Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (24 page)

“Furious. I had to invent an elaborate story about Debbie Grumfeld having Parkinson’s disease. So when you write, Nickie, you must now affect a girlish handwriting with a tremor.”

“Will do,” I said. “How are you, darling?”

“Missing you and Albert terribly, darling. Any sign of your mother’s resolve weakening?”

“Some,” I lied, “I’m being unrelentingly obnoxious. I’m also insulting her new boyfriend every chance I get.”

“Very good,” said Sheeni. “Women hate that. What other misdeeds do you have to report?”

“Uh, well, let me see…” I hadn’t realized I was going to be put on the spot.

Sheeni didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “you know your mother’s nice Lincoln?”

“Yes.”

“Wreck it.”

“Wreck it? But I don’t know how to drive!”

“Exactly my point,” said Sheeni. “That makes taking such a rare and valuable car out on the highway even more of a wantonly rebellious act. Just wear your seat belt, darling, and don’t get hurt.”

“I, I don’t know, darling. It’s a really nice car.”

“Maybe you should hook up the trailer too. I’m told they splinter into pieces spectacularly.”

“Not the trailer!” I objected. “I was thinking someday, maybe if you came down, it might be a good place to, you know, well…”

“I don’t think so, Nickie,” said Sheeni. “As I recall, that trailer smelled rather badly. No, it is not the sort of venue a young woman dreams of for a romantic assignation. You’ll have to do better, much better than that. I suggest you wreck it also.”

“Well, I’ll, I’ll give it some thought.” I looked around for François. He seemed to be off on a coffee break somewhere.

Through the phone I heard a male voice say, “Come on, Sheeni. Let’s go.”

“Who was that, Sheeni?” I asked.

“Oh, just a friend, Nickie,” she replied. “I have to go. My next class is about to start. Kiss Albert for me, darling. Be bad. Be more than bad, darling, be awful!”

“I will!” I replied.

François clearly did not like the possessive tone of that cultured voice he had just overheard. “You know who that was, don’t you?” asked François. “It was that asshole Trent!”

“I know,” I said. “And what are you going to do about it, tough guy?”

“Just watch me,” replied François, his steely eyes glinting with dark intentions.

4:30
P.M
. Lefty dropped by with a get-well card and a two-pound box of chocolates—both purloined, of course. Still, his thoughtfulness is appreciated. Lefty has decided he violated the code of the streets by abandoning me injured and dying in the woods—even if I had contributed to the needless prolongation of his virginity. Hence, these small gestures of contrition.

Having just come from a checkup with his lady penis doctor, my pal was even more down in the dumps than usual.

“Did you have the same cute young doctor?” I asked, helping myself to
another chocolate. I could see I would have to eat fast if I hoped to keep up with Lefty. He struggled to swallow the three in his mouth before replying.

“Yeah, same one. This time I kind of enjoyed it when she examined my hard-on. Maybe because I’m more experienced now with chicks.” Lefty adjusted his crotch and took another handful of chocolates.

“Well, what did she say? Are you any straighter?”

“I think I am a little, but she says no. So she wants to operate!”

“Jesus, why? So what if you’re a little crooked.”

“That’s what I say!” exclaimed Lefty. “I mean, I can piss straight enough. If I’d been able to get it on with Millie, then I’d of known for sure it would work OK for sex. I’ve decided I’m not going to let them cut on it ’til I’ve had a chance to try it out first.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“I mean, if it works OK, I’m just going to live with it crooked. I don’t care how much my mother bugs me. It’s my dick, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” I agreed. The chocolates were disappearing fast. I took two more. Lefty gulped another handful. “Lefty, I’m really sorry about Millie. Did you give her my letter?”

“I did,” said Lefty. “She’s still acting pretty frosty, though. She said your note was pretentious and insincere.”

I was surprised by the acuity of Millie’s perception. She rose yet another notch in my growing esteem. “But she believes you now, doesn’t she?” I asked.

“I guess so,” said Lefty. “She said she’d go out with me on Friday.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, but where are we going to go? I’ll never get her back into the woods. What am I supposed to do? Bring her home and say: Mom, Millie and I are going upstairs to test out my equipment, we don’t want to be disturbed?”

“What about her house?”

“Are you kidding? After what happened with Willis, her parents are watching her like a hawk.”

Here at last was a chance to make up for the wrong I had done my friend. “Then bring her over to my house, Lefty. You can do it right here in my bed. I’ll get Mom to take me to a double feature, and I’ll leave a key under the doormat. I’ll even make sure the sheets are clean.”

