After picking up some small pumpkins to decorate on the way home from school, Grayer and I return to the apartment just in time for me to sign an invoice for over four thousand dollars. Grayer and I follow in awe as a deliveryman wheels a pair of six-foot wooden crates through the kitchen and deposits them in the front hall. After lunch, we play Guess What's in the Crate. Grayer guesses a dog, a gorilla, a monster truck, and a baby brother. I guess antiques, new bathroom fixtures, and a small cage for Grayer (although I keep that one to myself).

I leave Grayer in the capable hands of his piano teacher at four-fifteen and return, as instructed, at five o'clock. I'm dressed like a grown-up for the Halloween party at Mr. X's office in my new leather pants and secondhand Prada shoes. I let myself in, only to come face-to-crate with a frenzied Mrs. X, who's trying to pry one open with a butcher knife and a toilet plunger.

"Do you want me to call the super?" I ask, carefully angling myself past her. "He might have a crowbar."

"Oh, my God, could you?" she pants up from where she's crouched on the floor.

I go into the kitchen and buzz the super on the intercom, who promises to send up the handyman.

"He's on his way. So, urn, what's in there?"

She huffs and puffs as she works at the crate, "I had-ugh- replicas of Mufasa and Sarabi costumes-ow, dammit!-from the Broadway production of The Lion King... unh-custom made." She's going red in the face. "For this stupid party, argh."

"Wow, that's great. Where's Grayer?" I ask tentatively.

"He's waiting so you both can get dressed! We've got to hurry- we all need to be changed and ready to leave by six." All?

As the service doorbell rings I turn and walk slowly down the long hall to Grayer's room, where he's had the good sense to hide from his plunger-wielding mother. I apprehensively push back the door to reveal not one, but two Teletubby costumes half lifting off Grayer's bed, like partially deflated balloons from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

Dear God. She must be kidding.

"Nanny, we're gonna match!" If I wanted to get dressed up in bizarre costumes I could be making way more money than this.

With a long sigh I begin to wrestle Grayer into his yellow costume, trying to convince him it's just like putting on feet pajamas, only rounder. I can hear Mrs. X running through the apartment. "Do we have any pliers? Nanny, have you seen the pliers? The costumes are wired into the crate!"

"Sorry!" I shout toward the direction of her voice, which changes constantly, like a passing siren.

Thud.

Moments later she bursts into the room looking like a mud hut, headdress askance. "Do I wear makeup with this? Do I wear makeup with this?!"

"Um, probably just some neutral tones? Maybe that nice lipstick you wore to lunch the other day?"

"No, I mean something, you know .. . tribal?" Grayer looks up at his mother in complete bewilderment, his eyes wide.

"Mommy, is that your costume?"

"Mommy's not finished yet, honey. Let Nanny do your makeup, so she can help me." She runs out. Mrs. X has bought us Cray-Pas face paint so I can transform us into Inky Blinky and Tiggy Wiggy or whatever the hell they're called. But as soon as I start in on Grayer's face he gets a massive attack of the face itchies.

"Laa-Laa, Nanny. I'm Laa-Laa." He raises both mitted hands to his nose. "You're Tinky Winky-"

"Grov, please don't touch your face. I'm trying to make you look like a Teletubby."

The mud hut rushes back in. "My God, he looks awful! What are you doing?"

"He keeps mushing it," I try to explain.

She looks down at him, straw stalks trembling. "GRAYER ADDISON X, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR FACE!" And she's off again.

His chin starts to quiver-he may never touch his face again, ever.

"You look really cool, Grove," I say softly. "Let's just get this done, okay?"

He nods and tilts his cheek to me so I can finish.

"Is it naguma matoto?" she shouts from the hall.

"Hakuna matata!" we shout back.

"Right! Thank you!" she replies. "Hakuna matata, hakuna matata."

