Page 2 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

So I strode back into my room and threw myself on the bed. Ouch, without a box spring, the coils dug into my back and my head literally bobbled, perilously close to the ground. Man, I was in a bad state, I really couldn’t afford anything.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way, so with determined resolve, I flipped open my ancient laptop. Please, please, please turn on. And with a slight buzz and a flickering screen, it did. Thank god, today was gonna be my day, I could feel it.

But as I browsed apartment listings, I realized that my initial spark of optimism was nothing but a flash in the pan. Because today was not going to be my day, nor was tomorrow, nor the day after. The listings I saw were either way out of my price range, or super-skeevy sounding. There were a couple listings only for females, and it wasn’t because the current person preferred the cleanliness and fastidiousness of a girl. It sounded like they wanted a female to give them a massage in return for a reduction in rent, for some kinky play on the side. Or there were some that offered Central Park views and a private bathroom, so long as you provided “personal services” for the owner. Uck. That was definitely off the list.

But I don’t judge, if there are girls willing to go that route, more power to then. It’s hard to get by in NYC, cost of living here is astronomical and artists like me are being forced to move to the far outer boroughs, heck, even Westchester sometimes just to get decent studio space. But I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t at the point where I’d be okay giving “massages,” or doing “light housecleaning nude” for a rent reduction. Hell, I wouldn’t even do that if you paid me a million dollars, it was going too far, probably some old dude with a huge paunch wanking off as he watched a girl scrub his floor, tits out, pussy exposed.

So I was just about to shut off the laptop and reward myself with a cigarette break when suddenly a listing caught my eye. It was short and to the point, and seemed fairly decent.

THREE MONTH TERM. NEW JERSEY ESTATE SEEKS RESPONSIBLE HOUSESITTER. RENT NEGOTIABLE. PLEASE CALL ANGELA (345-6803) FOR DETAILS.

Okay, the three-month term wasn’t ideal. I didn’t want to move again after three months, but seeing that I needed to get out of here asap, the three months would buy me some breathing room, I could continue to look for a new place while housesitting at this estate. And what was with the word “estate” anyways? The term brought to mind Downton Abbey with huge castles set on manicured grounds, people who had acres and acres to their name. Was this really that? Did that exist in New Jersey, of all places?

Because I admit, I’m biased. New Yorkers are always looking down their noses at Jersey, it’s where cows moo and all the Jersey boys live. I definitely didn’t want to be there, but then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and besides it was for three months only. So scolding myself, I gave in. I had to come up with something, and right now, this seemed like the best bet.

With one hand I dialed the number in the listing while chewing thoughtfully on my pen. And surprisingly, a human picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Valley Pine Manor,” said a well-modulated female voice. “Who is this please?”

I cleared my throat hastily, completely unprepared.

“Um hi, I’m calling about the ad in the paper?” I asked, my voice swinging up high. This would never do. “Hi,” I started again, more assertively this time. They probably had the whole world calling them, who wouldn’t want to live in a palace? For free maybe? “My name is Melissa and I’m calling about the ad I saw in the Village Voice, for a housesitting position. Is this the right number?”

The woman replied.

“Yes, Valley Pine is looking for a housesitter. Could I get your name again please?” she asked, business-like.

“Mel,” I stated. “I mean, Melissa. Melissa Carlson.”

“Great,” said the woman, obviously jotting something down. “And what do you do for a living?”

“Well, I’m an artist,” I said slowly, “or more accurately, trying to make it as an artist. I still have a couple years of school, so I’m making ends meet by waitressing at the Dunkin’ Doobie in midtown. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” I asked hopefully. God, I’d never been so embarrassed by the café’s name before, usually I didn’t care, but right now, trying to make a good impression, it definitely didn’t help.

“No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” the disembodied female voice said. “And what is your annual income please?”

Oh god, oh god, this was the worst part. I mentally braced myself to be shot down, to be rejected on the spot.

“Um, maybe fifteen thousand a year?” I said, biting my lip. “But I get a lot of that in tips, so it’s all cash, and not taxed.” Oh shit, what had I just done? I’d just admitted that I was evading Uncle Sam, that I wasn’t paying my fair share of taxes like an upstanding citizen. I groaned internally, half-expecting to hear the click of a phone and a dead ringtone, the entire conversation ended just like that. But instead, the woman made no noise, just the scratching of her pen across the line.

“Thank you,” she said, voice reasonable. “Now for the job. We’ve found that the best way is for prospective sitters to come to the estate and take a look. Would you be available sometime soon?”

Yes, yes, yes! I hadn’t shot myself in the foot just yet, hadn’t blown off my head with my big mouth.

“Sure, I’d love to come by,” I said. “I’m free just about any time.”

“How about today then?” asked the woman reasonably. “Mr. Lancaster is away, but I can show you the grounds and the manor, you can get a look at Valley Pine and see if you’d be comfortable living here.”

I almost laughed. Grounds? Manor? Even the name, Valley Pine? Unless it was all a clever marketing ploy, this was sounding better and better, like I’d be a princess living in a castle with a moat. So I nodded eagerly.

“Sure, today works fine. Is three p.m. okay?” I asked quickly. “Dinner shift starts at five.”

“Certainly, we’ll have you back before then,” the woman intoned, professional and brisk. “A car will come by to pick you up at two thirty. Your current address please?”

I gulped. I didn’t want to give them my address, they’d see what a hovel I lived in, how the building was clearly violating all sorts of city codes with pilfered cable TV, random electrical cords coming off the roof, and a crumbling brick façade. It made me look too desperate. So I said, “I’ll wait outside the Starbucks at West 47th and Eighth Street, it’s fine, it’s really hard to find my building.”

The voice betrayed no surprise.

“Certainly, I’ll have a town car pick you up there then,” she said efficiently. “And if you have any questions, my name is Angela, you can reach me at this number.”

Ah ha, so it was the Angela from the ad. Who was this person, a secretary, a maid, a housekeeper? If this Mr. Lancaster had a housekeeper already, then why did he need me? Couldn’t he just pay Angela to come every day and make sure the place was okay? How bizarre. All I knew was that I had a shot at cheap rent for three months, and I couldn’t afford to let it get away.

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