Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (32 page)

“Uh-huh.” Sure, and I hear Joseph Goebbels was a riot on weekends too.

“We’re driving to Winnemucca for our honeymoon. Lance’s mom lives out there in the desert in a trailer.”

“That sounds nice. Well, I have to go do my homework now.”

“Nickie, will you write or call me? I’ll be back here in a few days.”

“I’ll try. Bye, Mom.”

“Goodbye, Nickie. I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Uh-huh.”
Click
.

I think I’ll write a letter to the
New England Journal of Medicine
. I just discovered the cause of clinical depression: parents!

THURSDAY, October 11
— Boy, am I tired. Dad and Lacey had a high-pitched screaming contest last night starting at 2 A.M. I couldn’t tell what the spat was about, but at one point I heard her call him a “tight-assed, critical, stingy, nonfeeling, sexist drunk.” She also declared he was a “selfish, uptight, boring lover.” I’d say that sounds like a fairly cogent assessment. She left out “lousy driver,” but perhaps she was restrained by her own besmirched DMV record.

Several times the battle grew so heated Albert joined in from his dusty bed down in the crawl space. Finally, François had to yell out, “Hey, there are people here who have to answer difficult questions in physics class tomorrow. Could you people hold it down?”

“Fuck you, jerkoff!” replied my compassionate parent. But the verbal fireworks tapered off soon after that. This morning I discovered Lacey asleep, in a state of semi-nudity, on the living-room couch. Perhaps they will have fights more often.

Fuzzy DeFalco, I learned at lunch, has just been named assistant manager of the Marauding Beavers football team. He hopes eventually to move up from this position to starting varsity offensive pass receiver. I wonder if that’s how Red Grange started? In the meantime Fuzzy gets to hang out with jocks—taping assorted ankles, keeping the Gatorade chilled, and sweeping the field during time-outs for gouged-out eyeballs. It should also leave him well placed to get the inside dirt on Ukiah’s most illustrious no-neck jock.

The scent of burnt flesh hung in the air at work today. It was Dad sizzling on the hot seat. Mr. Preston called him into his office and informed him that their official fact-checker (Miss Pliny) discovered “31 major errors of fact” in Dad’s article, “New Developments in Tongue-in-Groove Flakeboard Subflooring.”

Concluding Dad needs a stronger background in wood, Mr. Preston invited him to spend the weekend assisting him in his basement workshop.
Working together, they are going to construct a four-drawer plywood filing cabinet (the “P” files are overflowing again). Dad agreed, but his ersatz enthusiasm fooled no one.

After Dad’s dressing-down, Miss Pliny sipped her tea and hummed selections from
Kismet
. She also complimented me on the accuracy of my typing.

“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Pliny,” I said. “I took the liberty of correcting the misspellings and eliminating the contractions.”

“You were quite correct to do so, Nicholas,” she replied. “We must be forever vigilant in resisting the onslaught of linguistic impurity.”

“Standards must be upheld,” I concurred. “The Philistines are at the gates.”

She glanced toward Dad’s cubicle. “The walls have been broached, Nicholas. We are grappling with the Visigoths in the streets.”

Lacey did not come home for dinner. Just as well. Mrs. Crampton had the galling effrontery to make fried cow’s liver. Dwayne hates it as much as I do. We sat there in silent communion, staring in revulsion at our plates, while Dad and Mrs. Crampton packed it away. Later, as Dwayne was washing the dishes, he told me his doctor has prescribed a strong sedative to be administered nightly before bedtime.

“Mom gave me one last night, but I spit it out later,” he confided.

“Good for you. You could get addicted to those drugs. What did you do with the capsule?”

“I hid it under my pillow,” he replied.

“Good. Here’s what you do. Right before bed, you ask your mother if she wants a hot drink, then slip the pill into it. That way she won’t hear you if you have to get up and hop around for a while.”

“That’s a great idea!” whispered Dwayne. “Boy, Nick, I wish I had your brain.”

“Sorry, Dwayne,” I replied, offended. “I’m still using it.”

“Can I walk Albert again tonight? Huh, can I, Nick?”

“Gee, Dwayne. I don’t know. Dogs don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“I’ll pay you 50 cents.”

“It’s a deal,” I replied, pocketing the quarters. “Walk him as long as you like.”

9:45
P.M
. Vijay just called. I’m invited to his house for dinner tomorrow night. Finally, I get to meet the beautiful Apurva. He also said he’d had “a sudden brainstorm” he wishes to discuss privately with me.

