Playground (5 page)

Playground

“I do not want my daughters around this sort of filth! Do you

hear me? I will not sit around and watch you poison them!” she

yells with determination on her face.

“Thanks for dropping by, dear.”

Dad begins to shut the door between them.

“Look at yourself! It’s three in the afternoon!” my mother

screams, pointing upstairs. “And what’s that? Your flavor of the

week? Great role model!”

Dad opens the door again; his voice is stern as he shoves her

away from the house.

“If you ever fucking come here again I’m calling the cops!”

“Don’t touch me!” Mom squirms out of his grasp. “I’ll take you

to court if I have to!”

Mom turns to us.

“Do you see how crazy your father is?” she asks.

Dad looks over at us with suspicious eyes, and my stomach

aches and lurches. I don’t know where my loyalties are supposed to

lie—I am torn. Mom jumps back into the car and we speed out of

there.

At school, my behavior begins to deteriorate. First grade becomes

a battleground. I no longer fit in. I have become isolated and re-

served. I stop socializing with the other kids my age. I don’t trust

anyone; my moods are unpredictable and my temper is erratic.

Not only am I furious at my parents, I am pissed off at the world.

It’s early in the morning when a short, fat boy in the front row

sticks his tongue out at me. Blood rushes to my head as the kid

continues making funny faces. After a few minutes, I get up, walk

slowly over to his chair, raise my hand high over my head, and

punch him in the face. The teacher hauls me into the principal’s

office.

25

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“She’s a problem child,” I overhear someone say.

I sit in the corner of the room as teachers whisper among

themselves.

“I heard her parents are separated.”

“Divorced.”

“She could be mentally challenged.”

“Attention Deficit Disorder?”

“It’s more like Attention Seeking Disorder.”

My thick glasses fog up as I hold back tears. I don’t want them

to see me cry.

They send me to Dr. Parker, a well-known child psychiatrist

with tiny spectacles and an irritating, pseudo-Zen, condescending

voice.

“Let’s pretend this is your house. And let’s say this is you,” Dr.

Parker picks up a tiny figurine of a girl and places it inside a large

pink dollhouse.

I ignore him and stare intently at the clock, watching the sec-

onds go by. He places more figurines representing my “family

unit” inside the dollhouse.

“Tell me what you are feeling, Jennifer,” he repeats over and

over until I can’t take it anymore. My emotions overcome me and

my hands move wildly as if on their own accord. I slam the doll-

house onto the floor and shatter it into tiny pieces.

I hurry out of his office at once.

I am branded a difficult child. A troublemaker. Detention, Sat-

urday school, and the principal’s office become routine stops.

All I can do is think of ways to hide, break free from rules, and

escape the mundaneness of everyday life.

26

Three

I t’s 1977. By the time I’m eight years old, going to Hef ’s is like

going to our secret uncle’s house. Ever since Mom insisted we stop

going to the Mansion, the bargain became simple: we lie to her,

our visits to Wonderland will continue; tell her the truth, our fun

will end.

Hef ’s palace has become our own private playground. We have

free rein of the house. The butlers know us, security guards know

us, and even the Playmates call us by name.

My sister and I find a hidden rock staircase to a grassy mini-

garden above the pool, where we take turns jumping off the top of

the waterfall. Dad and the guys smoke cigars and play backgam-

mon while the girls lounge beside them listening to KC and the

Sunshine Band. We swim over to them, laughing at the topless

girls spritzing themselves with bottled water.

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“Looks like we’re shooting the opening scene to one of Rick’s

movies,” says Dad, referring to a girl rubbing oil on Rick’s hairy

chest.

“What role do you have, honey?” Rick asks the girl.

“I’m the fluffer, can’t you tell?” The girl flips her permed

brown hair.

“Why don’t you come over here and fluff this?” Dad cradles his

stethoscope.

“There’s the image for the day,” says a quiet man with white

hair while he puts his book down.

I think his name is Ted.

“Little tease.” Dad shakes his head.

“You should know, Doc. All the hot babes in and out of your

office for physicals everyday,” Duke exclaims.

“What about you . . . tit soup? It’s like a casting call inside your

surgery room,” Dad chortles back at Duke.

“It’s hard enough keeping up with all your girlfriends you send

in,” Duke laughs quietly.

“Something tells me there’s enough silicone to go around,” Dad

retorts.

“Plastic tits for everyone!” Duke shouts for joy.

I glance down self-consciously at my flat chest, wondering if I

am next.

In the pool, Savannah attempts to pull down my bathing suit

bottoms, catching the attention of the guys and the fluffer.

