Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (27 page)

Mr. Ferguson came over after the cops left. He didn’t want to say anything in front of Lance, but Mom told him it was OK. He said the Berkeley cops had sent a guy in an asbestos suit into the still-smoldering building to get the ID off the Lincoln. They didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know an Estelle Biddulph and didn’t drive a white Continental convertible.

“I told them all my life I despised Henry Ford and his politics,” said Mr. Ferguson. “Didn’t make a hoot of difference. They were sure I was hiding something. They said they’re coming back with a search warrant. I said fine, I hope you find the hacksaw I’ve been looking for since Tuesday.”

“Thank you so much,” said Mom weakly.

“I’ll never shoot my mouth off to the cops,” averred Mr. Ferguson, eyeing Lance distrustfully. “But I don’t know about the other neighbors. Nick put on quite a show getting that trailer out of the drive. Somebody else might have seen him.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Lance wearily. “I’ll go question them.”

“Right now?” asked Wally. “It’s the middle of the night.” “Good. Then everyone should be home.”

3:30
A.M
. Lance returned from his interrogations looking grim. Our busybody neighbors had witnessed everything. People think just because the street has a Neighborhood Watch program it gives them a 24-hour-a-day license to snoop.

Lance looked over his notebook. “I got eight witnesses who say they saw a man with a mustache drive a white Lincoln and a trailer out of your driveway. Only one, though, made a positive ID on the driver as Nick. That’s Leon’s sister.”

“Patsy Polsetta is a lying little whore,” said Mom uncharitably.

“Will she make trouble?” asked Wally.

Lance addressed his reply to Mom. “She’ll deal. She’s willing to have a memory lapse if you drop all charges against her brother.”

“I guess we don’t have any choice,” said Mom. “But you tell Leon I’m buying a gun. If he tries to break in again I’ll shoot his nuts off!”

“Good for you, Estelle,” said Lance. “I told you you needed more guns around here. I’ll teach you how to fire it.”

Now I definitely have to leave. I don’t want to be around the next time my gun-toting mother flies off the handle.

Lance took out a clipboard. “OK, I’ll make out a report for the stolen car and trailer. I’ll put the time of the report as before the fire. It’ll be less suspicious that way. But I’m going to take some heat for not putting it into the computer right away.”

“Oh, Lance. You’re wonderful,” swooned Mom. “What would I do without you?”

Lance shot a smug glance at Wally. “Just trying to help out, Estelle,” he said. “Now, this kid better not be here when the detectives start coming around. I’d send him away for a while. A long while.”

“He can go make his father’s life miserable!” declared Mom.

Did I hear what I thought I heard? I seized control of my facial muscles to prevent any possible appearance of a smile.

“But I like it here,” I said solemnly.

“You’re going, buster!” shouted Mom. “Wally, hand me the phone.”

For the first time tonight Mom was enjoying herself. She didn’t even give Dad a preliminary “hello” when he finally answered. “Your kid just burned down half of Berkeley!” she screamed. “Come and get him!”

Dad thought it was a cruel practical joke, so Mom put Lance on the line. He explained Dad’s potential legal and financial liabilities in his most draconian policeman’s jargon. Even I felt a fresh quiver of anxiety. Lance pulled the squawking receiver away from his ear. “Boy, he’s hot!” exclaimed the cop.

Mom got back on the phone and told Dad he had two hours “to get his ass down here.” She hung up looking tired but satisfied. At least I’m giving her ammunition in her post-divorce marital wars. She looked over at me. “You get upstairs and start packing!”

“Wait a minute,” said the cop. “Estelle, aren’t you going to punish this kid? I’d say he deserves a hiding.”

“He’s too much for me anymore,” sighed Mom. “Can you do it, Lance darling?”

“Be glad to,” he replied, eyeing me with sadistic anticipation.

“Wait! Estelle, he’s suffered enough,” interjected Wally.

“You mind your own business,” hissed Mom. “You can go home now, Wally. Thank you for the lovely evening. I’m sorry this horrible child had to spoil it for everyone!”

Oh, surely not quite everyone, Mother dearest.

Wally got up reluctantly. “Everything will be OK, Nick,” he said. “Have a nice time up in Ukiah.”

“Thanks, Wally,” I said. “I’ll try to.”