10:15
P.M
. Lacey, looking a bit tipsy, finally came home. She and Dad are now closeted in their bedroom, whispering. Oops, bedsprings rocking. Another
domestic crisis successfully resolved. Too bad. François was going to suggest to Lacey she bunk with him tonight.

FRIDAY, October 12
— I’m going to Santa Cruz to visit Sheeni tomorrow! It was Vijay’s idea and he has it all planned out. Fuzzy, Vijay, and I are driving down. We’re going to “borrow” Fuzzy’s grandmother’s car. She’s in the hospital hooked up to life-support equipment, so she won’t be needing it. Fuzzy skipped shaving this morning. We figure by tomorrow he’ll look at least 35, so he’s going to drive. He says he’s been borrowing his granny’s car since he was 12, and once got it “up to 104” on the Redwood Highway. He should have no trouble getting a driver’s license in two years. Since I have some experience piloting Mom’s erstwhile Lincoln and trailer, I’ve been designated backup driver. This time I’ll be sure to set the parking brake. As a cover, each of us is telling our parents we’ll be sleeping over at another’s house. I’m paying for the gas since Sheeni is my girlfriend. It’s only fair.

Mr. Preston agreed to let me skip work tomorrow, after I told him I had to memorize “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in its entirety for English class. He said, “Fine. We’ll expect a recitation here on Monday too.”

Damn!

Dinner at Vijay’s was fabulous. Apurva was a total knockout in a red sari and golden slippers. She has long black hair, burnished bronze skin, huge dark eyes, and a lilting voice that caresses the ears like distilled birds’ song. Her dad (a big, gruff, scary-looking guy with a piercing gaze) makes her go to a chicks-only Catholic school, so she seemed especially eager for some male conversation. François obliged, and flirted outrageously even for him.

“Apurva is a beautiful name,” he said. “Does it have any special meaning?”

“Yes,” she replied, blushing slightly. “It means unique or wonderful.”

“Of course,” said François, “how silly of me not to have guessed.”

Mr. Joshi looked at me sternly.

“What does your name mean, Nick?” asked Apurva.

“It means shaving injury,” I replied.

Apurva laughed. “Oh, Nick, I’m certain it must mean something nicer than that. You are too modest.”

Sitting in that tasteful dining room, listening to their lively, intellectual conversation, I couldn’t help but feel, well, pissed. At that moment, I reflected, Dad was probably grunting “pass the fish sticks” to Mrs. Crampton as Lacey chattered away about the latest breakthroughs in hair dye and Dwayne probed listlessly for a booger. Why me, God? How come Vijay gets selected for “Masterpiece Family” and I get stuck in the reruns of “My Favorite Moron?”

10:30
P.M
. Back among my own kind. Lacey and Dad aren’t speaking again. Before he left with his mom, Dwayne paid today’s dog-walking fee and told me that Dad had threatened Lacey with a butter knife at the dinner table after he found out she had emptied his zin jug down the toilet. “It was just like when my pop was home,” Dwayne whispered. “Only they didn’t swear as much.” Lacey is now making up her bed on the couch and Dad is sulking in his bedroom.

I tried to call Sheeni to alert her to my visit, but I couldn’t get past the twittering Frog-speak barrier. Looks like I’ll just have to surprise her. I am optimistic she will listen to reason and agree to transfer back to Ukiah. It’s a small sacrifice to make for love.

I have counted my wad: $46.12 ($45.12 in savings and $1.00 in dog-rental profits). Grandmother DeFalco’s car better get good gas mileage. Otherwise, I may not eat this trip.

SATURDAY, October 13 — (transcribed from pencil). 9:30
A.M
. We’re on the road to Santa Cruz! Motoring south on Highway 101, we just passed through greater Cloverdale. So far, Fuzzy appears to be a very competent driver. Of course, after riding with Dad, almost anybody seems like a good driver by comparison. Fuzzy showed up this morning proudly wearing a Marauding Beavers letter jacket, which we immediately made him take off. We want him to look at least post-college, not high school.

Granny DeFalco’s car is a mint-condition 1965 Ford Falcon (color: Denture Cream) with 38,000 miles on the odometer. A sharp car, but the interior smells like little old lady. I feel as if we should all be wearing white gloves and discussing Social Security reform. Under the hood is a small, gas-thirsty 260-cubic-inch V-8, so we have plenty of reserve power to speed toward my complete impoverishment.

I have memorized the first two lines of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Only 728 to go. Vijay is assisting me by making obscene alterations in each line. He claims once you learn the dirty version, it’s a snap to remember the original. Seems logical to me. Next time, though, I’m telling Mr. Preston I need time off for something vague like spiritual growth.