The phone rings and I can hear her on the hall extension, straining to sound calm. "Hello? Hello, darling. We're nearly ready . . . But I- . . . Right, but I got the costumes you wanted . . . No, I... Yes, I understand, it's just that I... Right, no, we'll be right down."

Slow footsteps on the marble floor toward Grayer's wing, then the headdress reappears around the door frame. "Daddy's running a little late, so he's just going to swing by in ten minutes and pick us up downstairs, okay? I'll need everybody in the front hall in nine minutes." Nine minutes (of slithering myself into this stinky, cumbersome purple albatross and smearing my skin in white lard) later and we reassemble awkwardly around the crates in the front hall-small yellow Laa-Laa, large purple asshole, and Mrs. X in a dignified Jil Sander pantsuit.

"Is it too warm for my mink?" she asks, adjusting my hood so the purple triangle, the size of a shoe box, stands "straight."

It requires both of the Xes' doormen's hands on my haunches to shove me in the limo at the Xes' feet. I scramble up onto the seat as the driver starts the car.

"Where's my card?" Grayer asks, just as we pull away from the curb.

I can't tell if it's because of the layer of neoprene over my ears or if I'm just in shock, but Grayer's voice seems to be coming from very far away.

"My card. Where is it? Wheeeerrrre!" He begins to rock back and forth like a weeblewobble on the limousine seat we share across from his parents.

"Nanny!" Mrs. X's tone snaps me back. "Grayer, tell Nanny what you're feeling."

I angle my body on the leather seat in Grayer's direction, as the purple bubble around my head obscures all peripheral vision. Uh, yes? His face is red beneath his makeup and he's out of breath. He scrunches his eyes and roars, "NANNY! I DON'T HAVE MY CARD." Christ.

"Nanny, he always has to have that card pinned to his clothes-"

"I'm so sorry." I angle my girth to him. "Grayer, I'm sorry."

"My ccaaaAAARRrrdd!" Grayer bellows.

"Hey," a deep, disembodied voice commands. "That's enough of that." Miiiiiiisssstttter Eeeexxxxxxx, at last we meet.

The whole limo holds its breath. This man of mystery, who has, for the most part, eluded me and, I daresay, the rest of my riding companions for the past two months, deserves a full freeze-frame. He sits facing me in a dark suit and very expensive shoes. Actually, he's facing the Wall Street Journal, which fully obscures the rest of him- up to the shiny receding hairline, spotlit by the reading light inches from his head. There's a cell phone wedged beneath his ear, to which he seems only to be listening. "Hey" is his first utterance since we all got in. Or, in some cases, were shoved in.

Sitting there behind his paper he is, without question, the CEO of this family. "What card?" he asks his paper. Mrs. X looks pointedly at me and it is evident that Grayer's meltdown falls into my domain, which alternates between middle management and cleaning staff.

Thus we make a right onto Madison and head back uptown to 721, where the doormen are only too happy to have a shot at pulling my arms and legs to extract me from the limo.

"Wait right here, guys," I say, once upright, "I'll be back in a minute."

I get upstairs, spend ten sweaty minutes rummaging through Grayer's room, forcing me to reapply my Cray-Pas, locate The Card in the laundry hamper, and am ready to rock and roll. (Roll, mostly.)

The elevator door opens and, of course, there stands H. H., my Harvard Hottie.

His jaw drops.

Just kill me.

"What? You never saw a Halloween costume before?" I bristle, lumbering in with my head held high.

"No! Um, well, it's, it's October twenty-third, but-"

"So??!!"

"I ummmm, yeah, yes I have, I-" he stammers.

"He-llo! Are you ever not speechless?" I attempt to shimmy so that I can face the wall. Of course, in this five-by-seven box I make it all of two degrees away from him.

He is quiet for a moment. "Look, I'm really sorry for the other night. Sometimes those guys can be real assholes when they drink. I know that's no excuse, but, I mean, they're just old friends from high school-"

"And?" I say to the wall.

