Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (10 page)

“No,” said Mom, with sickening finality. “That dog scares me. There’s something funny about him.”

“But what about my athletic career?”

Jerry snickered. Mom tweezed a sliver of glass from the rug and winced as it pricked her. “You’ll just have to stick to baseball, Nick. You already have all the equipment.”

I couldn’t argue with that point. “Great!” I said. “Ruin my love life! But remember, if I turn gay, it was all your fault!” I stomped off to my room and yanked the curtain closed.

“If you ask me, Estelle,” observed Jerry, “I’d say the kid’s at least half queer already.”

“Oh, hush, Jerry,” said Mom. “You’re not helping matters.”

Jerry replied with a loud, deep, prolonged belch. I resolved to murder him that very night while he slept.

FRIDAY, August 24
— I lost my nerve. I had the butcher knife out of the drawer at 2
A.M.
, but couldn’t go through with it. I considered using it on myself, but I didn’t want Sheeni to pine away and die from a broken heart. So I went back to bed and tossed and turned until dawn.

I kept thinking about what Mom had said: “That dog scares me. There’s something funny about him.” He does seem a bit odd, come to think of it. Why this compulsive streak of profane desecration? And what was his strange hold over Sheeni? Why should she give up Mr. Wonderful (T—-t) for lowly me—just to keep a small, ugly, smelly dog? It didn’t add up at 2
A.M
. It didn’t add up at 5
A.M
.

And at 6
A.M.
, when I crawled out of bed, it still didn’t add up. But I had decided one thing: Albert’s adoption, though troubling, was still going through. Not without a struggle would I relinquish our love child.

I slipped on my bathrobe and stepped outside. Another beautiful summer morning. On the patio, Albert was asleep on the concrete beside a pile of vomited religious art. He woke with a start and growled. I ignored him and shuffled off for my last shower. I wanted to be well scrubbed for my farewell donut date.

To my surprise, I found my date lurking in the bushes outside the entrance to the men’s shower room. She was wearing her fabulously modest bathrobe and (I hoped) nothing else. She waved and motioned me over. “Sheeni!” I said, “what are you…”

“Shh-h-h!” she whispered. “Crouch down!”

As I crawled into the bushes beside her, my robe came untied. Neither of us was surprised to discover I had already developed a massive T.E. Sheeni kissed me and squeezed my boner. One of the (many) things I like about Sheeni is her easy familiarity with my penis. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I whispered, trying to reach into her flannel.

She pushed my hand away and tugged my robe closed. “Not now, darling,” she replied. “You arrived just in time. Mrs. Clarkelson just went into the ladies’ shower.”

“No way!” I hissed. “I’m not…”

“Shh-h-h! Quick, put this sign on the men’s door,” she instructed, whispering the rest of her bold plan.

“But I can’t walk anywhere in my present condition,” I protested.

“Nonsense,” said Sheeni, “it adds to your appeal.”

I was pleased she thought so. I sighed. Blind love compelled my obedience.

I crawled back out of the bushes and hung the sign on the doorknob. Neatly lettered, it read: “Closed for Repairs. Men use ladies’ showers 6-7
A.M
. only.” I then circled back through the trailer park—trying my best to conceal with my towel the monstrous protrusion in my robe. As I passed Rev. Knuddlesdopper’s trailer, I bent over provocatively (I hoped) and scratched my bare leg. Walking back toward the shower building, I heard his trailer door open and close behind me. As I came around the corner of the building, I darted into the bushes and crouched beside Sheeni. Ten seconds later, the bathrobed minister appeared. He paused, read the sign, and continued on around the building toward the inviting sound of running water.

Sheeni looked at me and started to count softly. “One, two, three, four…” When she reached 14, we heard a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a deeper yell, followed by a loud crash. Sheeni continued to count. Between 15 and 23 there were more screams, some muffled howls, and a sharp thud. At 27 we heard a door slam. At 28, Rev. Knuddlesdopper reappeared, rounding the
corner in a flat-out sprint. He was beet red, dripping wet, and nude. At 32, the door slammed again. At 34, Mrs. Clarkelson appeared, moving at a fairly rapid clip for her age. She was a somewhat paler red, just as wet, and also naked. She was shouting more or less incoherently, but I thought I made out “pervert,” “rape,” and “911.”

