NINETEEN
Rachel was right, of course. Living like the Unabomber was not the answer. I had to get up sometime.
I smiled sadly. “Or something, Dennis.”
I took a deep breath, then pushed through the revolving door and out into the sunshine.
The July day was hot but not sticky. It felt good to be outside and moving my arms and legs.
But it felt odd, too—a little like sleepwalking.
It was the most bizarre sensation, this idea that I was not expected anywhere.
Margo wasn’t waiting for me to respond to a thick sheaf of yellow “While You Were Out” slips.
Marty Adler wasn’t waiting on my revised, redlined draft of anything.
Justin Keating wasn’t waiting for me to show up and generally make his life miserable.
I had no conference calls. No meetings. No lunches. No appointments. No deadlines. No seminars. I had nothing.
I could actually put on the same old pair of jeans and flip-flops every day if I wanted to.
I had a useless wardrobe full of expensive suits, Bergdorf tags still dangling from the sleeves.
I tried to remember if I’d kept any of the receipts.
Could I return everything? Or maybe I’d have a garage sale.
A “going out of business” sale! FIRE SALE!
FORMER CORPORATE ATTORNEY OUT ON HER ASS. EVERYTHING MUST GO!
I walked by a handsome young neighborhood dad wearing black Adidas track pants and a faded old Race for the Cure T-shirt, holding on to the hand of his son—his spitting image—as they crossed the street. The kid, about five, was toting a Wiffle bat. They were obviously headed to the park.
A trim older woman with close-cropped hair power-walked past me in the opposite direction, humming along to the song she was listening to on her headphones.
So this was what the city looked like during the workweek, during all those lost hours I’d spent at the firm.
I marveled at these lucky people who were roaming the neighborhood in the middle of a random Tuesday morning.
What was their secret? What did they do?
They couldn’t all be retired or have trust funds.
Did they just work the night shift? Or maybe they were simply, as Dennis had assumed I was, taking a long-overdue day off.
As I continued down the sidewalk, it dawned on me that I was starving.
Maybe it was the grilled cheese sandwich Rachel had fed me yesterday that had startled my appetite out of hibernation.
Or maybe it was the fact that I was out in the relatively fresh New York air for the first time in four days.
Whatever it was, my body was telling me that I hadn’t been paying it enough attention. And my body was not happy about it.
I headed back in the opposite direction, to the bagel place three blocks down. I was practically running, I was suddenly so hungry. It felt good to have a sense of purpose and destination, even if the destination was the Bagel Boat.
“What can I get you?” asked the guy behind the counter, snapping on some plastic gloves.
I’d never seen him before. I usually only came here amid the bustling weekend crowd, but this was a totally different staff and the place was quiet, nearly empty.
So there really was this whole other Weekday Morning Nonoffice World that I knew nothing about.
“I’ll have a toasted everything with cream cheese and lox, please.”
“That be all?”
“And this, too,” I said, picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal from the wire rack. For old times’ sake. For the want ads, too. Wait—did they even have want ads in newspapers anymore?
As the guy rang me up, the little bell above the door chimed, and three young women entered the store, chattering and laughing, each pushing a baby stroller.
They were dressed alike, in T-shirts, jeans, and trainers or flip-flops.
They parked the strollers and headed over to a little nook by the refrigerated drinks.
Obviously, the bagel stop was part of their routine.
The women were all younger than I was, probably in their mid- to late twenties.
The tallest had flawless caramel-colored skin, and when she spoke to her friends, I heard a Caribbean lilt to her voice.
The other two women were Asian, with dark complexions and open, friendly expressions. Tibetan, I guessed, or maybe Thai.
And each of these three young women had in her care a fair-haired, blue-eyed child.
It was so striking, this parade of young brown women and their small white charges.
I glanced at the big round clock above the cash register.
10:18. The apparent witching hour for the gathering of Manhattan nannies.
The harried career moms who employed them would have dashed out of the apartment hours before, fingers flying on BlackBerrys and iPhones, en route to some hectic desk job or other—one that came with diplomas on the wall, files in the credenza, an assistant, a speakerphone, a window with a view to the streets below.
The very same streets their nannies roamed every day of the week, until the career moms rushed home to relieve them, just after dark.
Just in time for a single bedtime story.