"And . .." He seems stumped. "And you shouldn't judge me based on one drunken night at Dorrian's."

I shimmy back to face him. "Um, yeah-that's one drunken night when your buddies from 'back in the day' called me a ho. Listen, sometimes I hang out with friends whose politics I don't agree with, but only up to a point. If, oh, say, gang rape were on the agenda for the evening, I would speak up!"

"Well!"

"Well?"

"Well, for someone who didn't like it when snap judgments were made about you, it's pretty hypocritical of you to judge me so quickly based on their behavior."

"Fair enough." I take a deep breath and try to straighten to my full height. "Let me clarify, I'm judging you on the fact that you didn't step in to shut them up."

He looks back at me. "Okay, I should've said something. I'm sorry things got so out of hand." He tucks his hair behind his ear. "Listen, come out with me tonight and let me make it up to you. I'm hanging out with some college friends-it's a whole different crowd, I promise." The door slides open and both a woman in a cashmere wrap and her standard poodle glare with annoyance because there is no room for them around my costume. The door slides closed. I realize I have only two more floors to acquiesce.

"Obviously, I have a really decadent affair ahead of me." I gesture with one three-fingered hand to my purple torso. "But I can try to stop by around ten."

"Great! I'm not sure exactly where we're going. We were thinking of Chaos, or The Next Thing, but we'll definitely be at Nightingale's till eleven."

"Well, I'll try to make it." Despite the fact that I am not completely clear where, in his list of destinations, I should aim to make it to. The doors open to the lobby and I attempt a sexy waddle to the car, trying to remember to lead with my hips.

I wait until H. H. is safely around the corner and then, after one last ass-push from the doormen, we are on our way. I take a little bit of pleasure from the fact that Mrs. X is forced to lean across and pin the card on Grayer herself as she has the use of all ten of her fingers.

"Honey, I finally found out who the Brightmans used to book their safari-" she begins, but Mr. X gestures to the phone and shakes his head. Not to be outdone she pulls her Startac out of her Judith Leiber pumpkin clutch and dials. The puffy, primary-colored side of the car sits in prolonged silence.

"... I don't think her decorator did a very good job ..."

"... take another hard look at those numbers-"

"... and mauve?"

".. . at that APR? Is he nuts?"

"... bamboo for a kitchen!"

"... buy back ten billion over the next three years ..."

I look down at Grayer and poke his yellow tummy with a purple finger. He looks up and pokes me back. I squeeze his felt chub, he squeezes mine.

"So." Mr. X flips his phone closed with a loud click and looks at me. "Do they have Halloween in Australia?"

"Um, I, uh, think they have something called All Souls' Day, but, um, I don't think people dress up or, uh, trick-or-treat, traditionally," I answer.

"Honey," Mrs. X intercedes. "This is Nanny. She took over from C-a-i-t-l-i-n."

"Oh, right, right, of course. You're prelaw?"

"I want to sit next to Mommy!" Grayer suddenly bursts out.

"Grove, stay next to me and keep me company," I say, looking down.

"No! I want to sit next to Mommy now."

Mrs. X looks over at Mr. X, who has retreated back behind his paper. "We don't want to get your fun makeup on Mommy's coat- stay with Nanny, sweetie."

After a few more rounds, he finally tuckers out and the four of us sit in silence as the car glides down to the very bottom of the city, where the dense, narrow streets of Lower Manhattan give way to the imposing towers of the Financial District. The neighborhood appears deserted, except for the funereal line of town cars forming outside Mr. X's company.

Mr. and Mrs. X slide out and march ahead of us into the building, leaving Grayer and me unassisted to maneuver our spherical bodies out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

"Nanny, say three and I'll push! Say three, Nanny! SAY IT!"

With his little feet in my backside and my face nearly on the sidewalk it's no wonder he can't hear me when I scream, "Three!"

I smush my face to the left to see Grayer sticking his lips out the crack in the window. "Didja say it, Nanny? Didja?"

