Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

toreviewthefactsofthecase?"

"I foundMs. Chicagopractically hangingoutinMrs. X's bedfourmonthsago,andthen, all of a sudden,

1 received a letteratmyhome?

"ExhibitA,"Sarahsays, wavingtheletter.

"WhichmeanssheknowswhereI live! She's huntedme down!Istherenowhereformetohide?"

"It's soover theline,"Sarahconfirms.

"Oh,doesNanhave aline?" Joshasks.

"Yes! I have a line. It's drawn right across Eighty-sixth Street. They cannot come to my home!" I feel

myself startingto gethysterical. "I have a thesis paperto write! Exams to take!A jobtofind!WhatI do not have. s time. I cannot be running around NYU with Mr. X's mistress's underwear in my bag. I cannotbejugglingtheir secretson a fullcourseload!"

"Nan, look," Sarah says gently, reaching around the table to put her hand on my back. "You still have

power here. Disengage. Just give it all backandcallit a day."

"Give it all backtowho?" I ask.

"Totheskank,"Joshsays. "Mail thatshitbacktoher andlether knowyoudon't wanttoplay."

"ButwhataboutMrs. X?If this all comes outandshefindsoutI hadthepanties anddidn't tellher?

"What's shegonnado?Kill you?" Sarahasks. "Putyou injailfortherestof your life?" Sheholds up her

glass. "Send 'embackandquit."

"I can't quit. I don't have time to look for another job and my Real Job. t whatever school I can

convincetohireme. on't starttill September.Besides". openthebagofcheesepoofs, finishedwith

myboutofself-pity?I justcan't leaveGrayer."

"You're gonnabeleavinghimatsomepoint," Joshreminds me.

"Yeah,butif I wanttostayinhis lifeI can't endonbadterms with her," I say. "Butyou're right. I'll send

thisstuffback."

"Andlook,thatonly tookustwentyminutes,"Sarahsays. "Which still leaves tenminutesforyou torun myorgoflashcardswith me."

"Thefunnever stops,"I say.

Josh leans over to give me a hug. "Don't sweat it, Nan, you'll be fine. Hey. et's not overlook the fact that you guessed Ms. Chicago's panties would be black lace thongs, like, months before we found 'em. That's gotta be a marketableskill."

I empty my glass. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know."

THE NANNY DIARIES

I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room thatI've accumulated since I got home from work Friday. It's fourA.M. and I've been writing for forty-eight straight hours, which is significantly less time for my thesis than I allotted myself. But, shortof leavingGrayer tocareforhimself intheapartment,I didn't reallyhave achoice.

I glance over at the brown manila envelope that's been resting against my printer since The Panty Roundtable aweekago.Tapedandstamped,itonlyremains tobeceremoniouslydepositedin a mailbox after I deliver my thesis in four hours. Then Ms. Chicago and NYU will be well on their way to becoming a distantmemory.

I grab another handful of M&M's out of the quarter-pound bag. I probably have all of five pages to go, butcanbarelykeepmyeyes open.A loudsnoreeruptsfrombehindthescreen.Fuckinghairy pilotidiot.

I stretch my arms out to yawn, just as another guttural snore punctuates the silence, sending George dartingwith intensepurposeacross theroomanddiving into a neglectedheapofdirty clothes.

I'm so tired I feel like my eyes are filled with playground sand. Desperate to regain some semblance of lucidity, I step carefully around the debris to locate myheadphones and plug them into the stereo. I pull them onto my head and crouch down to spin the tuner until I find thumping dance music. I rock my head to the rhythm, turning the volume up until I feel the beat make its way down to my lucky turtle socks. I stand up to dance around in the small radius allowed me by the headphone cord. Bongo drums fill myearsandI shimmywildlyamid thebooks,eyes closed, willing myadrenalinetoperkmeup.

"NAN!" I open my eyes and slightly recoil at the sight of Mr. Hairy in a T-shirt and boxers, one hand carelessly scratching in his shorts. "WHATTHE HELL? IT'SALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING!" hebellows.