“That’s it. Now you’re gonna get it!” I say.

I dive under the water and pull her bottoms off. The Playmates

help Savannah because she starts to cry and act likes a baby. I feel

bad for making Savannah cry, so I swim over to her.

“Let’s play pinball! I’ll let you go first!”

Savannah’s frown instantly turns to a smile as we get out of the

pool and wrap towels around ourselves. We slip into the back door

of the kitchen pantry, where six different kinds of homemade cook-

ies are separated into jars on the counter. Grabbing handfuls of

28

Playground

double-chocolate chip, we race out to the game room. My mission

in life is to have my name on Hef ’s champion pinball plaque. We

sit for hours trying to beat the highest score. Savannah and I take a

break, and I pick up the phone and dial the kitchen to order food.

“Can we have two hamburgers, two chocolate shakes, and two

orders of fries, please?” I ask the butler.

Minutes later, trays of food are delivered. In the carpet room, I

push on a wood cabinet that opens into a mini refrigerator filled

with Pepsi bottles. I pull two out and give one to Savannah.

“Savannah, do you want to see something funny?”

I click the TV on and the sex channel appears. A naked man

and two women are having sex in an outdoor Jacuzzi at a motel.

Savannah stares at the screen in total shock.

“Who is that?”

“People,” I laugh, sinking three inches into the carpet.

I push one of the corner mirrors in slightly and a secret cabinet

opens. It’s filled with bags of gumballs, M&M’s, peanuts, and bot-

tles of Pepsi. Savannah’s mouth drops. We grab all the yellow gum-

balls out of the bag.

“Wait! There are secret hidden cameras behind the walls!” I say.

We stop scrounging. Savannah has a petrified expression on

her face as she empties her pockets of yellow gumballs.

“I’m just kidding,” I giggle, but I wonder if there really are hid-

den cameras in the walls.

During the day, we’re outside lounging by the pool at the Mansion

when Dorothy Stratten shouts, “Crank it up!” as Sister Sledge’s

“We Are Family” comes on the radio. Another Playmate leaps up,

flapping her pastel-colored wraparound skirt with fringes. Chi-

nese jacks are tossed against a rock as Savannah and I scream:

“Beauty pageant!” And the contest is on!

Playmate number two pops on her black hat, modeling her

29

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

new fluorescent green bikini with gold chains, while Savannah

and I flash her a “9.” Playmate number three struts down the path-

way wearing nothing but a speckled headband, bangle bracelets,

and big hoop earrings. Polaroid pictures are snapped.

It’s fun playing games with them because no one treats us like

we’re younger—it’s like we’re all the same age, even though I know

that we’re not.

All the girls chime in singing and dancing, and it’s difficult to

keep score. The pageant quickly turns into a silly dance party by

the pool. The Playmates take our hands and show us intricate

dance steps that we attempt awkwardly with our sandaled feet.

After a while, we all order club sandwiches, barbequed potato

chips, and Pepsi from one of the butlers. As we eat, I ponder all the

mean things that both my mother and the kids at school say about

the Playmates. Kids at school say they’re prostitutes and stupid.

Mom says they’re worse than that.

The Playmate in the fluorescent green bikini helps French braid

Savannah’s long blond hair. Savannah giggles, loving the attention.

One of the Playmates looks at me and smiles.

I smile back, confused and slightly guilty.

As time passes, nudity doesn’t bother us as much. After we swim,

we use the changing rooms near the sauna. The rock-lined show-

ers have no curtain or door separating the shower from the rest of

the bathroom. My father takes off his bathing suit, never caring

that anyone, including his daughters, sees him naked. He even lets

us shower with him.

I try to be careful not to look at Dad’s penis, but it’s difficult to

avoid.

Dad says there’s nothing wrong with nudity and thinks that

people who have problems with it are not only insecure but igno-

rant as well.

30

Playground

He tells us that certain cultures view nudity as artistic expres-

sion. He says it’s very natural and people have to let go of their in-

hibitions and recognize that it’s just a form of self-expression.

Savannah and I act like nothing’s wrong, but we never tell Mom.

It’s 1980. I’m eleven years old and school no longer interests me.

My life is divided between going to the Mansion and bragging

about it to friends at school.

Every morning I stand in a circle of girls in front of El Rodeo

Elementary.

“People drink and smoke around me, and no one cares. I hear

swear words and see topless women. I’m number four on the pin-

ball plaque, and order anything I want to my room,” I boast.

“Have you seen anyone naked?”

“Of course,” I respond, as if I’m the Queen Bee of sex.