I can sense a flurry of activity behind my enormous haunches, accompanied by snippets of the mastermind at work. "Okay, now I'm Rabbit... and you .. . you're Pooh ... and ... are you counting?... and ... after all the honey ... stuck in the tree-THAT'S THREE, NANNY, on THREE!" He could be constructing a catapult out of cocktail napkins back there for all I know-

WHOMP!

"I did it! Nanny, I did it!"

I right myself, reach down with my three-fingered hand for his, and we waddle with pride toward the entrance. Mr. and Mrs. X have kindly held the elevator for us and we ride up to the forty-fifth floor with another couple whose children couldn't attend. "Homework."

We all step out into a cavernous reception area, which has been transformed into a Tim Burton film-the marble walls are covered in cut-out bats and fake cobwebs, every inch of the ceiling drips in streamers, spiders, and skeletons. There are numerous bar tables strategically placed at regular intervals around the room, each aglow with a handcarved pumpkin centerpiece.

It seems as though every unemployed actor in the tristate area has been called in to entertain the troops. At the reception desk Frankenstein pretends to answer phones, Betty Boop walks by with a tray of drinks, and Marilyn is singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to a cluster of Mr. X's colleagues in the corner. Grayer looks around with a bit of trepidation until Garfield comes by with a tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"You can take one. Go ahead, Grayer," I  encourage him. He has some trouble with the gloves on, but manages to secure one and munches, slowly mushing his body tighter against my leg.

The far wall is a breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling view of the Statue of Liberty. I seem to be the only one appreciating it, but then I'm also one of the few nannies with a visible face. Apparently Mrs. X was not alone in her concept for the evening; all the nannies are in huge rented costumes at least three feet in circumference; the child is a small Snow White, nanny is a large Dwarf, the child is a small farmer, nanny is a very large cow, the child is a small Pied Piper, nanny is a large rat. However, the winners, hands down, are the Teletubbies. I exchange wan smiles across the room with two Tinky Winkys from Jamaica.

A couple with a small Woodstock and large Snoopy in tow comes over to us.

"Darling, you look fabulous!" says the wife to Mrs. X, or maybe Grayer.

"Happy Halloween, Jacqueline," Mrs. X replies, giving her an air kiss.

Jacqueline, wearing a tiny pink pillbox hat with her black Armani, barrels on to Mr. X. "Darling, you're not in costume, you bad boy!" Her own betrothed is wearing a captain's hat with his pinstriped suit.

"I'm dressed as a lawyer," Mr. X says. "But really, I'm an investment banker!"

"Stop!" Jacqueline says, giggling. "You're such a stitch!" She looks down at Laa-Laa and Woodstock. "You little darlings should go check out the games area-it's fabulous!" I look over at Snoopy, who's listing under the weight of the giant head. "We got a much better company this year to organize the whole thing. They did Blackstone's 4th of July Bungee Jump and Cocktails."

"I heard that was lovely. Mitzi Newmann's gotten addicted. She had a free-fall bridge installed in Connecticut. Go ahead, Grayer," Mrs. X encourages. He stares up at all the macabre mayhem and doesn't look entirely convinced that he wants to be separated from his parents right now.

"Go on, sport, and if you're good, I'll take you to see the executive dining room," Mr. X says, prompting Grayer to look up at me.

"Where Daddy has lunch," I explain. I take his hand and follow our Peanuts team to the children's area, which is cordoned off with a little picket fence. As Barbie opens the gate I look at her. "Good idea," I say, "let's keep out the grown-ups."

The whole twenty-foot area is rilled with activity tables and games that seem mostly to involve throwing things. (A miscalculation on someone's part, I think, as a small Big Bird goes down.) I notice very quickly that the grown-up drink trays aren't circulating in here and lean out over the fence to swipe a little relief. Occasionally parents swing by, like maitre d's, to ask if the child is enjoying him/herself and remark, "A marshmallow ghost! Ooooh, scary!", then turn back to each other to add, "You just have no idea what our renovation is costing-it's really staggering. But Bill wanted a screening room." And they shrug, roll their eyes, and shake their heads.