“Don’t think you’ll be seeing what’s-her-name up there,” exclaimed Mom. “I’m making sure your father keeps you away from that girl!”

“Twyt,” I mumbled.

“What did you say, buster?”

“I said twyt.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

My translation was inaccurate. Everyone knows twyt stands for That’s What You Think!

After Wally left, I was sent upstairs to await my counseling session with Lance. Five minutes later he swaggered into my room carrying a stout tree limb.

“OK, hotshot. Drop your drawers,” he said.

“You hit me with that and I’m going to scream bloody murder,” I warned.

Lance grinned sadistically. “Scream away, hotshot. Now, drop ‘em!”

I didn’t scream—well, not much. As the red-faced cop thrashed my naked buttocks and legs, I thought of the noble Sydney Carton. Like him, I was making a painful sacrifice for the woman I love. My suffering possessed a beauty which elevated it above this sordid scene. Still, it hurt like hell.

Eventually, Lance delivered his last blow, a full body swing that broke his staff and knocked me into the maple bedpost, cutting my lip. I hardly felt this last injury over the searing pain from my bloodied backside.

“Are you through?” I asked weakly.

Lance tossed aside the broken branch. “For now. Get packed, hotshot.”

He’s going to pay for this, of course. He doesn’t know it. But he will. And so will Mom.

5:05 A.M. Dad just roared into the driveway. He must have flown down from Ukiah. I’m packed. Albert is on his leash. I can barely move (let alone sit) from my stiff, throbbing legs. Time to go. I shall write my next words in a cabin surrounded by beautiful redwood trees.

9:30
A.M
. Well, not quite. You could call the house a cabin, but the county assessor knows it as a double-wide manufactured home. Redwoods are in evidence—on the distant hills across the valley. Dad’s rural paradise is a flat and treeless quarter acre, down a dusty road past a gravel pit and concrete plant. The house is an austere plywood rectangle perched on cement blocks. It has aluminum windows, a swamp cooler on the shallow-pitched roof, attached carport shading the south side, pre-cast concrete steps leading to the plain front door, and modesty strips crudely stapled over the seams joining the two halves. The landscaping consists of high brown weeds, which I am under orders to mow promptly. We are four miles from town. There is no bus service. I shall be walking it. Dad didn’t have a bike rack, so my ten-speed had to be left behind. He didn’t want to take the dog either, but Mom insisted. Albert has set up housekeeping in the dim crawl-space grotto under the floor.

To his credit, Dad has rented by far the nicest house in the neighborhood. At least our “cabin” has running (well) water, intact windows, and a
sound roof. The swamp cooler even takes some of the bite off the baking heat—if you don’t mind the extra humidity. The house is also quite expansive—the rooms are huge and I have my own bedroom. Soundproofing, though, appears to be nil. I shall have to master the art of living silently; Dad is very sensitive to noise. I have set up my computer by a window. The view is almost pleasant: weeds and falling-down fence in the foreground, dusty tower of the concrete plant in the middle ground, forested green hills in the distance, and an occasional red-tailed hawk lending ornithological interest to the cloudless blue sky.

I should be sleepy, but I’m not. I suppose taking a shower has reset my internal clock. My brain thinks it’s morning even if my body feels like it’s still midnight in the concentration camp. While Dad and Lacey went in to town for breakfast, I made some calls. Sheeni wasn’t in, but I expect she’ll call me back soon (if her idiot brother delivers my message).

Dad, of course, did some energetic vociferating while we loaded up the car in Oakland. Mom helped (in the screaming, that is). She only stopped yelling long enough to cut Lacey dead. Even dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, Lacey was gorgeous. She was the only person who displayed any humanity, exclaiming in sympathy when I displayed a lacerated leg. Dad, I think, was disappointed he’d been cheated out of his chance to hit me. Perhaps he’ll take his turn later.

I got in the car without saying goodbye to you know who. I hope her baby has three eyes, six legs, and a coat of thick brown fur. He probably will too with Jerry as his dad and Lance as his evil stepfather. I also snubbed the repellant policeman, who had draped a territorial arm over Mom’s shoulder the entire time Dad was there. As if Dad wants her back! I did say goodbye to Mr. Ferguson, who came out to see me off and managed to slip me $20 when no one was looking. Him I’ll miss.

