The Nanny Diaries Part 24

I hear her sigh. "Mommy's exhausted, Grayer. Go get into bed and I'll read you one verse from your Shakespearereaderandthen it's lightsout."

Down on the street I run past the doorman to the corner and flail madly for a cab, hoping, at least, to make it downtown for the closing summary. I unroll the window completely, promising myself that I'll clarify myhoursbeforenextweek's cla.s.s andknowingthatI probablywon't.

A few days later I pull out from my mailbox, in addition to the usual barrage of J. Crew and Victoria's Secret catalogs, two envelopes which give me pause. The first is on Mrs. X's creambusiness stationery, usuallyreserved forher committee work.

April 30DearNanny, I would like to share with you a matter of concern to Grayer's father and myself. It has come to our attention that after you left in such a hurry last night there was a puddle of urine found beneath the small garbagecaninGrayer's bathroom.

I understand that you have your academic obligations, but I am, frankly, alarmed by your lack of awareness of such a situation.As per our agreement, inthehours during which you workhere we are to receive your utmost and constant attention. Such a glaring oversight gives me pause as to the consistencyofyourperformance.

Pleasereviewthefollowingrules: 1. Grayer istowearpull-ups whenhegetsintobed.

2. Grayer isnottodrinkjuiceafter five P.M.

3. You are tobesupervisinghimat all times.

4. You are tobefamiliarwiththecleaningsuppliesandusethemaccordingly.

I trust you will review the consistency of your care and note that if an incident of this nature repeats itselfI shallnothavetopayyouforthathour. I donotexpectthatwewill havetodiscussthis again.

Hopeyou bothhave funonyour playdate withAlex! Pleasebe suretopick up mycoatat thetailors', it shouldbereadyafter two.

Sincerely, Mrs. X.

Right.

The second envelope is lined in Crane's tomato red. I pull out a wad of hundred-dollar-bills held togetherby asterlingmoneyclipengravedwith anX.

DearNanny, I will be returning from Chicago the third week of June. I. appreciate it if you could see that the apartmentis stockedwith thefollowing: Lillet = 6bottles Foie gras?6 Teuscherchampagnetruffles?1box Steaks?2 G.o.divachocolateicecream?2pints Oysters ?4dozen Lobsters?2 Lavenderlinenwater Keepthechange, Thanks,Ms. C Whatisupwith thesewomen andlavenderwater?

Thequadroonnursewaslookeduponas ahugeenc.u.mbrance,onlygoodtob.u.t.tonupwaists andpanties andtobrushandparthair; sinceitseemedtobe alawofsocietythathair mustbepartedandbrushed.

. HEAWAKENING.

CHAPTER NINE.

Oh ...my ...G.o.d Sarah cracks her front door open to the extentthe chain will allow, revealing flannel cloud pajamas and a pencil holding her blond bun in place. "Okay, half an hour. hat's it. I mean it, thirty minutes. I'm home tocramformyorgofinal,notsortthroughtheXes'dirty laundry."

"Why did you schlep yourself all the way back into the city to study?" Josh asks as Sarah unlocks the chainandlets usintotheEnglundfamily's fronthall.

"Haveyouever met,Jill,myroommate?"

"I don't thinkso,"Joshsays,takingoffhis jacket.

"Don't worry. ou're notmissing much. he's atheatermajorandher 'final'isperforming fiveminutes ofher lifefortheheadsofthedepartment. hrowyourstuffonthebench. oshe's constantlystanding up in our room, saying 'Dammit!', and sitting back down. I mean, how hard is it to sit and read a magazinefor five minutes?" She rolls her eyes. "Do youguys wantsomething to drink?" We followher into the kitchen, which still has the same yellow daisy wallpaper that it did when we were in kindergarten.

"Sing Slings."I requestSarah's speciality.

"Coming right up," she says, stretching to pull a c.o.c.ktail shaker and sour mix out of a high cabinet.

"Have aseat." Shegesturestothelonggreentablebythewindow.

"It would be much cooler if this were a round table, like we could be the Knights of the Panty Roundtable,"Joshsays.

"Josh,"I say, "thepanties aren't thefocusrightnow. heletteris?

"We have aroundcoffeetableintheliving room,"Sarahoffers.

"We are totallydoingthis at aroundtable,"Joshdecides.

"Nan, you know the way," Sarah says, handing me a bag of Pirate's Booty. 1 lead Josh into the living room and plop down on the Persian carpet around the coffee table. Sarah follows with a tray of SingaporeSlings. "Okay,"shesays,carefullyslidingthetrayontothecoffeetable. "Theclockisticking . pillit."

"Let's justseethegoods,"Joshsays, taking a sip.

I reach into my backpack and pull out the Ziploc baggie, along with Ms. Chicago's letter, and lay them ceremoniously in the middle of the table. We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the evidence as if theywereeggsabouttohatch.

"Man,itreallyis a f.u.c.kingpantyroundtable,"Joshmurmurs, reachingouttowardthebag.

"No!" I say, slappinghis hand. "Thepanties stayinthebag?thatistheoneconditionof theRoundTable.

Got.i.t?"

He folds his hands primly in his lap, sighing. "Fine. So, for the edification of the court, would you care 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.

"Tothes.k.a.n.k,"Joshsays. "Mail thats.h.i.+tbacktoher 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 gla.s.s. "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 gla.s.s. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know."

I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room thatI've acc.u.mulated 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.f.u.c.kinghairy 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 s.h.i.+mmywildlyamid thebooks,eyes closed, willing myadrenalinetoperkmeup.

"NAN!" I open my eyes and slightly recoil at the sight of Mr. Hairy in a T-s.h.i.+rt and boxers, one hand carelessly scratching in his shorts. "WHATTHE h.e.l.l? 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 b.u.t.ton. "G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l?" 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 pa.s.sed 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 st.i.tch 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.

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 b.u.t.tons, 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 s.h.i.+nyoutfit 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 soph.o.m.oredoingtheWalk/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 havemysoph.o.m.oreIDand ..."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."Shepush.e.s.h.er 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 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 soph.o.m.ore 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, G.o.d, 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 f.u.c.kING 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 l.u.s.ty 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 b.u.t.t in between the orange cus.h.i.+ons, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton Square Park, so I can bask in the sun, restingagainst thes.h.i.+nyblack l.u.s.terof thewrought-ironbench.Thereare fewpeopleintheparkatthis hour,mostlychildrenanddrugdealers, neitherofwhomcandisturbmyreverie.

A woman strolls over to the bench across the way pus.h.i.+ng 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 Mcm.u.f.fins and pa.s.ses one to the stroller. The pigeons cl.u.s.ter 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 G.o.d. OH, MY G.o.d. 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,myG.o.d,"I sayoutloud,causingthewoman tograbher 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. G.o.d." I pound the bench with my fists. s.h.i.+t. 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?