Mrs. X has come in with Sally Kirkpatrick, a woman I recognize from Grayer's swimming class, to watch her three-foot Batman try to obliterate his ring-toss opponents. I come up behind them to check in about bedtime.

 

"Your new girl's really good at getting Grayer in the pool," Mrs. Kirkpatrick says.

"Thanks, I wish I could take him, but Tuesday's my day at the Parents League and with ice skating on Fridays and French on Thursdays and CATS on Wednesday I need one day to do something for myself."

"I know, I'm so busy. I'm on four different committees this season. Oh, can I put you down for a table for the Breast Ball?"

"Of course."

"So what happened to Caitlin? Your new girl didn't seem to know."

"Sally, it was a nightmare. I'm lucky I found Nanny when I did! Caitlin, whose work I never found to be exemplary, by the way, but I put up with it, because, well, one does. Anyway, she had the nerve to ask for the last week of August off after I already gave her the first two weeks of January when we went to Aspen."

"You're kidding."

"Well, I just felt she was trying to take complete advantage of me-"

"Ryan, play fair-that was lolanthe's ring," Sally shouts at her Batman.

"But I positively did not know what to do," Mrs. X continues, sipping Perrier.

"So you fired her?" Sally asks, eagerly.

"First I talked to a professional problem consultant-"

"Oh, who'd you use?"

"Brian Swift."

"I hear he's great."

"He was fantastic-helped me put the whole thing into perspective. He made it clear that my authority as house manager had been called into question and I had to bring in a replacement to drive the point home."

"Brilliant. Don't let me forget to get his number from you. I'm having such problems with Rosarita. The other day I asked her to run up to Midtown to pick up a few things while Ryan was in hockey class and she said she didn't want to because she didn't think she'd have enough time to get back. I mean, does she think I don't know how long it takes to get around?"

"I know, it's appalling. After all, when the kids are in class they're just sitting there, on our dime. I mean, really."

"So, are you done with all your interviews?" Sally asks.

"Well, we have Collegiate on Tuesday, but I'm not sure if I want him on the West Side," Mrs. X says, shaking her head.

"But it's such a good school. We'd be thrilled if Ryan got in there. We're hoping the violin gives him an edge."

"Oh, Grayer plays the piano-I had no idea that was important," Mrs. X says.

"Well, it depends on his level. Ryan's already competing regionally ..."

"Oh, I see. That's fantastic."

Apprehensive of what I might say to Mrs. X at this moment on two vodka tonics, I tiptoe backward and spot Grayer, still slinging beanbags like a pro, which leaves me free to grab another drink and observe the grown-up side of the room. Everyone is dressed in black, the men are tall, the women slim, they all stand with the left arm folded across their abdomen, the left hand supporting the right elbow so the right hand can wave a drink around as they talk. As the pumpkin centerpieces slowly burn down they begin to cast long shadows of bankers and banker wives and everyone is starting to look to me like a Charles Addams cartoon.

I realize I'm getting woozy from the heat and the alcohol, but my purple posterior doesn't fit into any of the pint-size plastic chairs. So I sit on the floor a few feet away from the cupcake table where Grayer has stationed himself while his pitching arm recovers. There is so much commotion around us from the Busby Berkeley staff of hired activity folk that I must consciously fix my stare on Grayer while he decorates his fourth cupcake. I lean my head against the wall and watch with pride as he assertively grabs sprinkles and silver balls, while other children wait for their nannies, crouched beside them, to hand over tubes of frosting as if their charges were about to perform surgery.

