The Nanny Diaries Part 8

f.u.c.k.

I sitdownontheleathercouchandslump myfaceinmyhands.

I don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthis.

I grab ashooterfromthedesertedtrayof chilledvodkashotsonthecoffeetableanddownit.

Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely pa.s.sed out with his headinmylap.I suspecttheremaybe a stainontheseatwhenwegetout,but, hey, we were all adequatelywarned.

Mr. X leans.h.i.+s headback againsttheleatherupholstery andcloses his eyes. I crackthewindow aninch to let some fresh air blow over me from theEast River. I am a little drunk.Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.

Inthedistantbackground,I hearthetentative chatter ofMrs. X. "I wastalkingtoRyan's motherandshe says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview forGrayer. Oh,andshetoldmethatsheandBenaretaking a houseinNantucketthissummer.

It turns out thatWalling-ton and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightfulbreak from the Hamptons. She said it's so pleasantjust to get awayfrom theMaidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity. And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally saidBen's brotherisgoingtoParis thissummer, soyoucouldtakehis members.h.i.+p attheirtennisclub.AndNannycouldcome, too!Wouldn't youliketo joinusfor a fewweeksontheoceanthis summer,Nanny?It will besorelaxing."

Myearsperkup atthesoundofmynameandI findmyself respondingwith unmitigated enthusiasm.

"Totally. Relaxing and fun. F-U-N. Bring it on!" I say, trying to give a purple thumbs-up, as I imagine me, the ocean, my Harvard Hottie. "Naaantucket. wim, sand, and surf. I mean, what's not to love? Sign . . . me . . . up." Beneath my half-closed eyes I see her look at me quizzically before turning to the snoring Mr. X.

"Well, then." She pulls her mink up close around her and speaks to the city racing by outside the window. "Thatsettles it. I'll calltherealtortomorrow."

A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I checkfor tracesof greasepaintin mycompact. I leanforward to catch a glance atthecabbie's clock andtheglowinggreenlettersreadback10:24.Go,Go,Go.

My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the b.u.mp of each potholeandcansmell thelastpa.s.senger's cigarette.Thecombinationof thesurrealtenoroftheevening, the numerous drinks I have consumed, the leather pants I'm poured into, and the promise of a potential hookup with Harvard Hottie all add up to a lot of pressure. I am, in no uncertain terms, on a mission. Whatever reservations I had, political, moral, or otherwise, have melted past my lace underwear and intomyPradashoes.

The cab pulls up at Thirteenth Street, on a particularly seedy stretch of SecondAvenue, and I toss the driver twelve bucks and jog inside. Nightingale's is one of those places I vowed never to set foot in again after I graduated from high school. The beer's served in plastic cups, drunk men armed with darts makegettingsafelytothe bathroom achallenge,and,ifyoudomakeit,thedoordoesn't close. It istheproverbials.h.i.+t Hole.

It takes all of two secondsforme toswing myheadaroundand seethatthereis noHarvard Hottie tobe found.Think.Think.Theywere goingtostartatChaos. "Taxi!"

I leap out on the corner of West Broadway and take my place on line behind a clump of people who have actually come here voluntarily. I'm waved behind the ropes with a clique of scantily clad girls, while afrustrated throngofguys trytotakeononeofthebouncers.

"Let's seesomeID."

I pull open my purse and hand the six-eight bouncer a juice box, HotWheels, and HandiWipes, before uncoveringmywallet.

"That'll be twenty bucks." Fine. Fine! I throw him two hours in a Teletubbies outfit and make my way up a darkened staircase lined with inappropriate black-and-white photographs of naked women with trumpet lilies. The ba.s.s beat from the house music is like aural rape and as I'm propelled along by the b.u.mp-ba-b.u.mp it reminds me of the old cartoons where Tom's music would bounce Jerry right out of his matchboxbed.

I startwending myway intothe crush of people, lookingfor?what? Brown hair, a HarvardT-s.h.i.+rt? The crowd is a mishmash oftourists andNYUstudentsfrom Utahandgayguys. hebalding, marriedones from the Island. nd they all went shopping on Eighth Street. It's not an attractive crowd. The strobe makes it feel as if they're flas.h.i.+ng in front of me, like my own private slide show?ugly person, ugly person,uglyperson.

