Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

"Needtoseeyour ID," a girlwith greenhair andwhite lips mumbles from behind a large Dunkin' Donuts cup clutched at chin height. I riffle through my wallet a moment beforeremembering thatthecardshe's referringtocurrentlysits atthebottomof mybackpack,

uponwhichGeorgeisprobablypeacefullyasleep.

"I don't have it. But I just need to print something out; it'll only take five minutes, I swear." I grip the counterandpeerintentlyat her. Sherollsherheavily kohledeyes.

"Can't," she says, pointing halfheartedly at the list of rules printed out in black-and-white on the wall behindher.

"Okay!Okay,here,let's see,I havemysophomoreIDand ..."I tugcardsmadlyoutof theirleatherslots. "Um, and a librarycardtoLoeb.See,itsays 'senior'onit!"

"Nopicture, though."SheflipsthroughherX-Mancomic book.

"PLEASE, I am begging you. Beg-ging. I have, like, twenty-eight minutes to get this printed and handed in. It's my thesis; my entire college career hangs in the balance here. You can even watch me while I print!" I am startingtohyperventilate.

"Can't leavethedesk."Shepushesher stoolback afewinches,butdoesn't lookup.

"Hey! Hey, you, in the ski hat!" A stick-thin boy with a name tag dangling from the chain around his neckglancesover fromwhereheloungesneartheXerox. "Do youworkhere?"

He saunters over in blue patent leather pants. "Wants to print, but doesn't have ID," the help desk girl informs him.

I reach out and touch his arm, stretching to read his name. "Dylan! Dylan, I need your help. I need you to escort me to a printer so that I can print out my thesis, which is due, four blocks from here, in, like, twenty-five minutes."I trytobreathesteadily inandoutwhilethetwoconfer.

Heeyes meskeptically. "Thethingis... we've hadsomepeoplecoiningintousethecenterfortheirown purposes. Not students,I mean,so .. ." Hedrifts off.

"At seven-thirtyinthemorning,Dylan?Really?" I trytogeta

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handle on myself. "Look, I can even pay you for the paper. I'll make a deal with you. You watch me printandifTOGETHER,youandme,we generateanything other than a thesis paperyoucanthrowme out!"

"Well..."Heslouchesagainstthecounter."You couldbefromColumbiaor something."

"With a sophomore ID from NYU?" I wave the plastic card in front of his face. "Think, Dylan! Use your head, man!Whywouldn't I just print up there?Whywould I come all the waydown here to sneak past you and your partner if I could just waltz into the computer lab three feet from my dorm room, all the way uptown1. Oh, God, I do not have another minute to argue with you two. What's it going to be? Am I going to fail out of college and have a cardiac arrest right here on the linoleum or are you two going to give me FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AT ONE OF YOUR GAZZILLION FREE COMPUTERS?" I pound my keys on the countertop for emphasis. They stare at me blankly while PatentLeatherPantsweighstheevidence.

"Yeah ... Okay. But if it's not your thesis then ... I'm going to have to rip it up," I am already way past him, diskjammedintoterminalnumber six,clickingPrintlike amadwoman.

I slowly emerge from the deepest of sleeps, pulling mysweater offmyfaceto check the time. I've been out cold for almost two hours. Too tired even to make it to Josh's, somehow, in a total fog, I found this stanky couch in the far corner of the Business School lounge where I could finally give way to my exhaustion.

I sit up and wipe the drool off the side of my mouth, getting a lusty gaze from a man highlighting his Wall Street Journal in a chair nearby. I ignore him and pull my wallet and keys from where I had stored them for safekeeping, under my butt in between the orange cushions, and decide to treat myself to the fancycoffeefrom thegourmet espressoshop.

AsI walkdownLaGuardiaPlacespringisinfull bloom. The

May sky is warm and bright and the trees in front of Citibank are thick with buds. I smile up into the cloudless sky. I am awoman whohas takenthisplacebythehornsandmadeit! I am a woman whowill,

against all bureaucraticodds,probablygraduatefromNYU!

