Revoltingly Young (12 page)

“
My skepticism is boundless,” I sneered.

“
Wait, Noel, hear me out. I asked my father about it–in a very discreet way–and do you know what he said?”

“
You’re insane?”

“
No. He said go ask your mother.”

“
Proving what?”

“
Proving he knew it was true, but didn’t want to be the person who confirmed it.”

“
Well, I suppose you could interpret it that way. Are you going to ask your mother?”

“
No, that would be completely pointless.”

“
How about your grandmother?”

“
That’s a thought. She doesn’t like me much though.”

“
Why not?”

“
She says I remind her too much of her daughter. None of the females in my family gets along except for me and Aunt Sheeni. Noel, there are all these connections between our families!”

“
I know. That’s why we have to run away and get married. Then we could live together in your tastefully decorated room.”

“
Not likely. Boys are so hard on nice things. I do like you, Noel. I find I’m really upset that you’ve gone away. And what’s this I hear about you and some slut named Awanee?”

L.A. is a very big place, but news still gets around fast.

5:38 p.m. Too hot to do anything but lie in my room and listen to the Pickled Punks over and over again at maximum volume–not that my cheap speakers in any way reproduce the actual concert experience. For some reason this seems to be bothering Grandma. She suggested I call up “Irma” and “invite her out to the movies.” Not being the world’s greatest masochist, I have declined.

11:12 p.m. Carlyle and I just passed a boring few hours loitering downtown. In my absence he Africanized his name to Jamal, but I keep slipping up and addressing him by his old “honky slave name.” Each time I do so he punches me in the arm as a form of aversion therapy. He reports a few nights ago he used the leather awl on his pocket knife to puncture all four tires on the Holt family’s Buick. I’m glad he did this while I was away so Stoney can’t blame me. No sign of our former gang brother, thank God. Just the mention of her name is for some reason extremely anxiety-provoking. And that’s precisely what I don’t need any more of.

SUNDAY, July 24 – I’m up to three dry nights in a row, a positive sign of improving mental health. I wish.

Awanee has e-mailed me 17 photos of herself in a variety of attractive poses (all fully clothed, alas). She demands at least that many of me. This will be tough as no occupant of this trailer has ever shown the slightest interest in photography (or owns a camera). She also suggests I get a video cam for my computer so she can watch me in my room anytime she needs my company. As if I wish to broadcast to the world my incessant self-abuse. I don’t know what the typical daily average is for youths my age, but I fear I may be dangerously raising the curve.

8:47 p.m. Rot Dugan just dropped by with Toby’s slave costume–once again reeking of bad b.o. If that kid ever tires of the nickname Rot, he can always change it to Stinky. Rot reports his father will have a “nice surprise” for me tomorrow. What that might be he refused to say. Why must work be such a source of constant dread?

I decided to make a list of all the reasons I am not a popular person in this town. 1. I’m poor. 2. I live in a trailer. 3. I’m not tall, dark, and athletic. 4. I dress poorly and my grooming habits are not the best. 5. I have weird friends. 6. I don’t suck up to teachers to get good grades. 7. I am willing to work as a Negro slave for money. 8. I could care less if my high school beats Elko (arch rivals) in any sport. 9. I lack a friendly, outgoing personality. 10. I’m self-centered yet deficient in self-confidence.

To my credit: 1. I’m not outrageously ugly–my looks having been compared favorably to Brandon De Wilde, a deceased actor. 2. Some people find me intelligent. 3. I have well-developed and rather sophisticated musical tastes. 4. I shower regularly and rarely smell that bad. 5. I am loyal to my friends, unless stabbed in the back. 6. I am a decent person who tries to treat people well. 7. I am sensitive to the feelings of others. 8. I believe I have a lot of love to give to a special person. 9. I am not an abuser of cigarettes, snuff, or drugs. 10. I have a famous and glamorous brother.

Speaking of Nick, I e-mailed him a reminder to send that check to our father. As long as he has the checkbook out, I wish he’d take a hint and send a monthly stipend to me. At least I wouldn’t blow all his largesse on booze and pigeon feed.

