The Nanny Diaries (11 page)

"I gotta bob for an apple," he mumbles as I lay him down with his head resting on the white rectangle ofmycostumed lap.

"Sure,justcloseyoureyes for a fewminutesfirst."

I take a swigfrom mynewestdrink, lettingtheroomsoften abit moreasI fanusbothwith aprospectus left beneath a nearby cabinet. Grayer's body becomes heavy as he drifts off. Closing my eyes, I try to picture myself in this room at some important business-type thing, but can't seem to conjure anything otherthanleading aboardmeetingasTmkyWinky.

I must keep nodding off, because I start to dream about Mrs. X, in a mink Laa-Laa costume, trying to convince me that 1 really should let her speak to H. H.'s posse about the whole "ho-thing" as "setting boundaries" is "her middle name."Then Mr. X dances in to the tune of "Monster Mash," pulling off his head to reveal that he is actually my Harvard Hottie, demanding to be taken to the bathroom. I jolt awake.

"Nanny,I gotta pee." "MonsterMash"blaresdownonus. I

locate a clock under the cobwebs. Nine goddamn thirty. Okay, so it's. hat? Twenty minutes up the FOR, ten to get out of this thing, and another twenty to get downtown to Nightingale's? He'll still be there,right?

"Okay!Let's getthis showontheroad.Let's find a bathroomandgetmoving!"

"Nanny, slow down." I pick up my dragging Grayer and sling him onto my purple hump as I dart betweenthedownedandwounded,whoareeither mid-or post-sugarcrash.

"Coming through, coming through. Have you seen the bathroom?" I inquire of a five-foot Indian woman in a Barney costume trying to placate a screaming three-foot Barney who can't seem to bite a doughnut off a string and has taken the matter directly to heart. She points over her shoulder at a line winding endlessly around the corner. I look around for out-of-the-way potted foliage, preparing a speechabouthowthisis "just liketheplayground."

Grayer pointsbehindme. "The bathroomisthat way, inmydaddy's office."

I plop him down, instructing him to lead the way, "like someone is chasing us." He takes off down the deserted corridor with his hands between his legs. It's darker and quieter than the room we have just escaped, and I speed-walk to keep Grayer in sight. Halfway down the hall he pushes a door open and I runtocatchup, practicallyrollingover him whenhefreezesinthedarkeneddoorway.

"Well, hello there, Grayer." A woman's voice startles us. Mr. X flips on the lamp as she comes around the desk in black fishnets, leotard, and a bowler hat. I recognizeher instantly. "Hello, Nanny," she says, tuckingherlooseredhair underthehat.

Grayer andI arespeechless.

Mr. X steps out from behind the desk, readjusting himself and surreptitiously wiping lipstick from his mouth. "Grayer,sayhello."

"I love your costume," she says brightly before Grayer can even speak. "See, I'm 'Chicago' because that's ourbiggestmarket!"

THE NANNY DIARIES

"She's notwearinganypants,"hesaysquietly,pointingather nettedlegsandlookingup atme.

Mr. X swiftly picks up Grayer without looking at any of us, including Grayer, and with a "Time to call it a night,sport. Let's findyourmother" headsbacktowardtheparty.

"Um, we had to find a bathroom. Grayer has to go," I call after them, but he doesn't look back. I turn to Ms. Chicago,butshe's alreadypastme,clickingdownthehallintheoppositedirection.

Fuck.

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 passed out with his headinmylap.I suspecttheremaybe a stainontheseatwhenwegetout,but, hey, we were all adequatelywarned.

Mr. X leanshis 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 membership 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 bump of each potholeandcansmell thelastpassenger'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

THE NANNY DIARIES

bathroom achallenge,and,ifyoudomakeit,thedoordoesn't close. It istheproverbialShit 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 bass beat from the house music is like aural rape and as I'm propelled along by the bump-ba-bump 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-shirt? 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 flashing 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 asswithin seconds.

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

"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my God. t's Mr. COCKS. 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

HOUSEPUSSIES,THEYWENTTOSOMEFUCKINGART GALLERYPOETRYTHING?

"THENEXTTHING?"I shoutintohis ear,hopingtopermanently deafenhim.

"YEAH, THAT'S IT. BUNCH OF BIDDIES IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DRINKING FUCKING

IMPORTEDCOFFEE?

"THANKS!"AndI'm off.

I getoutsideintothecoldair andlookwith reliefatthe

THE NANNY DIARIES

bouncer as he undoes theropes. I takeout mywallet and do an inventory. Okay,I can walk it in tenand

savethemoney,butthese

shoesare?

"Hello?" I look over to see . .. me, in flannel pajamas, on Char-lene's futon, watching educational

television with George. "Hello? 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 glass 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 ass. 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 bum 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" relationships 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.