb wasn’t available so I was hired to accompany Mrs. Gordon down the shore to look after their four children. The husband, a lawyer, stayed in the Philadelphia suburbs during the week and came down on weekends.
Mrs. Gordon – whose first name I have conveniently forgotten – developed a bad back the first day. Now I was responsible for housework as well as childcare. No increase in pay was mentioned. Let me just say that the job was not a good fit. Even if I’d ever been a fan of dusting and mopping, I would have resented being taken advantage of.
I don’t remember the kids’ names, either, except maybe Billy, the oldest. Seven years old? Eight? He was a chubby unpleasant child. The youngest was maybe two or three. A few of them were girls.
In those days I wasn’t really into children.
This was my first lengthy stay away from home. What is interesting is that, despite the job, the summer is still clothed with an aura of romance.
At sixteen I was built. Not that I knew how to make real hay of that fact; I was too intense, and naïve, and angst-ridden. But t and a was undoubtedly the framework for much of what happened.
For instance, Mrs. Gordon was relatively human during the week, but when her weekend husband arrived she morphed into a total bitch toward me.
In LBI, every sunny day we went to a particular beach. I fell in lust with the ice cream man on that beach. He was blond, hunky, and flirtatious. I was a loser at flirting, however. I thought the way to go was mentioning more and more books I’d read in an effort to establish our starry-eyed commonality. Apparently it wasn’t.
Also, I didn’t precisely hide my excitement at seeing him. As I drove the Gordons’ station wagon into the parking lot past the ice cream truck, I honked several times. Mrs. Gordon was appalled at my ignorance regarding girl-boy niceties.
I must have been allowed some evenings off work, because I made friends with another young woman. Don’t remember how we met, if she was also a mother’s helper, or, again, her name. I do have a clear picture of her in my mind: sort of appealing with fly-away blond hair.
She hung out with some local Italian guys in their early twenties, so I did too. Dominick was the one I made out with. I was too snobbishly cognizant of class differences to fall for him, but considered the kissing good practice. I am still flattered remembering he told me I kissed better than anyone, including the girl who’d introduced us.
The guys sang casual harmony on Frankie Valli songs, honest to god. “When I Fall In Love” is still a winner.
The high point of my summer was the weekend Mr. Gordon brought a fellow lawyer, Alan, and his cute little wife to visit. I was smitten with Alan. Why? He must have treated me humorously and intellectually – aphrodisiacs that have never lost their potency.
So. For some reason, one of those weekend nights Alan and I were home alone. He initiated heavy-duty making out. I was truly head over heels. But I asked, “What about __ ?” (Surprise: his wife’s name escapes me.) Alan said, “What about her?” I took that to mean he was madly in love with me and therefore sex between us was more or less compulsory.
At home I had a boyfriend, Chic, but as a child of the early, pre-women’s liberation, sixties, I had never gone all the way. Alan and I didn’t go anywhere near all the way, either. But we went far enough that after that night I day-dreamed about him non-stop.
One weekend soon after, as I was turned to the sink washing dishes, Mr. Gordon walked by and caressed my ass. I turned and doused him with a bowl full of hot water. He was shocked at my reaction – no doubt after being regaled by his friend Alan of my availability.
My relationship with the Gordons ended when we got back home to the Main Line and I said I was raising my babysitting rates to $1.75 an hour. They were outraged and we never spoke again.
Susan Anmuth lives in New Jersey (where else?) with her son Ethan, jealous cat Jelly, and new Yorkie puppy Xena the warrior princess.
Email: Susan Anmuth
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