Sheeni stopped counting, stepped briskly out of the bushes, and slipped the sign into her robe. I followed. “Good work, Nick,” she said. “Pick me up in ten minutes.”

I nodded as she strolled away. I walked casually in the opposite direction, working my way upstream against waves of excited and disturbed trailer residents. I feigned disinterest amid the hubbub. Ten minutes gave me just enough time for a sponge bath in the tiny trailer bathroom. I had to look my best for the woman of my dreams.

In the condensed kitchen, Mom was staring moodily at the kettle warming on the miniature propane range. “What’s all that shouting about out there?” she asked in sleepy irritation. “It’s enough to wake the dead.”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “People are running about all wet. Maybe it’s some kind of religious rite.”

“I’m glad we’re leaving today,” she said, pouring hot water into a mug. “This place gives me the creeps.” She dumped in a spoonful of instant coffee and gave it a slurp. I thought of Jerry having to wake to this apparition every morning and felt a fleeting twinge of pity.

After a vigorous sponge bath, followed by an extra-heavy spritz of deodorant, I dressed quickly and counted out my remaining cash: $43.12. I hoped it would be enough. As I was leaving, Mom looked up from her package of powdered donut gems. “We’re leaving at nine,” she announced.

Less than two hours remained with my beloved! “But Jerry isn’t even up yet,” I protested.

“He will be,” said Mom. “Don’t be late or you walk back.”

“OK, OK,” I said, slamming the door. I untied my dog and pulled him along.

Sheeni was waiting on her patio. She had changed into a bright yellow tube top (no bra!) and dramatically short cutoff jeans that were unraveling provocatively just millimeters below her reproductive organs. She and Albert were thrilled to be reunited. If only she displayed such unrestrained affection with me. I watched them jealously and fantasized about pulling down her tube top—with my teeth.

To avoid the boisterous crowds in front of Mrs. Clarkelson’s trailer, we slipped out through an alley. As we walked into town, Sheeni carried Albert like a baby, lifting him to her face occasionally for a wet doggy kiss (yuck). I
wondered if she’d object to gargling with a strong antiseptic before kissing me goodbye.

Fortunately, in the interests of health, the donut shop prohibited dogs. Tethered to a newspaper rack, Albert waited forlornly on the sidewalk while the humans went inside for breakfast. We ordered a combination dozen to start with and settled into “our booth” in the corner. Sheeni sipped her coffee and tackled a maple bar. I experimented with the house specialty: a blueberry-filled raised roll, topped with peanut butter and chocolate chips. It was good, but somewhat lacking in focus.

I was exhilarated by love and the extreme sugar rush, but also felt a fearful panic at the thought of our imminent separation. Sheeni assured me her father often went to San Francisco on legal business and she would wangle a way to come along. “Dad is much more tractable than Mother,” she observed. “It’s the difference between pragmatism and zeal. I seem to have inherited their characters in equal measure, which explains the dichotomy in my nature.”

“What dichotomy is that?” I asked, munching on a cinnamon twist.

Sheeni picked up an orange-frosted cake donut and licked the frosting. “Surely you’ve noticed, darling. I approach every aspect of my life with a zealot’s intensity. Yet I am also capable of dramatic compromise. My decision to forsake the love of Trent being an outstanding example of this capacity for self-sacrifice.”

I didn’t much like the sound of that. I decided to change the subject. “Then that woman I met last night is your natural mother?”

Sheeni frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Did she have you late in life?”

“You might say that. She was over 40.”

We ate our donuts in silence. When she is emotionally distraught, Sheeni is even more heartbreakingly lovely than usual. Finally she looked up. “My mother, Nick, is a brilliant woman. A very brilliant woman. Her life has turned some strange corners. She has traveled in directions that perhaps we would not choose. But she has been places and seen things that we could not begin to appreciate. Or even understand. These journeys have been difficult and have exacted a fearsome physical toll. Now do you understand?”

It was all as clear as mud. “Sure,” I said. “That’s OK. She seemed very nice to me.”

“She was abominable to you. And you know it. Let us speak the truth to each other always, Nick darling.”

“OK, I promise.” I even decided to try it. “Sheeni, I think I love you.”

Sheeni smiled, a smear of orange frosting heightening the allure of her
kissable lips. “Of course you do, Nick. Well, your hormones certainly do. And oddly enough, my hormones like you too.”

I’m not sure, but I think that was a declaration of love.