I took my newspaper and sat down at one of the narrow little tables against the wall. “15 Killed in Kabul Bomb Attack.” “Jobless Numbers Rise 2 Percent.” “Congress in Partisan Standoff on Drilling Reform.” “Councilman Steps Down amid Growing Bribery Probe.” There was no good news anymore.
I glanced, for distraction, down into the stroller that was parked next to me.
A pink-cheeked child was tucked inside, with blond curls and impossibly long blond eyelashes.
She must have been four—really, a bit old to be pushed around in a stroller anywhere but New York—but there was no denying that she was adorable.
The bell jangled again, and in walked a woman who was obviously not a nanny.
She was by herself, first of all. She had a perky, well-cared-for look about her.
She was about my age, petite, ash blond, pretty.
She wore gray yoga pants, a sleek black racerback tank, and cross-trainers.
A fluorescent pink water bottle, a compact fanny pack, and an iPhone were strapped efficiently to her waist.
She walked up to the counter, ordered a whole-wheat bagel with one Egg Beater, and then turned around toward me.
I could feel her taking me in—my messy hair, my jeans and flip-flops, the expensive stroller parked at my feet.
She walked right up and looked inside the stroller. She sucked in her breath.
“Oh. My. God,” the woman said to me. “That baby is just gorgeous.”
I blinked at her. She had caught me off guard; in the workaday world of midtown, commuters usually didn’t just walk right up and talk to each other.
But maybe these were the unspoken rules in Weekday Morning Nonoffice World and people felt free to just start talking to strangers.
I glanced over at the child’s nanny, trying to catch her eye, but no luck.
I looked down at the little girl, then back up at the yoga woman. Not wanting to seem rude, I smiled.
Yoga Pants leaned down toward the stroller and waggled her fingers in the face of the clearly sleeping child. Then she bent way down—revealing impressive cleavage in the gentle V of her tank—before reaching into the stroller and actually tickling the girl’s nose.
“Hey,” I said, alarmed, rolling the stroller a couple of inches closer to me. “Um, I’m not actually—” I began, glancing over at the little girl’s nanny, who, along with her friends, was now busy inspecting the available flavors of Vitaminwater.
Yoga Pants stood back up and smiled at me. “So how long have you been taking care of this little angel?” she asked.
I curled my fingers possessively around the handlebar of the stroller. “Uh, well . . .”
“And do you come into the city from Queens? Or from someplace else?” she asked, still smiling in a beneficent way.
“No, I’m—I actually live just around the corner,” I said. What was I doing? Why didn’t I simply explain her mistake to her? What was wrong with me?
Yoga Pants beamed at me. “You know, I just think it’s so smart for parents to get an Asian-speaking nanny these days,” she gushed.
Did I know how to speak Asian?
I smiled uncertainly.
“Listen, you seem really sweet. Let me give you my phone number.” Yoga Pants fished a card out of her tiny fanny pack.
She tilted her chin toward the stroller.
“Once this one gets off to full-day kindergarten, which looks like it might be any day now, you might find yourself in need of another job. Rob and I have plenty of friends who’d just love a referral to an Asian nanny who’s already familiar with the neighborhood. ”
She handed me her card.
“Thanks, that’s nice of you,” I said, almost meaning it.
She waved a hand gaily in the air. “Oh, it’s nothing. That’s just how I am. I love to help people!”
“Toasted everything, CC, and lox!” the guy behind the counter called out, brandishing a brown paper bag.
“That’s me.” I stood, picked up my paper, and retrieved my bagel.
I felt, somehow, that I should say something to Yoga Pants. She had, after all, in her own special way, just tried to find me a job.
“Well, it was very nice talking to you,” I said, standing there a little awkwardly, with my bagel.
“Don’t lose my number, now,” she said with a magnanimous smile. “You just call if you ever need a referral to another family.”
“Okay then,” I said vaguely, taking a few backward steps toward the exit.
“Wait!” she yelled. “You’re forgetting the baby!”
I smiled uncertainly, waved, turned my back, and scurried out the door.
Out on the street, for no reason at all, I started half-running, half-jogging, my flip-flops slapping noisily on the pavement. As I ran, I laughed hysterically. I was actually laughing. It made no sense, but suddenly I felt giddy and exhilarated. I felt oddly free.