I trytomakemywayonto thedancefloor,forwhich I pay a price. Not onlyis thecrowd unattractive, it is supremelyuncoordinated.Butenthusiastic. Uncoordinatedandenthusiastic, a lethalcombination.

I maneuver carefully through the flailing limbs toward the bar at the far end of the room, making an efforttostayinmotion. ou're only vulnerable to "unwelcome advances" if you stand still or, heaven forbid, dance, in which case you areguaranteedtohaveanunfamiliar pelvis pressedfirmly againstyour a.s.swithin seconds.

"Martini, straightup, noolive." I need a littlepick-me-up toputtheedgebackon.

"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my G.o.d. t's Mr. c.o.c.kS. I thought H. H. was hangingoutwith his collegefriendstonight. "Isthatgood?You likethat?"

"WHAT?I CAN'THEARYOU!" I mouthasI startscanningover his whitehatfor H. H. inthecrowd.

"MARTINIS! HARDSTUFF!!" Right.

"SORRY! NOT A WORD!" I don't see him anywhere, which means I'm going to have to remind Hard Martini over hereaboutDorrian's.

"HARD!!!" Sure,big guy. Whateveryousay.

"LISTEN,WEMETAT DORRIAN'S.'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!".

"RIGHT,THENAAAANNNEEEEHHH."Yep, that's me.

"IS HEHERE?" I shout.

"THENANNNEEEHHH.".

"YEAH,I'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!IS ... HE... HERE?".

"RIGHT, YEAH, HE WAS HERE WITH SOME OF HIS COLLEGE BUDDIES, BUNCH OF ART.

HOUSEp.u.s.s.iES,THEYWENTTOSOMEf.u.c.kINGART GALLERYPOETRYTHING?.

"THENEXTTHING?"I shoutintohis ear,hopingtopermanently deafenhim.

"YEAH, THAT'S IT. BUNCH OF BIDDIES IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DRINKING f.u.c.kING.

IMPORTEDCOFFEE?.

"THANKS!"AndI'm off.

I getoutsideintothecoldair andlookwith reliefatthe bouncer as he undoes theropes. I takeout mywallet and do an inventory. Okay,I can walk it in tenand savethemoney,b.u.t.these shoesare?

"h.e.l.lo?" I look over to see . .. me, in flannel pajamas, on Char-lene's futon, watching educational television with George. "h.e.l.lo? Can we talk for a second here? You got up at five-thirty this morning.

Did you even eat a full meal today? When was the last time you had a gla.s.s of water and your feet are killing you."

"So?" I askmyself asI puffalongSpringStreet.

"Sooo, you are tired, you are drunk, and, if you don't mind my saying, you're not looking all that great.

Gohome. Evenifyoufind him?

"Look, you flannel-wearing, couch-warming, lo mein-eating loser, you are sitting at home alone. 1 know from sitting home, okay? My feet are bleeding, I'm down with that, I cannot fully inhale due to the leather pants, and there is a permanent lace indentation up the crack of my a.s.s. ut I deserve this date! This date will happen because I still have greasepaint behind my ears. I've earned this! What if I can't find him . .. ever again7. What if he never finds me? Sure, I want to be home, I want to be on the couch,butI needtohookupfirst! I havetherestof mylifetowatchTV!"

"Yeah,youdon't reallyseem all that?

"Well, of course not! Who would be at this hour? It's not about that! I have to win. He has to see me in myleatherpants. ecannot, cannot,cannotgotobedtonightwith thelast imagehehas of me beingin a hugepurpleTeletubbycostume! Outof thequestion.Goodnight."

I harden my resolve and turn onto Mercer, heading up to the bouncer. n art gallery with a bouncer, don't evengetme started.

"Sorry,lady,we're closedfor aprivate functiontonight."

"But. ut. utI? I'm dumbfounded.

"Sorry,lady."Andthatisthat.

"Taxi." I b.u.m a cigarette off the driver and exhale as the city goes by in reverse. I honestly think, years fromnow,taxi rideslikethiswill bethedefiningmemory ofmyearlytwenties.

I mean,really,ifyouwantedtoseeme,commit to aplace!

I flicktheashoutthewindow. It's thewholeBuffet Syndrome?forNewYork Cityboys Manhattanis an all-you-can-eat. Why commit to one place when there might be a cooler one around the corner? Why commit toonemodel,when a better/taller/thinner onecouldwalkinthedooratanymoment?