After breakfast, we walked hand in hand to the bus station, where I spent my last nickel on this planet shipping a small black dog to Oakland. Not wanting to put my relationship in jeopardy (and knowing the loathsome Trent was expected that afternoon), I was forced to retreat from my vow of candidness. I told Sheeni that Jerry adamantly refused to transport Albert in the Lincoln. I did not mention, of course, that her blasphemous dog once again had been banished. Nor did I confide that I was now facing the daunting task of revoking an overt parental “no” while attempting to conceal my open defiance of it.

Sheeni, as ever supremely confident of her overpowering charms, volunteered to persuade Jerry to change his mind. But I finally convinced her Albert would have a happier and safer trip on the bus. As a family of Berkeley-bound ’60s hippies looked on (what was it about that weird decade anyway?), mother and love child had a touchingly tearful farewell. Then Albert was stuffed into a cage and carried off—howling pitifully. I hoped he had a long and miserable trip. And if, God forbid, the bus were to overturn, at least Albert would die happy in the knowledge that his life was insured—for $500 (payable to me).

A half hour later Sheeni was distressingly dry-eyed as we said our farewells. Not even my last minute gift to her of my favorite F.S. album (“Songs for Lonely Lovers”) activated her tear glands. She hugged the Corn Dog Queen, shook Jerry’s hand, and gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget, darling. Red wine and
Consumer Reports.”

They were the sexiest words that ear had ever heard. I grabbed her and kissed her. She tasted of donuts and dog. Then Jerry fired up the big V-8, and suddenly Sheeni was a small figure retreating in the distance. Then we turned a corner and she was gone. I felt alone. Alone and numb.

Happy to be back on the road and towing something (a trucker’s mission in life?), Jerry popped a Hank Williams tape into the dash and put the pedal to the metal. We roared down the highway, passing everything in sight (including a poignant turnoff sign for Ukiah). Needless to say, the top was down. I sat in the backseat wind tunnel, dodging bugs and trying not to think of Sheeni getting ready to welcome Trent. (Though I certainly hoped she’d have the decency to change out of that yellow tube top.)

Mom, I noticed, was being coldly correct with Jerry. Women do this to drive men to the brink of insanity. She and Jerry had had words this morning over that always controversial topic, “Where do we park the trailer?” Since
Jerry’s apartment (the world’s smallest in-law studio) doesn’t come with parking (or anything else), he proposed to store their Love Mobile in our driveway. Mom pointed out that this valuable space was already occupied by his dead Chevy. Jerry replied he didn’t own a Chevy, and the battle was on. I wasn’t sure how it turned out, but no one had any obvious bruises.

To our surprise, when we got back to Oakland (even drearier now after a week in the country airing out our aesthetics), we discovered the issue was now moot. The camouflaged Chevy was gone. Apparently, the sailor had had a change of heart and had readopted his sick car. Here Mom made a tactical mistake. While she was thinking up some coldly correct comment to make on this new development, Jerry quickly and professionally backed the trailer up the driveway—threading it neatly between our house and Mr. Ferguson’s ramshackle garage with just inches to spare. Faced with this fait accompli, Mom could only say, “Jerry, this is just temporary.”

“Sure, babe,” was his smug reply. He hopped out and began to unload as Mom bustled into the house.

Flecked with bug splatter, I climbed out stiffly and looked about. Here was the place where I had lived before I knew the sweet taste of a woman’s lips. Or the tangy taste of a warm nipple. I had left a child and returned a man—a man with lash marks on his heart and feminine fingerprints on his privates. These profound thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a woman’s scream. I dropped my bags and ran into the house. Mom was standing in the doorway to the living room, her face twisted into an ugly mask of shock and horror. I looked beyond her. There in the living room, surrounded by all the furniture pushed neatly against the walls, was Jerry’s old camouflaged Chevy.

Jerry joined us and stared in stunned disbelief. “Holy shit! How in the name of God?” he muttered.

“How indeed!” exclaimed Mom. “And why!” She stared accusingly at her paramour. “You should’ve given that man his money back!”

“No way, babe,” replied Jerry obstinately. “It wasn’t in the code.”

Mom looked confused. “The California Vehicular Code?”

“No, babe. The code of the streets.” Jerry lifted up the hood and whistled. “Boy, everything’s complete. There’s even water in the windshield washer.”