The Nanny Diaries

by Emma Mclaughlin

  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.

  "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

  THE NANNY DIARIES

  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 t
he 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

  THE NANNY DIARIES

  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.

  "Darwin! Honey, it's almost time for your cake. Go on over to the table so Sima can help you with the candles." Mrs. Zuckerman glides over to us in her Gucci ballet flats and matching pedal pushers. She is a vision in pink and gold and, coupled with her multitude of diamonds, practically blinding in the afternoonsun.?

  "Well, Grayer, what's the matter? Don't you want cake?" She tosses her three-hundred-dollar highlights in Grayer's direction and leans against the rail beside me. I'm far too tired for small talk, but am able to putonwhatI hopeis a charmingsmile.

  "Greatparty," I finallymuster,hauling Gup ontomyhip andout of harm's way, so hecan lookover my shoulderintothewhite-crested wakebehindus.

  "Sima and I have been planning it for months. We really had to put our heads together to top last year's overnight at Gracie Mansion,but I just said 'Now, Sima! Creativity is partof the special something you bringto ourfamily,sogotoit!'And I tell you, shehas reallydoneit." Screamsemergefrom thesternof the boat and Sima races past us, panic-stricken. Darwin follows closely behind, lunging out after her with aflamingTiffany's lighter.

  "Darwin," Mrs. Zuckerman admonishes him lightly, "I said to help Sima, not set her on fire." She laughs gaily, taking the lighter from him and clicking the top down. She hands it sternly to a red-faced Sima. "See that he doesn't run around with this next time. I shouldn't have to remind you that it was a gift fromhis grandfather."

  THE NANNY DIARIES

  Sima accepts the sterling silver box, without lifting her eyes. She takes Darwin's hand and pulls him delicately backtohis cake.

  Mrs. Zuckerman leans in to me, the gold Cs on her glasses gleaming. "I'm so lucky, really. We're like sisters." I smile and nod. She nods back at me. "Please give my regards to Grayer's mom and please be sure to tell her that I have the name of a great d-i-v-o-r-c-e lawyer for her. He got my friendAlice ten percentaboveher prenup."

  I instinctively putmyhandonGrayer's head.

  "Well, you two have fun!" She tosses her hair to the other shoulder and walks back to the cake melee. I guess Mr. X's residenceattheYale Clubhasbecome common knowledge.

  "So, Grove, ready for some cake?" I shift him to my other hip, straighten his tie and touch his cheek wherethepipeimprinthadbeen.His eyes areglassy andhe's clearly asexhaustedas1 am.

  "Mytummy hurts. I don't feelgood,"hemumbles. I trytoremember whereI sawabathroomsign.

  "What kind of hurt?" I ask, attempting to define the nuances of motion sickness versus heartburn to a four-year-old.

  "Nanny, I? He moans into my shoulder before pitching forward to throw up. I manage to aim him over the edge so that the Hudson can receive the thrust of his vomit, leaving my sweater dripping with only about athird.

  I rub his back. "Grover, it's been a very long day." I wipe his mouth with my hand and he nods his head intomyshoulderinagreement.

  TwohourslaterGrayer isholdingthefrontofhis pantsandbouncingonhis NikesintheXes'vestibule.

  "Grove, please just hold it one more second." I give the front door a last shove and it finally gives way. "There. Go!" Herunspastme.

  "Oof!" I hear a thud. I push the door farther open and see Grayer sprawled on a pile of beach towels, felledby aTracyTookerbox.

  "G,youokay?"

  "Thatwassocool,Nanny. Man,youshouldhaveseenit. Standthere,I'm gonnadoitagain."

  "Yeah,
no." I squat down to take off his sneakers and pull off his pukey windbreaker. "Next time you might not be so lucky. Go pee." He runs off. I gingerly tiptoe over the hatbox, the pile of towels, two Lilly Pulitzer shoppingbags, three L. L. Beanboxes, and a bagof charcoalbriquettes. Well, we're either goingtoNantucket,or moving totheburbs.

  "Nanny? Is that you?" I look over and see that the dining room table is completely covered in Mr. X's summer clothes, theonlythingsof his thatConnieandI hadn't packedup.

  "Yes. We justgothome,"I call,moving twoBarneys bags outoftheway.

  "Oh."Mrs. Xcomes out,holdinganarmful of pastelcashmere sweaters. "You're coveredinvomit." She

  recoilsslightly. "Grayerhad a bitof anaccident?

  "I really wish you'd keep better track of what he eats at those parties. How is Mrs. Zuckerman?" "She

  sendsyouher regards?

  "She's so creative. She always throws the best birthdays." She stares at me expectantly, eagerly waiting

  formetoreenacttheafternoon,complete with sockpuppetsandcommedia dell arte. I am justtootired.

  "She,um,wantedtopasson a referral." "Yes?"

  I take a deepbreath, bracingmyself. "She saidthatshe,uh, knows a reallygoodlawyer."I lookdown at

  Mr. X's clothes.

  "Nanny," she says icily, "these are my husband's clothes for the trip." She turns away from me and her

  voice becomes resiliently perky. "I haven't started packing myself, yet. No one can tell me what the weather will be like. Some of our friends broiled, some nearly froze." She drops the sweaters onto the table,sendingseveral balled-up tennissocksrollingontothefloor. "Maria!"

  THE NANNY DIARIES "Yes, ma'am." Mariapushesopentheswingingdoor tothe kitchen. "Canyoufoldthese?" "Yes, ma'am. Right away." She ducks back in the kitchen. "I don't want to overpack, but I also don't

  want to have to do laundry while I'm there and I have no idea if they even have a decent dry cleaner on

  theisland.Also, thatreminds me,we'll beleavingonthefifteenth,promptly ateightA.M.?