Dad insisted on making a detour through Berkeley to inspect the devastation. Firemen were still spraying water on the smoking ruins. “Oh my God! Look what you did!” exclaimed Dad, as he drove slowly past the wrecked buildings. For once, I wished he’d step on it. Yes, I felt terrible. But jeez, it was an accident.

Dad’s mood wasn’t improved when he got a ticket in Cotati for doing 92 in a 55-mile-an-hour zone. After the motorcycle cop roared off, Dad passed the ticket back to me. “Here, you pay this,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be home in bed.” Then he peeled out and resumed his lecture on how I should start taking responsibility for my actions. My first action after unpacking was to file his traffic citation in the trash.

One good thing you can say about being brutally caned by an irate policeman,
it’s a marvelously fast-acting guilt palliative. The pain assuages the conscience, relieving the mind from the hot pricks of remorse. Already I feel well on my way toward being absolved of responsibility for the damages and distress caused in the fire. Why should I torment myself when Lance did it so much more professionally?

After I called Sheeni’s house, I put a long-distance call through to Lefty’s. His mentally disturbed sister Martha answered. “My dad’s going to get a restraining order against you, Nick Twisp,” she announced.

“Tell him not to bother,” I replied. “I just moved to Ukiah.”

“I wish you’d move to the moon.”

“Can I speak to Lefty, please?”

“You’re not allowed to talk to him.”

“Please, Martha. Just this one last time. I want to apologize.”

“I’ll see if he’s receiving any calls from morons.”

After a while, Lefty came on the line. “I hate your guts.”

“I’m sorry, Lefty. It wasn’t my fault!”

“I hate your slimy guts.”

“How was I to know Leon was going to break in?”

“I hate your putrid guts.”

“How’s Millie?”

“She hates me. She thinks you planned it all.”

“Are her parents going to press charges?” I asked.

“Dad talked them out of it. But I’m banned from her life. I can’t see her ever again!”

“I’m sorry, Lefty. I really am. Did you at least get to home base?”

“Who knows. I couldn’t tell with that lousy condom. No wonder the magazine rated it number one. Nothing could get through that rubber. It felt like I was wearing a truck inner tube. Millie might know if I made it, but I sure don’t. Looks like I’m going to be a virgin for life. Thanks to you.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. Sheeni and I aren’t allowed to see each other, but we manage.”

“Yeah, well she wants to. Millie hates my guts.”

“No, she doesn’t. She’s just upset. You wait. Monday at school she’ll be making eyes at you again.”

“You think so, Nick?”

“I know it. Just be persistent. You two are destined to cleave. It’s in the stars.”

“I hope so,” said Lefty, sounding more optimistic.

“Were your parents pissed?” I asked.

“They yelled at me for about two seconds. That was all. And Dad’s taking
me out this afternoon to buy me a color monitor for my computer—a super-high-resolution VGA display.”

“Wow, that’s great,” I said enviously. I have to stare at my electronic words in 1950s black and white. No wonder my prose seems so monotonously behind the times.

“Yeah, and it looks like I won’t have to play any more basketball with my dad either,” added Lefty, now definitely brightening.

“So things may turn out OK after all,” I said, relieved.

“Maybe so, Nick. Well, have a nice time up in Ukiah. Maybe I’ll see you up there sometime.”

“Sure, come for a visit,” I replied. “We have a great ranch out in the country. With horses and everything.”

“That sounds really cool,” said Lefty. “See you, Nick.”

“See you, Lefty.”

OK, so we don’t actually have horses. But you can certainly smell them from here.

All that talk about Millie Filbert reminded me of something. I took out my official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove and extracted her brassiere from the thumb cavity. I lay on the bed and examined it closely. It still exuded wonderful girlish aromas. “Look on the bright side,” said François, suddenly back from the Mexican border. “You’re now living under the same roof as a gorgeous bombshell. And Monday you’re going to be walking down the halls of Redwood High holding hands with the best-looking chick in the school.”

“I love her,” I replied.

“Yeah, well, don’t let that distract you from the business at hand,” said François. “You better check your equipment, guy. You’re going to need it.”

So I did. Still works like a charm.

4:30 P.M. Sheeni finally called back. She had to walk all the way downtown to a pay phone. I was dripping with sweat from four hours in the blazing sun pushing an underpowered mower through overdeveloped grass. Except for the occasional explosive dismemberment of a lizard, it was entirely tedious work.