"Sorry?" I slidetheheadphonesoffmyears, noticingthatthis

action does not decrease the volume. He points exasperatedly at the stereo where my floor show has unpluggedtheheadphones.

I lunge for the off button. "God, sorry. My thesis is due tomorrow and I'm so tired. I was just trying to wakeup."

Hestompsofftotheother endofthestudio. "Whatever,"hegrumbles intothedarkness.

"As long as you're comfortable!" I mouth silently in his direction. "As long as you're happy, sleeping hereevenwhenCharleneis flyingall-nighters fromYemen!As longasmyrent-paying-utilities-paying!can-only-get-to-the-bathroom-during-daylight-hours selfisnotdisturbingyou."I roll myeyes andhead backtothecomputer. Fourhours, fivepages. I grabanotherhandfulofM&M's; let's go,Nan.

The alarm wakes me at six-thirty, but it requires quite a few bleeps and one very disgruntled "WHAT THE HELL?" to raise mywearyhead offthe pillow. I look at the clock; sixty minutes of sleep in forty-eight hours ought to do me just fine. I uncurl from the tight fetal position in which I passed out mere secondsagoandreachdowntopullon a pairofjeans.

Pink light spills in through the open window, illuminating the disarray, which looks as if librarians came over and partied very hard. The computer hums loudly, mixing with the chirps of birds outside. I lean over the chair and wiggle the mouse to get past the screen saver and click Print. I click again on OK, appreciating that my computer feels compelled to check in with me at least twice regarding all major decisions. I hear the Style Writer run its warm-up swipe and shuffle groggily off to the bathroom tobrushmyteeth.

By the time I return not a stitch of progress has been made. "Jesus," 1 mutter, checking the Print Monitor to seewhat's In theQueue.A message pops up on the screentonotify me thatError Seventeen hasoccurredandthatI shouldeither rebootor calltheservicecenter. Fine.

THE NANNY DIARIES

I press save and shut down the machine, careful to pull out the disk on which I saved the five-thirty

A.M. version. I restart as instructed, while pulling on boots, tying a sweater around my waist, and waiting for the screen to light up again. I check my watch: six-fifty. One hour and ten minutes to shove this behemoth under Clarkson's door. I press a myriad of buttons, but the screenremains dark. Myheart pounds. Nothing I press can cajole my computer back to life. I grab the disk, my wallet, keys, the Ms. Chicagopackage,andrunoutoftheapartment.

I jog up to SecondAvenue, both arms waving over my head to hail a cab. I leap into the first one that languorously pulls over, trying to remember where, in the maze that is NYU's campus, the computer center islocated.For somereason1 havebeenunabletocommit most campuslocationstomemoryand suspectsomeFreudianconnectionbetweenlogistics andmyfearof bureaucracyisresponsible.

"Uh, it's offWest Fourth, um, and Bleecker,1 think.Just headin thatdirection and I'll tell you when we get close!" Thedriver takes off,brakingsharplybefore eachlight. Thestreets are pretty empty, savethe street cleaners whirring past and the men in suits and overcoats disappearing, briefcase first, down subway steps. Why this paper has to be in at eightA.M. is utterly beyond me. Some people get to mail in their final papers. Oh, who am I kidding? If that were the case, I'd just be in a frantic cab ride to the postoffice.

I hopoutof thetaxi onWaverlyPlace,takingthedisk,mywallet,andkeys justas agirlin a shinyoutfit and smeared makeup shoves me aside to get in the cab. I catch the unmistakable whiff of a long night out. eer, stale cigarettes, and Drakkar Noir. I am comforted by the reminder that my life at this moment couldbeworse?Icouldbe a sophomoredoingtheWalk/CabRideofShame.

It's a littlepastseven-fifteenbythetime I findmy way, almost bysmell, tothemaincomputer centeron thefifthflooroftheeducationbuilding.