Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

Eventually, Grayer's frostingfrenzyslows andheis leftstaringwith glossy eyes attheblackandorange cardboard centerpiece, his gooey hands motionless atop the table. Little beads of sweat are forming on his face. e must be boiling in that costume. I crawl over and whisper in his ear, "Hey, Buddy, why don't you take a break from all that cake making and come hang out with me for a bit?" He drops his foreheadonthetable,narrowlymissing his candycornmasterpiece.

"Come on, Grove," I say, slippinghim intomyarms andshufflingback tothewall onmyknees. I unzip

his hoodanduse anapkintowipe thedrippingmakeup fromhis foreheadandfrostingfromhis hands.

"I gotta bob for an apple," he mumbles as I lay him down with his head resting on the white rectangle ofmycostumed lap.

"Sure,justcloseyoureyes for a fewminutesfirst."

I take a swigfrom mynewestdrink, lettingtheroomsoften abit moreasI fanusbothwith aprospectus left beneath a nearby cabinet. Grayer's body becomes heavy as he drifts off. Closing my eyes, I try to picture myself in this room at some important business-type thing, but can't seem to conjure anything otherthanleading aboardmeetingasTmkyWinky.

I must keep nodding off, because I start to dream about Mrs. X, in a mink Laa-Laa costume, trying to convince me that 1 really should let her speak to H. H.'s posse about the whole "ho-thing" as "setting boundaries" is "her middle name."Then Mr. X dances in to the tune of "Monster Mash," pulling off his head to reveal that he is actually my Harvard Hottie, demanding to be taken to the bathroom. I jolt awake.

"Nanny,I gotta pee." "MonsterMash"blaresdownonus. I

locate a clock under the cobwebs. Nine goddamn thirty. Okay, so it's. hat? Twenty minutes up the FOR, ten to get out of this thing, and another twenty to get downtown to Nightingale's? He'll still be there,right?

"Okay!Let's getthis showontheroad.Let's find a bathroomandgetmoving!"

"Nanny, slow down." I pick up my dragging Grayer and sling him onto my purple hump as I dart betweenthedownedandwounded,whoareeither mid-or post-sugarcrash.

"Coming through, coming through. Have you seen the bathroom?" I inquire of a five-foot Indian woman in a Barney costume trying to placate a screaming three-foot Barney who can't seem to bite a doughnut off a string and has taken the matter directly to heart. She points over her shoulder at a line winding endlessly around the corner. I look around for out-of-the-way potted foliage, preparing a speechabouthowthisis "just liketheplayground."

Grayer pointsbehindme. "The bathroomisthat way, inmydaddy's office."

I plop him down, instructing him to lead the way, "like someone is chasing us." He takes off down the deserted corridor with his hands between his legs. It's darker and quieter than the room we have just escaped, and I speed-walk to keep Grayer in sight. Halfway down the hall he pushes a door open and I runtocatchup, practicallyrollingover him whenhefreezesinthedarkeneddoorway.

"Well, hello there, Grayer." A woman's voice startles us. Mr. X flips on the lamp as she comes around the desk in black fishnets, leotard, and a bowler hat. I recognizeher instantly. "Hello, Nanny," she says, tuckingherlooseredhair underthehat.

Grayer andI arespeechless.

Mr. X steps out from behind the desk, readjusting himself and surreptitiously wiping lipstick from his mouth. "Grayer,sayhello."

"I love your costume," she says brightly before Grayer can even speak. "See, I'm 'Chicago' because that's ourbiggestmarket!"

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"She's notwearinganypants,"hesaysquietly,pointingather nettedlegsandlookingup atme.

Mr. X swiftly picks up Grayer without looking at any of us, including Grayer, and with a "Time to call it a night,sport. Let's findyourmother" headsbacktowardtheparty.

"Um, we had to find a bathroom. Grayer has to go," I call after them, but he doesn't look back. I turn to Ms. Chicago,butshe's alreadypastme,clickingdownthehallintheoppositedirection.

Fuck.

I sitdownontheleathercouchandslump myfaceinmyhands.

I don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthis.

I grab ashooterfromthedesertedtrayof chilledvodkashotsonthecoffeetableanddownit.

Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely passed out with his headinmylap.I suspecttheremaybe a stainontheseatwhenwegetout,but, hey, we were all adequatelywarned.

Mr. X leanshis headback againsttheleatherupholstery andcloses his eyes. I crackthewindow aninch to let some fresh air blow over me from theEast River. I am a little drunk.Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.

Inthedistantbackground,I hearthetentative chatter ofMrs. X. "I wastalkingtoRyan's motherandshe says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview forGrayer. Oh,andshetoldmethatsheandBenaretaking a houseinNantucketthissummer.

It turns out thatWalling-ton and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightfulbreak from the Hamptons. She said it's so pleasantjust to get awayfrom theMaidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity. And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally saidBen's brotherisgoingtoParis thissummer,

soyoucouldtakehis membership attheirtennisclub.AndNannycouldcome, too!Wouldn't youliketo joinusfor a fewweeksontheoceanthis summer,Nanny?It will besorelaxing."

Myearsperkup atthesoundofmynameandI findmyself respondingwith unmitigated enthusiasm.

"Totally. Relaxing and fun. F-U-N. Bring it on!" I say, trying to give a purple thumbs-up, as I imagine me, the ocean, my Harvard Hottie. "Naaantucket. wim, sand, and surf. I mean, what's not to love? Sign . . . me . . . up." Beneath my half-closed eyes I see her look at me quizzically before turning to the snoring Mr. X.

"Well, then." She pulls her mink up close around her and speaks to the city racing by outside the window. "Thatsettles it. I'll calltherealtortomorrow."

A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I checkfor tracesof greasepaintin mycompact. I leanforward to catch a glance atthecabbie's clock andtheglowinggreenlettersreadback10:24.Go,Go,Go.

My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the bump of each potholeandcansmell thelastpassenger's cigarette.Thecombinationof thesurrealtenoroftheevening, the numerous drinks I have consumed, the leather pants I'm poured into, and the promise of a potential hookup with Harvard Hottie all add up to a lot of pressure. I am, in no uncertain terms, on a mission. Whatever reservations I had, political, moral, or otherwise, have melted past my lace underwear and intomyPradashoes.

The cab pulls up at Thirteenth Street, on a particularly seedy stretch of SecondAvenue, and I toss the driver twelve bucks and jog inside. Nightingale's is one of those places I vowed never to set foot in again after I graduated from high school. The beer's served in plastic cups, drunk men armed with darts makegettingsafelytothe

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bathroom achallenge,and,ifyoudomakeit,thedoordoesn't close. It istheproverbialShit Hole.

It takes all of two secondsforme toswing myheadaroundand seethatthereis noHarvard Hottie tobe found.Think.Think.Theywere goingtostartatChaos. "Taxi!"

I leap out on the corner of West Broadway and take my place on line behind a clump of people who have actually come here voluntarily. I'm waved behind the ropes with a clique of scantily clad girls, while afrustrated throngofguys trytotakeononeofthebouncers.

"Let's seesomeID."

I pull open my purse and hand the six-eight bouncer a juice box, HotWheels, and HandiWipes, before uncoveringmywallet.

"That'll be twenty bucks." Fine. Fine! I throw him two hours in a Teletubbies outfit and make my way up a darkened staircase lined with inappropriate black-and-white photographs of naked women with trumpet lilies. The bass beat from the house music is like aural rape and as I'm propelled along by the bump-ba-bump it reminds me of the old cartoons where Tom's music would bounce Jerry right out of his matchboxbed.