“I don’t know,” said Lefty, laboriously masticating four cherry-filled bonbons. “You sure you won’t be hiding in the closet?”

“I promise. You’ll have total privacy. How about it?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Lefty, swallowing at last. “Gee, Nick, you’re a real pal.”

“Glad to be of service. That reminds me. How’s Martha?”

“She’s really a mess because the doc canceled our sessions.”

“My mom didn’t pay him, huh?”

“Not yet,” replied Lefty. “And Martha can’t understand why after she poured out her soul to Dr. Browerly, he won’t go on for free. I told her the guy was only in it for the bucks. That’s when she punched me. I just hope your mom doesn’t pay.”

“You don’t wish to continue therapy?” I asked, incredulous. Personally, I can’t wait to commence intensive, interminable analysis.

“No way!” said Lefty. “Those guys are so nosy. I know if I’d seen Dr. Browerly this week, I’d have wound up telling him that I’d eaten out Millie Filbert. And I’m sure he’s required by the state to blab stuff like that to your parents. If he did, man, I’d be a virgin for life.”

“How was that anyway?” I asked.

“Great! It tastes a little like chicken. Only thing is your tongue gets kind of tired. So I’m doing tongue pull-ups every night when I tape my dick down.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, making a mental note to do some myself. At last, exercise I could relate to.

Lefty picked up the last morsel of chocolate and flipped it into his mouth.

“Aren’t you feeling a little sick?” I asked. “I am.”

“Nah,” said Lefty. “And I ate another box on the way over. I like chocolate a lot.”

“You’re lucky you don’t get zits.”

“I’d rather have a crooked dick any day than zits,” he declared.

Lefty has a point there. Or does he?

8:15
P.M
. Mom made me come downstairs and eat dinner with her and that repulsive cop. She must not realize the awesome depths of our mutual contempt. From that first post-burglary interrogation, Lance Wescott and I have loathed each other with a compellingly visceral potency. I chafe in his presence. I despise the air he sucks into his vile, nicotine-stained lungs. I covet the very gravity that holds his putrefying flesh to this planet. Yes, I could happily turn Officer Wescott over to Thai pirates, Guatemalan death squads, Medellín drug lords, or Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge. Better yet, let them all have a go at him. No doubt he feels the same way about me.

Lance glared at me with his red watery eyes as he shoveled mashed potatoes into his churning maw. François glared back.

“I don’t think that was fair what happened to Wally last night,” commented François. “I think the ACLU should be alerted.”

“You would squeal to those commie flag burners,” replied the cop. “That
asshole got what he deserved. He won’t show his big ugly mug around here again.”

Talk about the pot slandering the kettle!

“I hope Wally’s OK,” said Mom guiltily.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” noted Lance smugly and un-originally.

“And the fatter they are, the bigger the grease spot,” added François.

Lance glared at me even more fiercely. “Estelle,” he said, “you want me bash him one? He’s really asking for it now.”

“Nick,” yelled Mom, “you watch your smart mouth! You should act respectful toward Officer Wescott.”

“I’m trying as hard as I can,” replied François. “But he’s not making it very easy for me. And how come he took three pork chops and I only got one?”

“Officer Wescott is our guest,” said Mom.

“So I have to go hungry?” demanded François.

Lance turned even redder, tossed down his napkin, and stood up. “Estelle,” he bellowed, “if you don’t smack that kid right now I’m walking out of here!”

Not wishing to break up her pleasant dinner party, Mom complied. She walloped me one across my head.

Lance sat back down and I stood up. “You’ll be sorry you did that!” exclaimed François, storming out of the room.

“I’m sorry about my son,” I heard Mom say to Lance.

“Nothing wrong with him a few bruised ribs couldn’t cure,” replied the compassionate cop.

10:30
P.M
. Wally is back! I was alerted to his arrival by Albert whimpering for his buddy from his new doggie prison down in the basement. Not taking any chances, this time Wally got out of his car, locked all the doors, extracted a lawn chair from the trunk, unfolded it beside the curb, and sat down—facing our house. You have to admire his courage, if not his intelligence.

Ten minutes later: I just heard some bellowing downstairs from Lance. Trouble is brewing. Hard to believe all these gallons of male testosterone are being shed over my mother.