MONDAY, July 25 – The heat wave continues. Too bad we can’t save up all this merciless heat and spread it around next January. Winter in Winnemucca in a drafty old trailer: the best argument yet for the imperative of suicide.

It was with a heavy heart that I made myself up as Toby and returned to work. The first thing Mr. Dugan said to me was that he was “very tired” of my grandmother’s “unreasonable demands,” and if I didn’t “shape up” I would be “out the door.” Guess he wasn’t interested in hearing about what I did on my summer vacation. Even worse, my employer’s had another marketing inspiration (the ominous “nice surprise”). At his direction a sign company has fashioned an advertising sandwich board, which Toby is to wear while marching up and down Main Street every hour on the hour. This contraption consists of two large signs (joined at the top by vinyl straps) that drape over the victim and hang down fore and aft. Fastened to the bottom of each sign are small bells which “tinkle merrily” (Mrs. Dugan’s phrase) while one walks. The front sign reads: “Wedding Bells Are Ringing at Dixie Belle Wedding Chapel!” This is the “teaser” message. The rear “hard sell” sign reads: “Get Married Now! No App’t Needed! Also Loving Adore Ceremonies! Affordable for all!”

Since Toby is paid by the service and not by the hour, we had to negotiate a rate for this added work. Considering the heat and the humiliation factor, Toby felt $500 per forced march was a reasonable rate. Mr. Dugan countered with a very paltry $1. After strenuous negotiations, we settled on $2 per stroll.

The good news: The signs, made of a thin corrugated plastic, were not excessively heavy. The bad news: The signs bounced annoyingly against one’s person with every step. They inhibited the free-flow of air, leading to rapid overheating of the wearer. The rattling bells set off a terrific din, causing people to rush out of buildings to see what the ruckus was. The approaching apparition tended to draw rude comments from passersby and to antagonize vicious dogs.

As agreed upon, Toby walked four blocks up, crossed the street, walked eight blocks down, crossed the street, then walked four blocks back. This route, I was mortified to see, took me directly past the Silver Sluice casino. On my fourth circuit of the day Uma came out and blocked my path.

“
Hi, Noel,” she said.

“
Hi, Uma. Your toes are glistening.”

It was true. Gold and silver glitter alternated on each perfect toenail on display in her fashionable sandals.

“
Nice of you to notice. Mary Glasgow and I got a little bored yesterday. Noel, I haven’t seen you much lately.”

“
Well, you told me you weren’t interested in going out with me.”

“
I may have said something to that effect, meaning on that particular day I wasn’t interested in going out with anyone. But I didn’t expect you to disappear off the planet.”

I wasn’t sure I was hearing what I thought I was hearing.

“
Uh, I went to L.A.”

“
So your grandmother informed me. How was it?”

“
Super. We went to the beach. Went to a cool club and heard a great band. I met some nice gir–I mean, people.”

“
Sounds great. I’d like to hear all about it.”

“
You would? Didn’t you get that awful e-mail about me?”

“
The rantings of a jealous female, Noel. I think Stoney Holt must be in love with you.”

“
What?”

“
Why else would she be so jealous? Want to come over after dinner? If it’s still this hot, we could cool off in my pool.”

She was either inviting me over or I was having hallucinations from impending sunstroke.

“
Sure, OK,” I stammered.

“
Great. You look a little ridiculous, Noel. And there’s blood on your sock.”

“
Yes, I know. Old Mrs. Frey’s schnauzer got to me.”

“
You should get it attended to. Dog bites can be nasty.”

Possibly, but at that moment I was feeling no pain.

11:36 p.m. It’s amazing how fast one’s life can turn around. Sure, it’s all just chemistry in the brain, but, man, it can be pleasant when you get those enzymes lined up right. To keep things under control in my swim trunks, which I slipped on under my cutoffs, I had a couple of vigorous bouts of self-abuse before I went over to Uma’s. Girls may have to take similar precautions, though somehow I doubt it. Uma answered the door in a fairly modest, but nevertheless coronary-inducing blue-and-white striped bikini. She introduced me to her father, who shook my hand and said he admired my initiative. I feared he was referring to my designs on his daughter, but it turns out he was complimenting Toby for his advertising efforts in today’s heat. To my surprise, Mr. Spurletti did not look at all Italian, having light brown hair and blue eyes. He was of an adequate but non-intimidating height and did not appear to be packing heat. From some angles he looked a bit like Burt Lancaster. I found him eminently suitable as a prospective father-in-law.