I take my five-dollar cup of coffee to a bench in Washington Square Park, so I can bask in the sun, restingagainst theshinyblack lusterof thewrought-ironbench.Thereare fewpeopleintheparkatthis hour,mostlychildrenanddrugdealers, neitherofwhomcandisturbmyreverie.

A woman strolls over to the bench across the way pushing a toddler in a plaid stroller and clutching a McDonald's bag under her arm. She sits, rolling the child to face her as she unwraps two Egg McMuffins and passes one to the stroller. The pigeons cluster around my feet, pecking at the brick. I have an hour before I have to pick up Grayer; maybe I should window-shop for a cute little sundress, somethingtowearinthewarmsummer nightstocomeasI sipmartiniswith H. H. ontheHudson.

I watch the woman pull another container out of the bag and mull over how lovely hash browns would taste right now, gazing absentmindedly at the little backpack hanging loosely on one of the stroller handles. Yes, hash browns and a milk shake, maybe chocolate. My eyes trace the pink border of the cartoon on the front of the backpack. Little pear-shaped figures. All in different colors with shapes on their heads. They are all... I squint to make out their names ... They are all Teletubbies. I spit coffee in a goodthree-footprojectileinfrontofme.

Oh, my God. OH, MY GOD. I struggle to breathe as the pigeons jitter away. Flashes of Halloween, the dark limo ride home, the mink held close around Mrs. X's face, Grayer racked out beside me. I remember Mr. X snoring and Mrs. X talking and talking. Chattering on and on about the beach. I am in a clammy sweat. I putmyhandsover myforehead,tryingtopiecetogetherthememory.

"Oh,myGod,"I sayoutloud,causingthewoman tograbher

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food and stroll quickly to a bench closer to the street. Somehow I have managedto suppress for the last seven months thatI sat in the back of a limo and agreed to go to Nantucketwith the Xes, thattoo many vodkatonicsactually mademerequestthatshe "bringit on."

"Oh. My. God." I pound the bench with my fists. Shit. I mean, I do not, do not want to live with them. It's bad enough here in the city where I can go home at the end of the day. Am I going to see Mr. X in his pajamas?Hisunderwear?Arewe evengoingtoseehimatall?

What would she possibly be hoping for? A little family vacation? Are they going to thrash it out over the hookedrug? Beateach other senseless with canoe paddles? Put Ms. Chicago up in the guest house? Ms. Chicago?

"FUCK!" I leap up, patting myself down. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I have keys, I have coffee, I have a wallet. "I have no rucking envelope." I jerk in about five different directions as I run through the last two hours and the multitude of places I could've left it. I sprint back to the coffee place, the orange couch, Dr. Clarkson's mailbox.

I stand,wheezingandsweaty,infrontofthecomputer centerhelpdesk.

"Look, man, you've gotta clear out or for real we're gonna have to call security." Dylan tries to sound authoritative.

I can't speak.I'm sick.I wastrying tohaveintegrity. Instead,I'm thegirl whostoleeighthundreddollars and apair ofdirty underwear. I'm afelonand afreak.

"Dude, I mean it, you better get out of here. Bob's on the noon shift and he's not nearly as cool as me." Noon.Right. GottagograbGrayeranddraghimtoDarwin's birthdayparty.

"STOP IT! I DON'T LIKE THAT!" Grayer screams, his face flattened into the metal rails that line the upperdeckoftheboat.

I crouch down to whisper in his assailant's ear. "Darwin, if you do not step away from Grayer in the nexttwosecondsI'm goingto

throw you overboard." Darwin turns in shock to my smiling face. Good Witch/Bad Witch on three hoursof sleepandouteighthundreddollars; kid, youdon't wanttomess withme today.

He falters a fewfeet back and Grayer, a red imprint runningacross his right cheek where it was pressed against the pipe, wraps himself around my leg. Grayer has only been the focus of Darwin's torture for the past few minutes, joining the ranks of fifty other terrorized birthday-party guests, held prisoner for thelasttwohoursontheCircleLine JazzfestCruise.