So, in order to avoid having to make a choice, a decision, these boys make a religion of chaos. Their lives become governed by this bizarre need for serendipity. It's a whole lot of "We'll just see what happens."AndinManhattanthatcouldbehangingoutwith KateMossatfourA.M.

So,ifI "happen"torunintohimthreeweekendsin a rowthenI mightendup a girlfriend.Theproblem, then, is that their reverence for anarchy forces those of us lucky enough to "happen into" relations.h.i.+ps with them to become the planners. r nothing would happen. We become their mothers, their cruise directors. heirnannies.Anditrunsthegamut from H. H. notbeingabletocommit tooneclubforone eveningto Mr. Xalways beinglate,beingearly,ornotbeingthereatall.

I take a drag of my borrowed Parliament and think of Lion King costumes, fishnets, and leather pants, the hours of planningpoured into this night. The cab pulls into Ninety-third Street and I fish for the last of my crumpled twenties.As the cab drives awaythe city suddenly seems very quiet. I stand there for a moment on the sidewalk. he air is bracingly cold, but it feels good. I sit down on the steps of my building and look over at the dim lights of Queens, winking at me across the East River. I wish I had anothercigarette.

I getupstairs andunb.u.t.tonmypants,kick offmyshoes,reach for water, for pajamas, for George. And on the ninth floor of the electric porcupine that is New York City, Mrs. X is still sitting wide awake in the upholstered chair across from the beige bed, watching as the covers rise and fall with each snore, while somewhere Ms. Chicago unpeels her fishnets and gets intobedalone.

PART TWO.

"OooooooooI justloveNannyI absolutelydo ... Sheismymostlycompanion."

. LOISE.

CHAPTER FOUR.

HolidayCheerat$10 anHour I turnthekeyandleanintotheXes'heavyfrontdoor,ashasbecomemyhabit,but itonlyswingsopen a footbeforegettingstuck.

"Huh,"I say.

"Huh,"Grayer echoesbehindme.

"Something's blocking the door," I explain as I reach my arm around and begin to grope blindly to identifytheobstructingobject.

"MOOOOMMMMMM! THE DOOR WON'T OPENNNN!!!" Grayer, wasting no time, uses his own approach.

I heartheslideof Mrs. X's stockingfeet. "Yes, Grayer,Mommy's coming. I simply couldn't carry all my elfing past thedoor inone trip."She pulls the door openand is revealed,knee deep inpiles of shopping bags on the foyer floor. ucci, Ferragamo, Chanel, Hermes, and endless silver boxes with purple ribbon, the signature Bergdorf's holiday wrap. She holds what must have been the offending item, a large Tiffany blue package, under her arm and greets us. "Can you believe people actually get engaged this time of year? As if there isn't enough to do, I also had to run all the way to Tiffany's to pick up a sterling serving tray. They should at least have had the decency to wait till January. t's just one more month,really. I'm sosorry,Grayer,thatI couldn't come toyourparty. I'm sureyouhad a wonderfultime with Nanny!"

I put my backpack down in the coat closet and slip off my boots before crouching to help Grayer with his jacket. He gingerly protects the ornament we have just spent the past three hours constructing with his cla.s.smates (and their nannies) at his school's Family Christmas Party. He drops to the floor so I can pulloffhis wet boots.

"Grayer constructed quite the masterpiece," I say. "He's really a wizard with Styrofoam and glitter!" 1 lookupatherasI placehis boots onthemat.

"It's a snowman. His name is Al. He has a cold so he has to take lots of vitamin C." Grayer describes StyrofoamAl asifannouncinghimasthenextguestonLetterman.

"Ah."Shenods,s.h.i.+ftingtheTiffany's packagetoherhip.

"Why don't you go look for a spot for Al to hang out?" I help him up and he shuffles off toward the living roomwith his artwork heldinfrontof himlike a Fabergeegg.

I standup,brushmyself off,andfaceMrs. X,readytogive the report.

"I wish you could have seen him this morning. He was totally in his element! He loved the glitter. And hereallytookhis time with making it. You knowGiselleRutherford?"

"Jacqueline Rutherford's daughter? Of course. h, her mother is too much.When it was her turn to do snack she brought in a chef and set up an omelette bar in the music corner. I mean, really. The rule is youaresupposedtocome with thesnackprepared.Tell me,tellme."