Eventually, Grayer's frosting frenzy slows and he is left staring with glossy eyes at the black and orange cardboard centerpiece, his gooey hands motionless atop the table. Little beads of sweat are forming on his face-he must be boiling in that costume. I crawl over and whisper in his ear, "Hey, Buddy, why don't you take a break from all that cake making and come hang out with me for a bit?" He drops his forehead on the table, narrowly missing his candy corn masterpiece.

"Come on, Grove," I say, slipping him into my arms and shuffling back to the wall on my knees. I unzip his hood and use a napkin to wipe the dripping makeup from his forehead and frosting from his hands.

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

"Sure, just close your eyes for a few minutes first."

I take a swig from my newest drink, letting the room soften a bit more as I fan us both with a prospectus 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 other than leading a board meeting as Tmky Winky.

I must keep nodding off, because I start to dream about Mrs. X, in a mink Laa-Laa costume, trying to convince me that I 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." "Monster Mash" blares down on us. I locate a clock under the cobwebs. Nine goddamn thirty. Okay, so it's-what? 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 get this show on the road. Let's find a bathroom and get moving!"

"Nanny, slow down." I pick up my dragging Grayer and sling him onto my purple hump as I dart between the downed and wounded, who are either mid- or post-sugar crash.

"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 speech about how this is "just like the playground."

Grayer points behind me. "The bathroom is that way, in my daddy'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 run to catch up, practically rolling over him when he freezes in the darkened doorway.

"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 recognize her instantly. "Hello, Nanny," she says, tucking her loose red hair under the hat.

Grayer and I are speechless.

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

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

"She's not wearing any pants," he says quietly, pointing at her netted legs and looking up at me.

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 find your mother" heads back toward the party.

"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, but she's already past me, clicking down the hall in the opposite direction.

Fuck.

I sit down on the leather couch and slump my face in my hands.

I don't want to know this I don't want to know this I don't want to know this.

I grab a shooter from the deserted tray of chilled vodka shots on the coffee table and down it.

Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely passed out with his head in my lap. I suspect there may be a stain on the seat when we get out, but, hey, we were all adequately warned.

Mr. X leans his head back against the leather upholstery and closes his eyes. I crack the window an inch to let some fresh air blow over me from the East River. I am a little drunk. Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.

In the distant background, I hear the tentative chatter of Mrs. X. "I was talking to Ryan's mother and she says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview for Grayer. Oh, and she told me that she and Ben are taking a house in Nantucket this summer. It turns out that Wallington and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightful break from the Hamptons. She said it's so pleasant just to get away from the Maidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity. And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally said Ben's brother is going to Paris this summer, so you could take his membership at their tennis club. And Nanny could come, too! Wouldn't you like to join us for a few weeks on the ocean this summer, Nanny? It will be so relaxing."

My ears perk up at the sound of my name and I find myself responding with 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-swim, 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. "That settles it. I'll call the realtor tomorrow."

A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I check for traces of greasepaint in my compact. I lean forward to catch a glance at the cabbie's clock and the glowing green letters read back 10:24. Go, Go, Go.

My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the bump of each pothole and can smell the last passenger's cigarette. The combination of the surreal tenor of the evening, 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 into my Prada shoes.

The cab pulls up at Thirteenth Street, on a particularly seedy stretch of Second Avenue, 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 make getting safely to the bathroom a challenge, and, if you do make it, the door doesn't close. It is the proverbial Shit Hole.

It takes all of two seconds for me to swing my head around and see that there is no Harvard Hottie to be found. Think. Think. They were going to start at Chaos. "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 a frustrated throng of guys try to take on one of the bouncers.

"Let's see some ID."

I pull open my purse and hand the six-eight bouncer a juice box, Hot Wheels, and Handi Wipes, before uncovering my wallet.

"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 matchbox bed.

I start wending my way into the crush of people, looking for- what? Brown hair, a Harvard T-shirt? The crowd is a mishmash of tourists and NYU students from Utah and gay guys-the balding, married ones from the Island-and 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, ugly person.