Uma’s graciously landscaped backyard pool was not as large as Veeva’s, but it was a heavenly venue for splashing around with the girl of your dreams. The water was an ideal temperature for prolonged soaking, though the chlorine stung a bit on my ravaged ankle. We swam around for a while, then drifted to a corner of the deep end where we held onto the tile edge, treaded water, and talked. Occasionally, a lip was nuzzled. I told her the highlights of my trip, minus the more romantic bits, such as fondling Awanee’s intimate parts and proposing marriage to Veeva. She expressed sympathy when I told her about meeting my father and seemed intrigued by our quest to find out more about my brother and his tumultuous teen years. She said she had caught his act in Vegas last fall, which she found “amazing and hilarious.” She said she enjoyed meeting my grandmother, so I told her the whole sorry tale of how I came to live in a trailer in Winnemucca.

“
Your mother shot off your stepfather’s penis!” she exclaimed.

“
Well, most of it I guess. I haven’t really seen it. And the testicles too, of course. It was a large-caliber weapon–the gun I mean.”

“
I’m sure she was entirely justified.”

More enthusiasm for summary castration than I would have preferred, but I let it pass. Since the conversation had entered a spicy zone, I decided to go with the flow.

“
So finish your story about the jockstrap,” I said, pulling her to me with my free arm. I liked the way certain anatomical protrusions brushed against my chest.

“
My aunt Rosa is watching from her window, you know,” she cautioned.

“
Yeah, I thought I spotted someone up there. Is she likely to scream or call the cops?”

“
More likely a priest. We can’t do anything too overt out here. And your erection will have to subside before we get out of the pool.”

So much for my earlier prophylactic measures.

“
Sorry about that,” I said.

“
Why apologize? I’m taking it as a compliment. The jockstrap was a souvenir from a slumber party in Gulfport when I was 10. In the middle of the night we raided the bedroom of my friend Tali’s brother.”

“
That must have shook him up.”

“
He was away at college. We each took turns trying it on. But we got a little hysterical and woke up Tali’s mother. I had it on under my pajamas and wound up wearing it home. After that, those girls all called me Jock.”

“
Shall I call you Jock?”

“
No. Those times are past.”

My flattering boner never did subside, so eventually I had to exit the pool with my back to the house. I slipped on my t-shirt and cutoffs, gave Uma a good-night kiss and squeeze, and sneaked out by the side gate.

Life in dear old Winnemucca is looking up. I pinch myself, but it’s still true. I have heard the expression “your erection” from Uma’s sweet lips.

TUESDAY, July 26 – Toby came out this morning to ride his bike to work and discovered that someone had slashed both tires. I don’t see why I have to suffer at the hands of Stoney in retaliation for vandalism committed by Carlyle. I notice she didn’t mess with the tires of Grandma’s Honda Civic. One does not sabotage the car of the person who cuts your hair. Good thing for her my brain is so awash right now in blissed-out dopamine. Otherwise, I’d have to devise some swift and terrible revenge. Sorry, Uma, I don’t think Stoney likes me or is feeling jealous; I just think she’s a mean bitch.

It must have been a slow news day in Winnemucca. A reporter for the local paper came out and snapped some photos of Toby wearing his sandwich board. She also asked me a few questions about my life and job. Mr. Dugan was thrilled to hear of this potential free advertising. He says the next time a Reno TV news crew is in town for a bad freeway pile-up (their usual reason for visiting Winnemucca), he’ll try to get them to squeeze in a feature spot on Toby. Over my very dead body I thought to myself, scratching my sore ankle. Thanks to Mrs. Dugan, Toby now has a small can of spray dog repellant clipped to his belt. Very inappropriate to the antebellum look, but my employers don’t want to get their asses sued.