Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

Twoflights afloor,whichmakesthistechnically,like,thesixth

floor."

"You helpedmemove outof thedorm?

"Yeah,whywasthat? Oh,right,becauseithasanel-e-va-tor."

"Well, thegoodnews isthatI'm notplanningonmovingout of

here, ever. Thisis it. You canvisit meup herewhenwe're oldand gray."I wipethesweatoffmyforehead. THE NANNY DIARIES "Forget it.'ll be hanging out on your front stoop with the rest of the blue hairs." He drops his head

backdown.

"Come on." I pull myself up by the banister. "Cold beers await." I unlock all three locks and open the

door. The apartment feels like a car that's been sitting in the hot sun and we have to step back to let the

scorchingair blowpast usintothehallway.

"Charlenemust haveclosedthewindowsbeforesheleftthismorning,"I say.

"And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty

as akitchen.

"Welcome to myfully equippedcloset. Can I toast you a bagel?" I drop mykeys next to thetwo-burner

stove.

"Whatare youpayingforthisplace?" heasks.

"You don't wanttoknow,"I say, aswepushtheair conditioneracrosstheroomtogetherinlittleshoves.

"So,where's thehotroommate?" heasks.

"Josh,not all stewardessesarehot. Somearethematronlytype."

"Is she?" Hestops.

"Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No. he's hot, but I don't like you assuming she's hot. She flew to

France or Spain or something this morning," I huff as we round the corner to my end of the L-shaped

studio.

"George!"Joshcries outingreetingtomycat,who's sprawledoutonthewarmwoodenfloorindespair.

He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his

foreheadwith thebottomof his Mr. BubbleT-shirt. "Wheredoyouwantthissucker?"

I pointtothetopof thewindow.

"What?You a crazylady."

"It's a trickI learnedontheAvenue, 'so asnotto interferewith theview.'Thosewithoutcentral air goto

greatlengthstohideit, darling,"I explainasI kickoffmysandals.

"Whatview?"

"If yousmooshyourfaceagainst thewindowandlookleftyoucanseetheriver."

"Hey, you're right." He pulls back from the glass. "Listen?this whole Josh-heaving-heavy-machinery!

up-to-balance-on-sheet-of-glass-thing,notgonnahappen,Nan.I'm getting a beer. Comeon, George." Heheadsbackto the "kitchen"and Georgestretchesup tofollow him. I usethemoment aloneto grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off mysweatyone.As I crouchbehind theboxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glaresup atme.

"Runningthat900 numberagain?" Joshreachesover theboxtohandme aCorona.

"Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." 1 take a swig of mybeerandslidedownbetweentheboxestohit play. A woman's voice fills the room: "Hi, this is Mimi Van Owen. I saw your ad at the league. I'm looking

for someone to help me look after my son. Just part-time, you understand. Maybe two, three, four days a week, half-days or longer and some nights or weekends, or both! Whenever you have time. But I just wantyoutoknowthatI'm veryinvolved."

"Well, that'sjustobvious, Mimi," Joshsays, slidingdowntojoinme.

"HithisisAnnSmithl'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold!sonhe'snotroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold?

"Ouch."Joshputshis handsuptoshieldhimself andI forwardtothenextmessage.

"Hi. I'm Betty Potter. I saw your ad at the Parents League. I have a five-year-old girl, Stanton, a three!

year-old boy, Tinford, a ten-month-old, Jace,andI'm lookingforsomeonewhocanhelp me,

THE NANNY DIARIES

sinceI'm pregnantagain.Nowyoudidn't mentionyourfeeinthead,butI've beenpaying six."

"SixAmericandollars?" I askthemachine,incredulously.

"Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square Park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh

swigshis beer.

"Hi, it's Mrs. X. We met in the park this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I'd like to talk

moreaboutthetypeof job you're looking for. We have a girl. aitlin. ut she's lookingtocuther hours

andyoumadequiteanimpressiononour son,Grayer. Lookforwardtotalkingtoyou.Bye."

"She soundsnormal. Call her."

"You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in

instantnannymode,tryingtoconveyutmost respectabilitywith twosyllables.

"Hello". y mothermatchesmydeep,fancytone?how'dtheair-conditioner mission turnout?"

"Hey."I relax. "Fine?

"Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie. he's determined to sit two inches

from the air conditioner." I smile at the image of our fourteen-year-old springer spaniel with her ears blowing out behind her like the Red Baron. "Move it, Soph. nd now she's sitting on all the research forthegrant."

I take a sip of beer. "How's thatcoming?"

"Ugh, it's toodepressing. ell me something cheerful." Since the Republicanstook office mymother's CoalitionforWomen's Sheltersgets evenlessmoneythanitusedto.

"I gotsomefunnymessagesfrommummies-in-need," I offer.

"I thought we discussed this." Her lawyer voice is back. "Nan, you take these jobs and within days you're up atthreeinthemorningworrying if thelittle princesshas tapdancingor a jamsessionwith the DalaiLama?

"Mom. Mommm. haven't eveninterviewedyet. Besides,I'm

notgoingtobeworkingasmanyhoursthisyear,becauseI havemythesis."

"Exactly!That's exactly it. You have your thesis, just like last yearyou hadyour internship and theyear before that you had your field study. I don't understand why you won't even consider an academic job. You shouldask yourthesisprofessor if youcanassist him. Oryoucouldworkintheresearchlibrary!"

"We have been over this a million times." I roll my eyes at Josh. "Those jobs are so competitive. r. Clarkson has a graduate student on full fellowship assisting him. Besides, they only pay six dollars an hour. efore taxes. Mom, nothing I do with my clothes on is going to pay this well until I get my degree."Joshshimmies andpulls offanimaginarybra.

My mother lucked out with a research assistant position that she held on to for all four years of her undergraduate work. However, that was when housing near Columbia cost as much as I am currently payingforutilities. "DoI havetogive youtheRealEstateTalk again,Mom?"

"Then, for the love of God, be a makeup girl at Bloomingdale's. Just punch in your time card, look pretty, smile, and get your pay-check." She can't imagine that one would ever wake at threeA.M. in a cold sweat, wondering if the shipment of oil-free toner had remembered to put on its Nighttime Pull-Ups.

"Mom, I enjoyworkingwith kids. Look,it's toohottoargue."

"Just promise me you'll think about it this time before you take a job. I don't want you graduating on Valium because some woman with more money than she knows what to do with left you her kid while sheranofftoCannes."

And I do think about it, while Josh and I listen to all the messages again trying to find the mother who soundsleastlikelytodojustthat.

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ThefollowingMondayonmywaytomeetMrs. XI make a quickstop atmyfavoritestationerystoreto stock up on Post-its. Today my Filofax only has two Post-its: a tiny pink one imploring me to "BUY MORE POST-ITS" and a green one reminding me that I have "Coffee, Mrs. X, 11:15." I pull off the pink one and toss it in the trash as I continue heading south to La Patisserie Gout du Mois, our appointed meeting place. As I cut across to Park I begin passing chic women in fall suits, all holding sheets of monogrammed stationery in their bejeweled hands. Each one walks in tandem with a shorter, dark-skinnedwoman,whonodsemphatically backatthem.

"Baa-llleeeet? Do-you-un-der-stand!" the woman next to me rudely shouts to her nodding companion aswewait forthelighttochange. "OnMondaysJosephinahasBaaaaaa-lleeeeeeet!"