The nanny Diaries

CHAPTER THREE

THE NANNY DIARIES

Josh groans and rolls slowly onto his back from he has nearly blacked out after dropping the air conditioner outside my front door.

   "You lied to me," he wheezes. "You said it was on the third floor."
   "Yeah?" I say, shaking our my lower arms while leaning back against the top stair.

   He lifts his head an inch off the floor. "Nan, that was six flights. Two flights a floor, which makes this technically, like, the sixth floor."

   "You helped me move out of the dorm---"
   "Yeah, why was that? Oh, right, because it has an el-e-va-tor."
   "Well,the good news is that I'm not planning on moving out of here, ever. This is it. You can visit me up here when we're old and gray." I wipe the sweat off my forehead.

   "Forget it--- I'll be hanging out on your front stoop with the great of the blue hairs." He drops his head back down.
   "Come on." I pull myself up by the banister." Cold beers awaits."
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 scorching air blow past us into the hallway.

   "Charlene must have closed the windows before she left this morning." I say.
   "And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty kitchen.
   "Welcome to my fully equipped closet. Can I toast you a bagel?"
I drop my keys next to the two-burner stove.

   "What are you paying for this place?" he asks.
   "You don't want to know," I say, as we push the air conditioner across the room together in little shoves.
   "So, where's the hot roommate?" he asks.
   "Josh, not all stewardesses are hot. Some are the matronly type."
   "Is she?" He stops
   "Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No---she'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!" Josh cries our in greeting to my cat, who's sprawled out on the warm wooden floor in despair. He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his forehead with the bottom of his Mr. Bubble T-shirt. "Where do you want this sucker?"
   I point to the top of the window.
   "What? You a crazy lady."
   "It's a trick I learned on the Avenue,'so as not to interfere with the view.' Those without central air go to great lengths to hide it, darling," I explain as I kick off my sandals.

   "What view?"
   "If you smoosh you face against the window and look left you can see the river."
   "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, not gonna happen, Nan. I'm getting a beer. Come on, George."

   He heads back to the "kitchen" and George stretches up to follow him. I use the moment alone to grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off my sweaty one. As I crouch behind the boxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glares up at me.
   "Running that 900 number again?" Josh reaches over the box to hand me a Corona.
   "Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." I take a swig of my beer and slide down between the boxes to hit 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 want you to know that I'm very involved."

   "Well, that's just obvious, Mimi," Josh says, sliding down to join me.
                  "HishisisAnneSmithI'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold-sonhe'snottroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold-----"
   "Ouch." Josh puts his hands up to shield himself and I forward to the next message

"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, and I'm looking for someone who can help me,since I'm pregnant again. Now you didn't mention your fee in the ad, but l've been paying six."

   "Six American dollars?" I ask the machine, incredulously.
   "Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh swigs his 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 more about the type of job you're looking for. We have a girl----Caitlin-----but she's looking to cut her hours and you made a quite impression on our son, Grayer. Look forward to talking to you. Bye.

   "She sounds normal. Call her."
   "You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in instant nanny mode, trying to convey utmost respectability with two syllables.
   "Hello"----my mother matches my deep voice, fancy tone----"how'd the air-conditioner mission turn out?"
   "Hey, I relax. "Fine----"
   "Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie----she's determined to sit two inches from the air conditioner." I smile at the image of our fourteen-year-old springer spaliel with her ears blowing out behind her like the Red Baron. "Move it, Soph---and now she's sitting on all the research for the grant."

    I take a sip of beer. "How's that coming"
   "Ugh, it's too depressing----tell me something cheerful." Since the Republicans took office my mother's Coalition for Women's Shelters gets even less money than it used to.
   "I got some funny message from mummies-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 at three in the morning worrying if the little princess has tap dancing or a jam session with the Dalai Lama-----"
   "Mom. Mommm----I haven't even interviewed yet. Besides, I'm not going to be working as many hours this year, because I have my thesis."

   "Exactly! That's exactly it. You have your thesis, just like last year you had your internship and the year before that you had your field study. I don't understand why you won't even consider an academic job. You should ask you thesis professor if you can assist him. Or you could work in the research library!"
   "We have been over this s million times." I roll my eyes at Josh.
"Those jobs are so competitive-----Dr. Clarkson has a graduate student on full fellowship assisting him. Besides, they only pay six dollars an hour-----before taxes. Mom, nothing I so with my clothes on is going to pay this well until I get my degree." Josh shimmies and pulls off an imaginary bra.

  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 paying for utilities. "Do I have to give you the Real Estate Talk again, Mom?"
   "Then, for the love of God, be a makeup girl at Bloomingdale's.
Just punch in your card time, look pretty, smile, and get your paycheck." She can't imagine that one world ever wake at three A.M. in a cold sweat, wondering if the shipment of oil-free toner had remembered to put on its Nighttime Pull-Ups.

   "Mom, I enjoy working with kids. Look, it's too hot to argue."
  "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 she ran off to Cannes."
  And I do think about it, while Josh and I listen to all the messages again trying to find the mother who sounds least likely to just that

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