Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

I startwending myway intothe crush of people, lookingfor?what? Brown hair, a HarvardT-shirt? The crowd is a mishmash oftourists andNYUstudentsfrom Utahandgayguys. hebalding, marriedones from the Island. nd they all went shopping on Eighth Street. It's not an attractive crowd. The strobe makes it feel as if they're flashing in front of me, like my own private slide show?ugly person, ugly person,uglyperson.

I trytomakemywayonto thedancefloor,forwhich I pay a price. Not onlyis thecrowd unattractive, it is supremelyuncoordinated.Butenthusiastic. Uncoordinatedandenthusiastic, a lethalcombination.

I maneuver carefully through the flailing limbs toward the bar at the far end of the room, making an efforttostayinmotion. ou're

only vulnerable to "unwelcome advances" if you stand still or, heaven forbid, dance, in which case you areguaranteedtohaveanunfamiliar pelvis pressedfirmly againstyour asswithin seconds.

"Martini, straightup, noolive." I need a littlepick-me-up toputtheedgebackon.

"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my God. t's Mr. COCKS. I thought H. H. was hangingoutwith his collegefriendstonight. "Isthatgood?You likethat?"

"WHAT?I CAN'THEARYOU!" I mouthasI startscanningover his whitehatfor H. H. inthecrowd.

"MARTINIS! HARDSTUFF!!" Right.

"SORRY! NOT A WORD!" I don't see him anywhere, which means I'm going to have to remind Hard

Martini over hereaboutDorrian's.

"HARD!!!" Sure,big guy. Whateveryousay.

"LISTEN,WEMETAT DORRIAN'S.'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!"

"RIGHT,THENAAAANNNEEEEHHH."Yep, that's me.

"IS HEHERE?" I shout.

"THENANNNEEEHHH."

"YEAH,I'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!IS ... HE... HERE?"

"RIGHT, YEAH, HE WAS HERE WITH SOME OF HIS COLLEGE BUDDIES, BUNCH OF ART

HOUSEPUSSIES,THEYWENTTOSOMEFUCKINGART GALLERYPOETRYTHING?

"THENEXTTHING?"I shoutintohis ear,hopingtopermanently deafenhim.

"YEAH, THAT'S IT. BUNCH OF BIDDIES IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DRINKING FUCKING

IMPORTEDCOFFEE?

"THANKS!"AndI'm off.

I getoutsideintothecoldair andlookwith reliefatthe

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bouncer as he undoes theropes. I takeout mywallet and do an inventory. Okay,I can walk it in tenand

savethemoney,butthese

shoesare?

"Hello?" I look over to see . .. me, in flannel pajamas, on Char-lene's futon, watching educational

television with George. "Hello? Can we talk for a second here? You got up at five-thirty this morning.

Did you even eat a full meal today? When was the last time you had a glass of water and your feet are

killing you."

"So?" I askmyself asI puffalongSpringStreet.

"Sooo, you are tired, you are drunk, and, if you don't mind my saying, you're not looking all that great.

Gohome. Evenifyoufind

him?

"Look, you flannel-wearing, couch-warming, lo mein-eating loser, you are sitting at home alone. 1

know from sitting home, okay? My feet are bleeding, I'm down with that, I cannot fully inhale due to

the leather pants, and there is a permanent lace indentation up the crack of my ass. ut I deserve this date! This date will happen because I still have greasepaint behind my ears. I've earned this! What if I can't find him . .. ever again7. What if he never finds me? Sure, I want to be home, I want to be on the couch,butI needtohookupfirst! I havetherestof mylifetowatchTV!"

"Yeah,youdon't reallyseem all that?

"Well, of course not! Who would be at this hour? It's not about that! I have to win. He has to see me in myleatherpants. ecannot, cannot,cannotgotobedtonightwith thelast imagehehas of me beingin a hugepurpleTeletubbycostume! Outof thequestion.Goodnight."

I harden my resolve and turn onto Mercer, heading up to the bouncer. n art gallery with a bouncer, don't evengetme started.

"Sorry,lady,we're closedfor aprivate functiontonight."