11:10
P.M
. Well, Wally’s gone. The cops just carted him off on his second trip to jail in two days. This time I think the charge is likely to be assault on a police officer (Lance) with a deadly weapon (an aluminum lawn chair). But I am willing to testify the defendant acted in self-defense. Lance had no business pushing Wally over backwards in his chair. He could have cracked open
his head on the sidewalk. Luckily, a rose bush was there to break his fall. Probably it was the thorns that made Wally respond with such uncharacteristic belligerence. You could hear the clang of aluminum impacting policeman’s skull for blocks around. Needless to say, it was sweet music to my ears.

Good news. My shoulder has improved enough to permit some degree of normal arm movement. I am now able to reflect freely upon Millie Filbert’s voluptuous charms. After wiping up, I slathered a new coat of salve on my poison oak. Mostly the itching has subsided, except for the occasional spasmodic twitch. I did ten minutes of tongue pull-ups and already can feel that vital muscle toning up.

Oops, loud shouting downstairs. Mom and Lance are going at each other. Dare I hope this is the beginning of the end?

WEDNESDAY, September 26
— My dream came true! I went down for breakfast, and there was Mom in her
EAT IT AND LIKE IT
apron, making pecan waffles for the felonious truck driver. Under the table lay Albert, contentedly nuzzling a giant pink ankle. Unaccountably, truth and goodness have triumphed over evil. The long nightmare is over. Lance is gone!

“Hi, Wally,” I said. “Did you break out of jail?”

“No,” he replied, inspecting the ceiling. “Your mom bailed me out.”

“You really walloped that turkey!” I said.

“It, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, Lance—I mean, Officer Wescott had it coming,” said Mom, plopping another steaming waffle onto Wally’s plate. “I told him you weren’t doing any harm sitting there on the curb. Some men are just too macho for their own good.”

“I didn’t trust him,” said Wally. “I wanted to be there, Estelle, in case you needed me.” This was a long speech for Wally; he blushed at his loquacity. “That’s very sweet of you, Wally,” said Mom. “Isn’t that sweet, Nick?” “Very sweet,” I agreed. “Gee, Wally, did they rough you up down at the jail?”

“Not really,” he replied. “They were mostly nice once they got the handcuffs on. Officer Wescott was the only one being disagreeable.”

“That Neanderthal!” exclaimed François, “I don’t see how Mom ever went out with him.”

“Officer Wescott has his good points,” retorted Mom. “And it’s none of your business who I go out with.”

“It is if they’re continually threatening me with bodily injury,” I said.

“Officer Wescott is a strict disciplinarian,” said Mom. “That’s exactly what you require. I need a man around here who can keep you under control.”

“What about Wally?” I asked. “If ever there was a man I could look up to, it’s Wally.”

Mom glanced at Wally; he blushed. “You eat your breakfast, Nick,” she said. “And don’t bother Mr. Rumpkin.”

“It’s no bother,” said Wally. He leaned over and looked down. “Doggie, I asked you not to do that.” Albert paused, flashed a gargoyle grin, and—leaping up—planted a juicy kiss.

“See, Mom,” I said. “Everyone likes Wally. I’ll bet he’s nice with babies too. Aren’t you, Wally?”

Wally blushed.

“Eat your breakfast, Nick,” replied Mom. “And shut your mouth.”

No wonder I’m a disciplinarian problem. My parents are always giving me mixed messages.

5:00
P.M
. I just made $20! Still too ill to go to school, I stayed home and helped Wally remodel the living room. He paid me in cash.

After Mom left for work, Wally brought in his toolbox, a big carton of miscellaneous supplies, and a hydraulic car jack on little steel wheels. We started by piling all of the furniture along the front wall. As his assistant was still nursing a tender shoulder, Wally did most of the heavy lifting. Boy, is he strong. He hoisted the couch all by himself—with Albert on it.

Next, Wally got the jack under Jerry’s Chevy and swiveled the dead hulk against the wall that adjoins the dining room. Then, borrowing Joanie’s old slide projector, he shone a beam at the car—thus projecting its silhouette on the wall. This we traced in pencil, following the shadow precisely.

After a short break for coffee and donuts, Wally jacked up the car again and pulled it away from the wall. Then he fired up his reciprocating saw, and—having ascertained that the wall was not load-bearing—cut through the plaster and studs along the Nova-shaped line. The only mishap came when the buzzing blade sliced through the electrical cables to the second floor. Fortunately for the saw operator, the circuit breakers tripped in time to prevent complete electrocution. “Damn,” said Wally, shaking off the jolt, “I should have checked the wiring routes in the basement.”