"Well, Ms. Giselle insisted that Grayer do his snowman according to her color scheme. range, becauseshe's spendingthisChristmas inSouthBeach."

"Oh,howtacky."Hereyes arewide.

"She pulled Al right out of Grayer's hands and he landed smack in the middle of her orange glitter. I thought Grayer would lose it, but he just looked up at me and announced thatAl's orange specks were simply crumbs from all thevitamin Chehadtotakeforhis cold!"

"I thinkhejusthas a knackforcolor."Shebeginstoorganizeher bags. "So,howare finalsgoing?"

"I'm inthehome stretchandcan't wait tobedone."

Shestandsup andarches her back a little, making a fearful crackingsound. "I know,I'm justexhausted! It seemslikethelist justkeepsongrowing every year. Mr. Xhas ahugefamilyandsomanycolleagues. And it's already thesixth. I cannotwait for Lyford Cay. Cannotwait. I'm exhausted."She gathers up her bags. "Whenareyouoffuntil?"

"January twenty-sixth," I say. Just two more weeks to go and then I have a whole month off from schoolandyou.

"You should go to Europe this January. Do it while you're still a student, before you have Real Life to worryabout."

Oh, so maybe my pending Christmas bonus will cover a plane ticket to Europe? Six hours in a Teletubbycostume says I'm worthit.

Shecontinues. "You shouldseeParis whenit's snowing,there's nothingascharming."

"Except Grayer, of course!" We laugh together, as I try to sell her on her own child. The phone rings, interruptingus.

Mrs. X grabs a few more bags in each hand, tightens her arm around the Tiffany's package, and heads back toward her office. "Oh, Nanny, the tree's been set up. Why don't you and Grayer go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt andbringuptheornaments?"

"Sure!" I call after her asI walk tothe living room. Thetree is a magnificentDouglasfir thatlooks asif it were growing rightout of thefloor. I closemyeyes and inhalefor a secondbefore addressingGrayer, who's having an animated exchange withAl, the lone tree decoration teetering on the very tip of a low branch.

"Hey, looks like your man Al is getting ready to jump." I reach for the bent paper clip serving as Al's lifeline.

"DON'T! He doesn't want you to touch him. Only me," he instructs. We spend the next fifteen tedious minutesrelocatingAl while ensuring that only Grayer's hands do all the work. I stare up at the many feet of bare greens towering above us and wonder if anyone would notice if the rest of the Xes' ornaments didn't make it onthis year.Attheratewe're going,itmightconceivablytakeGrayerwell intohis twenties.

I lookdownathimashewhisperstoAl. "Okay,buddy,"I say, "let's gotothebas.e.m.e.nt andbringup the rest of your ornaments so they can keep Al company. They'll be there to talk him down if he gets too closetotheedgeagain." "To thebas.e.m.e.nt?" "Yup. Let's go."

"1 got toget mystuff.Got togetmyhelmet andbelt.You go tothedoorNanny, I'll meetya ... got toget theflashlight.. ." Herunstohis roomasI ringfortheelevator.

Grayer glides back out into the vestibule just as the elevator door opens. "Oh, my G.o.d, Grove!All this for the bas.e.m.e.nt?" He puts one sock-covered foot down to stop his skateboard in front of the elevator door. His bicycle helmet sits slightly askew and he has shoved a huge flashlight into his waistband, along with a yo-yo and what looks to be a monogrammed washcloth from his bathroom. "Okay, let's go,"hesays with completeauthority. "I'm thinkingwe shouldatleastbewearingshoesforthis adventure."

"Nah,don't need 'em."Herolls insideandthedoor closes behindbothof usbeforeI cancatch it. "It's so cool down there, Nanny. Oh, man, oh, man." He nods his helmeted head in antic.i.p.ation. Grayer has taken to peppering his commentary with "oh, mans" as of late, thanks to Christianson, a four-year-old of remarkable charisma who has a good foot in height over the rest of his cla.s.smates. In fact, when Al first made impact with the fateful orange glitter both Giselle's and Grayer's first utterance was a simultaneous "Oh,man."

The elevator stops at the lobby and Grayer rolls ahead of me, propelling himself with one foot, while keeping both hands on his waistband so that his packed pants don't succ.u.mb to gravity. By the time I catch up, he's already gotten Ramon to lead the way to the caged service elevator. "Ahh, Mr. Grayer. You musthaveimportantbusiness downthere,huh?"