The Nanny's Briefs

Elias Strand was thirty-four years old and he was losing his mind in a beige room.

The situation was complete, basically. He was a professional nanny. He spent his days doing crafts with two kids and keeping a four year old from eating crayons. He was good at his job. He liked his job. But he was not built for jury duty.

The jury assembly room of the downtown county courthouse had beige carpet, beige walls, and rows of beige chairs that were uncomfortable in a way that felt personal. A vending machine hummed in the corner. It hummed all day. Elias had been listening to it for four hours.

He had tried to get out of it, too. That was the funny part.

"So the summons came in June," he told the woman next to him, who had not asked. "I marked the hardship box. I wrote 'self-employed childcare provider' on the form. Very clear. Very professional."

"Uh huh," said the woman.

"And then they rescheduled me for today. Which is fine, except the Hendersons had to scramble for a sitter, and Mrs. Henderson gave me this look, like, thanks a lot Elias, and now I'm here."

He gestured at the room. The room did not improve.

The trouble with Elias, and he knew this about himself, was that he felt gratitude like a debt. Like a real debt. If somebody did him a solid, it sat in his chest and itched until he paid it back. Three years ago he had owed somebody very big.

Three years ago, Elias had been thirty-one and a wreck. His boyfriend had dumped him on a Tuesday and by Thursday Elias had also somehow lost his apartment, do not ask, it involved a sublet and a liar. He was sitting at a bar with his friend Brenda, doing the kind of drinking where you narrate your own downfall, when Brenda said, "You know what, my friend Markus has a couch."

Markus Montgomery. Paralegal. Thirty-four at the time, which made him thirty-seven now. Elias had met him maybe twice before that and both times Markus had remembered his name, which Elias appreciated more than he could explain.

Markus let him crash on that couch for a week. Seven days. He made coffee in the mornings and asked nothing about the breakup unless Elias brought it up, and then he mostly said "yeah, he sounded like a lot" at the right moments. On day five he came home with a second pillow and tossed it at Elias's head without a word.

Elias had never paid him back properly. A fruit basket once. A couple of beers. It was not enough and Elias knew it was not enough and it had been itching in his chest for three years.

* * *

Then, at 11:40 in the morning, the universe finally did Elias a favor.

He looked up from his third lap around the vending machine and there, across the assembly room, filling out a form with a nice pen, sat Markus Montgomery.

Elias actually said "no way" out loud. A man in a windbreaker looked at him.

Elias walked over fast. Markus glanced up and did a double take.

"Elias? Strand?"

"The one and only."

"What are you doing here? You didn't, like, commit a crime, did you?" Markus grinned. He looked good. Gray coming in at the temples, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled. "Please tell me you're not on my panel."

"Jury duty. Same as you, apparently." Elias sat down in the chair next to him, which was against etiquette for strangers but they were not strangers. "What are the odds. This room holds two hundred people."

"About a hundred and sixty," said Markus, because of course he knew. "But yeah. Small world." He capped his pen. "How've you been? Still with the nanny thing?"

"Still with the nanny thing. Twelve years now. The Henderson kids call me Uncle Elias." He paused. "You look great, man."

"You look less homeless than the last time I saw you," said Markus. "So, progress."

Elias laughed. But underneath the laugh the itch started up, big and sudden, the old debt sitting right there in a jury assembly room like it had been summoned.

Three years. A week on the couch. The second pillow.

"Hey," Elias said. "You remember that week? After Danny?"

Markus's face did something soft. "The week you cried about a man named Danny while eating all my string cheese?"

"I replaced the string cheese."

"You replaced it with store brand. I noticed, Elias."

"Okay, in my defense, I was broke and heartbroken." Elias leaned forward, elbows on knees. "No, but seriously. You saved my life that week. You don't even know. I was in a bad way and you just, took me in. Asked nothing. I've always felt like I never squared that up."

Markus waved a hand. "You bought me dinner like twice. We're square."

"We are not square."

"Elias."

"I'm serious." And he was, suddenly very serious, the way he got about debts and also about making sure the Henderson kids apologized to each other properly. "I have been wanting to make that up to you for three years and a fruit basket is insulting. So let me make it up to you. For real. Right now if you want."

Markus took a sip of his coffee. "It's coffee. You can buy me a coffee."

"I mean something else."

"Okay?"

"I mean," Elias said, keeping his voice low and steady, the way he did when telling a six year old that no, the fish is not sleeping, "that I would like to repay the favor. Personally. With my mouth. Somewhere in this building that is not here."

Markus choked on his coffee.

He choked on it properly, coughing into his fist, and a woman three chairs down looked over with concern. Elias patted his back, pat pat, like burping an infant, which was a skill he had.

"Sorry," Markus wheezed. "Sorry. What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm a paralegal, Elias, I hear things all day, that does not mean I heard that."

"You heard that."

Markus set the coffee down on the floor very carefully, like it might go off. He looked around the room. Beige. Beige. Humming vending machine. He looked back at Elias.

"You're serious."

"I've been thinking about it for three years, kind of. More the general debt. The specifics came to me about ninety seconds ago." Elias shrugged. "But yeah. Serious."

"This is a courthouse."

"I know where we are."

"There's a bailiff."

"There's a break room one floor down. I saw the sign when I was wandering. I've been wandering for four hours, Markus. I know this building like my own house."

Markus stared at him. Then he laughed, one short bark, and pressed his hand over his face.

"I'm in the middle of jury selection," he said through his fingers.

"You want to get dismissed anyway. You told me. Last month, at Brenda's thing. You said you'd rather chew your own arm off than sit on a jury."

"That's true, but."

"But what?"

Markus lowered his hand. He looked at Elias for real now, and Elias watched him decide. It was quick, actually. Quicker than Elias expected.

"Break room," Markus said. "One floor down. If anyone asks, I'm in the restroom."

"Nobody's going to ask. You're a grown adult in a beige room."

* * *

The break room was small and cluttered. A microwave on the counter had a flicker in its display. Someone's leftover coffee sat out, cold since morning, a spoon standing in it like a flag. The snack machine hummed in the