I try to make my way onto the dance floor, for which I pay a price. Not only is the crowd unattractive, it is supremely uncoordinated. But enthusiastic. Uncoordinated and enthusiastic, a lethal combination.

I maneuver carefully through the flailing limbs toward the bar at the far end of the room, making an effort to stay in motion-you're

only vulnerable to "unwelcome advances" if you stand still or, heaven forbid, dance, in which case you are guaranteed to have an unfamiliar pelvis pressed firmly against your ass within seconds.

"Martini, straight up, no olive." I need a little pick-me-up to put the edge back on.

"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my God-it's Mr. COCKS. I thought H. H. was hanging out with his college friends tonight. "Is that good? You like that?"

"WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" I mouth as I start scanning over his white hat for H. H. in the crowd.

"MARTINIS! HARD STUFF!!" Right.

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

"HARD!!!" Sure, big guy. Whatever you say.

"LISTEN, WE MET AT DORRIAN'S-I'M LOOKING FOR YOUR FRIEND!"

"RIGHT, THE NAAAANNNEEEEHHH." Yep, that's me.

"IS HE HERE?" I shout.

"THE NANNNEEEHHH."

"YEAH, I'M LOOKING FOR YOUR FRIEND! IS ... HE... HERE?"

"RIGHT, YEAH, HE WAS HERE WITH SOME OF HIS COLLEGE BUDDIES, BUNCH OF ART HOUSE PUSSIES, THEY WENT TO SOME FUCKING ART GALLERY POETRY THING-"

"THE NEXT THING?" I shout into his ear, hoping to permanently deafen him.

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

"THANKS!" And I'm off.

I get outside into the cold air and look with relief at the

 

bouncer as he undoes the ropes. I take out my wallet and do an inventory. Okay, I can walk it in ten and save the money, but these

shoes are-

"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 ask myself as I puff along Spring Street.

"Sooo, you are tired, you are drunk, and, if you don't mind my saying, you're not looking all that great. Go home. Even if you find him-"

"Look, you flannel-wearing, couch-warming, lo mein-eating loser, you are sitting at home alone. I 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-but 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, but I need to hook up first! I have the rest of my life to watch TV!"

"Yeah, you don't really seem 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 my leather pants-he cannot, cannot, cannot go to bed tonight with the last image he has of me being in a huge purple Teletubby costume! Out of the question. Good night."

I harden my resolve and turn onto Mercer, heading up to the bouncer-an art gallery with a bouncer, don't even get me started.

"Sorry, lady, we're closed for a private function tonight."

"But-But-But I-" I'm dumbfounded.

"Sorry, lady." And that is that.

"Taxi." I bum a cigarette off the driver and exhale as the city goes by in reverse. I honestly think, years from now, taxi rides like this will be the defining memory of my early twenties.

I mean, really, if you wanted to see me, commit to a place!

I flick the ash out the window. It's the whole Buffet Syndrome- for New York City boys Manhattan is an all-you-can-eat. Why commit to one place when there might be a cooler one around the corner? Why commit to one model, when a better/taller/thinner one could walk in the door at any moment?

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." And in Manhattan that could be hanging out with Kate Moss at four A.M.

So, if I "happen" to run into him three weekends in a row then I might end up a girlfriend. The problem, then, is that their reverence for anarchy forces those of us lucky enough to "happen into" relationships with them to become the planners-or nothing would happen. We become their mothers, their cruise directors-their nannies. And it runs the gamut from H. H. not being able to commit to one club for one evening to Mr. X always being late, being early, or not being there at all.

I take a drag of my borrowed Parliament and think of Lion King costumes, fishnets, and leather pants, the hours of planning poured into this night. The cab pulls into Ninety-third Street and I fish for the last of my crumpled twenties. As the cab drives away the city suddenly seems very quiet. I stand there for a moment on the sidewalk-the 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 another cigarette.

I get upstairs and unbutton my pants, kick off my shoes, 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 into bed alone.