10:15
A.M
. Our first crisis. The sun came out in Novato and Fuzzy’s eyes locked into reflexive squint. We barely made it off the freeway alive. He forgot his sunglasses, so we had to stop at Kmart to buy him a pair. While we were there, we picked up two dozen donuts (only eight apiece, but we’re husbanding our funds). Fuzzy can see OK now, but he says the cheap lenses make it seem like he’s piloting a low-flying airplane. His entire body is extra-sensitive to light. Maybe that’s why he has all that fur.

1:30
P.M
. Fuzzy made a wrong turn in San Francisco, and before we knew it we were heading east on the Bay Bridge. So I said hell, let’s go to Oakland and see my old house. To my surprise, my front door key still fit. I figured Mom would have had all the locks changed by now. The place was deserted, of course, since Mom was up in Reno with Lance ruining her life.

Fuzzy and Vijay both agreed the in-the-wall-Chevy Nova was radical in the extreme. Upstairs, we found much alarming evidence of Lance’s loathsome presence, including six neatly pressed, size 48-long Oakland police uniforms hanging in
my
closet. Borrowing Mom’s eyebrow trimmers, I snipped every third stitch along the rear seam in all his trousers. Next time he bends over to club a defenseless crack pusher,
r-r-rippppp!
I also borrowed some nail polish and painted a bull’s-eye directly over the heart on his bulletproof vest.

Fuzzy and Vijay were inspecting my sister Joanie’s old room, now transformed into a frilly pink nursery-in-waiting. “What’s with all the baby stuff?” asked Fuzzy.

“My mom’s expecting,” I confessed.

“God, that’s gross,” replied Fuzzy. “Isn’t she a little old to be cranking them out?”

“Freak of nature, I guess,” I said. “I just hope the kid isn’t born with two heads. The father was a real moron.”

“Is it the fellow she’s marrying?” asked Vijay.

“Nah. Another moron. This one croaked from a heart attack.”

“Boy,” exclaimed Fuzzy, “the kid’s not even born yet and he’s already half an orphan.”

“In my family that can be a decided advantage,” I replied.

Before we left, I went into Mom’s bedroom and scrawled in scarlet lipstick on her dresser mirror: “YOU’LL BE SORRY!!!”

“Will your mother know who wrote it?” asked Vijay.

“Nah,” I replied, “I disguised my handwriting. With any luck she’ll think it’s a message from some divine Dear Abby.”

3:30
PM
. As we reached the Santa Cruz city limits, a cold gray rain started falling. I hope this is not an omen. I have memorized the first six salacious lines of you know what.

We just filled up the gas tank: $24.53. I didn’t know you could put that much gasoline into a Falcon. I wonder if I’m too young for those “sell your blood for subsistence money” places.

6:15
P.M
. I just had an emotional reunion with My One and Only Love. My hands are still shaking. I feel immensely, exultantly alive. Sheeni was delighted, perhaps even thrilled to see me. We luxuriated in a passionate embrace—indifferent to the stares of Vijay, Fuzzy, a half dozen leering students,
and an indignant dorm matron. In her excitement, Sheeni even let out a few words of English. This provoked even more expostulations of outrage from the matron. We were forced to unclinch, but I anticipate an imminent resumption of intimacies.

I am writing this in the back seat of Fuzzy’s car, parked just off the posh campus of École des Arts et Littératures. We are waiting for Sheeni and Taggarty to finish dressing and come down to join us. The plan is for all of us to go out to dinner and then walk along the boardwalk (if the rain lets up). They have promised to bring along a date for Fuzzy. (Vijay has laid dibs on Sheeni’s sultry roommate.) I only pray they are also bringing along some money.

10:30
P.M
. We are back in our parking spot, waiting for Sheeni to come out to tell us the coast is clear. Can only four hours have transpired? It seems like days. Sheeni has courageously agreed to sneak us into her and Taggarty’s room to spend the night. This is a major violation of the school’s police-state dorm rules. It will be Sheeni’s and my first night together. I am hoping the presence of three other people does not limit excessively our opportunities for passionate lovemaking.

Fuzzy was thankful he had retrieved his letter jacket. His date turned out to be a strapping giantess named Heather, star forward of the girls’ basketball team. She was dressed for combat in a short skirt that showed off her sinewy leg muscles. Up-court was a tight red sweater encasing two near-regulation-size NBA game balls. To say Fuzzy was soon lost in the tall Heather would be an understatement. She, in turn, took an immediate shine to her escort after he announced he was presently leading the Redwood Empire Athletic League in pass reception yardage.