"But. ut. utI? I'm dumbfounded.

"Sorry,lady."Andthatisthat.

"Taxi." I bum a cigarette off the driver and exhale as the city goes by in reverse. I honestly think, years fromnow,taxi rideslikethiswill bethedefiningmemory ofmyearlytwenties.

I mean,really,ifyouwantedtoseeme,commit to aplace!

I flicktheashoutthewindow. It's thewholeBuffet Syndrome?forNewYork Cityboys Manhattanis an all-you-can-eat. Why commit to one place when there might be a cooler one around the corner? Why commit toonemodel,when a better/taller/thinner onecouldwalkinthedooratanymoment?

So, in order to avoid having to make a choice, a decision, these boys make a religion of chaos. Their lives become governed by this bizarre need for serendipity. It's a whole lot of "We'll just see what happens."AndinManhattanthatcouldbehangingoutwith KateMossatfourA.M.

So,ifI "happen"torunintohimthreeweekendsin a rowthenI mightendup a girlfriend.Theproblem, then, is that their reverence for anarchy forces those of us lucky enough to "happen into" relationships with them to become the planners. r nothing would happen. We become their mothers, their cruise directors. heirnannies.Anditrunsthegamut from H. H. notbeingabletocommit tooneclubforone eveningto Mr. Xalways beinglate,beingearly,ornotbeingthereatall.

I take a drag of my borrowed Parliament and think of Lion King costumes, fishnets, and leather pants, the hours of planningpoured into this night. The cab pulls into Ninety-third Street and I fish for the last of my crumpled twenties.As the cab drives awaythe city suddenly seems very quiet. I stand there for a moment on the sidewalk. he air is bracingly cold, but it feels good. I sit down on the steps of my building and look over at the dim lights of Queens, winking at me across the East River. I wish I had anothercigarette.

I getupstairs andunbuttonmypants,kick offmyshoes,reach

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for water, for pajamas, for George. And on the ninth floor of the electric porcupine that is New York City, Mrs. X is still sitting wide awake in the upholstered chair across from the beige bed, watching as the covers rise and fall with each snore, while somewhere Ms. Chicago unpeels her fishnets and gets intobedalone.

PART TWO

"OooooooooI justloveNannyI absolutelydo ... Sheismymostlycompanion."

. LOISE

CHAPTER FOUR

HolidayCheerat$10 anHour

I turnthekeyandleanintotheXes'heavyfrontdoor,ashasbecomemyhabit,but itonlyswingsopen a footbeforegettingstuck.

"Huh,"I say.

"Huh,"Grayer echoesbehindme.

"Something's blocking the door," I explain as I reach my arm around and begin to grope blindly to identifytheobstructingobject.

"MOOOOMMMMMM! THE DOOR WON'T OPENNNN!!!" Grayer, wasting no time, uses his own approach.

I heartheslideof Mrs. X's stockingfeet. "Yes, Grayer,Mommy's coming. I simply couldn't carry all my elfing past thedoor inone trip."She pulls the door openand is revealed,knee deep inpiles of shopping bags on the foyer floor. ucci, Ferragamo, Chanel, Hermes, and endless silver boxes with purple ribbon, the signature Bergdorf's holiday wrap. She holds what must have been the offending item, a large Tiffany blue package, under her arm and greets us. "Can you believe people actually get engaged this time of year? As if there isn't enough to do, I also had to run all the way to Tiffany's to pick up a sterling serving tray. They should at least have had the decency to wait till January. t's just one more month,really. I'm sosorry,Grayer,thatI couldn't come toyourparty. I'm sureyouhad a wonderfultime with Nanny!"

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I put my backpack down in the coat closet and slip off my boots before crouching to help Grayer with his jacket. He gingerly protects the ornament we have just spent the past three hours constructing with his classmates (and their nannies) at his school's Family Christmas Party. He drops to the floor so I can pulloffhis wet boots.

"Grayer constructed quite the masterpiece," I say. "He's really a wizard with Styrofoam and glitter!" 1 lookupatherasI placehis boots onthemat.