Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (35 page)

3:30 P.M. Mr. Ferguson accompanied me and Albert on a walk down to the highway to mail my important letter.

“It’s nice being out in the country,” observed my companion, drawing fresh, dusty air into his aged lungs. “It’s so peaceful here.”

It was not quite so peaceful in front of the cement plant, where a line of militant-looking men with beer guts were marching back and forth carrying signs. The placards read “Unfair!”—a complaint, it seems to me, you could make about virtually any employment. Why, I wondered, did these whiners think they were so special?

Mr. Ferguson soon got the whole story. The men are cement-truck drivers on strike for higher wages. As if $11.63 an hour weren’t adequate! I’d take it in a minute.

Naturally, Mr. Ferguson was completely sympathetic and felt compelled to give an embarrassing speech about worker solidarity to boost morale. The men looked confused, but listened politely and gave a dispirited cheer when he finally stopped. I watched with alarm as a sheriff’s deputy, posted at the gate to keep labor and management from armed conflict, retrieved a camera from his squad car and took Mr. Ferguson’s picture. The elderly agitator didn’t seem to mind.

Mr. Ferguson was still fired up as we walked back. “Nick, do you realize what it would mean if those courageous boys win their strike?”

“Sure, it means hundreds of big, noisy, fume-spewing trucks will start rumbling past the house again. Waking me up at 6:30 every morning, including Saturdays.”

“No. It means higher wages, shorter hours, and better working conditions. It means new hope for dozens of families!”

Why does that fail to suck the living socks from my feet?

6:30
P.M
. Mrs. Crampton has passed her probation period. She is now a permanent employee, entitled to all the rights and privileges that that position does entail. She received the good news from Lacey with a yawn, then proceeded to shuffle through her duties like an apprentice somnambulist. She nodded off leaning against the stove and boiled the spaghetti for 45 minutes. This, it turns out, is just how Mr. Ferguson prefers it. He needs new dentures, but the appropriation was scuttled in Congress by reactionary Republicans.

Dad was surprised to find Mr. Ferguson still here and was even more surprised when Lacey invited him to dinner. Mr. Ferguson ate almost as much as Dwayne and helped himself to the wine too. He tried to get Mrs. Crampton to discuss her life as an exploited service worker, but extreme fatigue had brought her languid speech to a virtual standstill. I grew so impatient waiting for her next word to dribble out, it was all I could do to keep from screaming. You can imagine the reaction of my time-conscious, Type A dad. I thought he was going to have a stroke and collapse face-first into his meatballs.

After dinner I had a private conversation in the kitchen with the dishwasher.

“Dwayne, there seems to be something amiss here,” I said.

“You noticed, huh?” he replied. “Mom don’t take hot drinks in the evening. So I been puttin’ the pills in her morning coffee. I kinda like it, ’cause she don’t pay much attention to what I do now. I didn’t wear no underpants to school today, and she didn’t even notice. I’m not wearin’ none now, Nick.”

I pretended I hadn’t heard that last remark. “Dwayne, we need your mother awake to cook dinner. In her present inalert state she could accidentally thicken the gravy with rat bait. Then where would we be?”

“Dead?” suggested Dwayne.

“Some of us,” I replied. “The heavy eaters at least.”

Dwayne gulped. “All right, Nick. What should I do with the pills then?”

“Save them and give them to me,” I replied.

“OK, Nick,” he assented. “What you goin’ to do with ‘em?”

“That’s confidential.”

Strong sedatives: something every enterprising teen should have on hand for emergencies.

“Are you wearin’ underpants?” inquired Dwayne conspiratorily.

“That is none of your business I’m sure. Gee, it’s too bad Dad doesn’t believe in Teflon. That meatball pan looks like something out of the Middle Ages.”

10:15
P.M
. Mr. Ferguson is bedding down on the sofa again. Lacey said he had too much to drink to drive home tonight. She is making up a bed for herself on the floor in the third bedroom, a chamber Dad pretentiously refers to as “his study.” It contains his meager library, long-silent typewriter, and the scribbled notes to his magnum opus—a work of fiction presently stalled.

TUESDAY, October 16
— Fuzzy wasn’t in school today. His grandmother died! In fact, she and her wayward Falcon expired almost simultaneously. Vijay got the scoop from Fuzzy last night by phone. Things are very tense with the DeFalcos. Right when the doctors pulled the plug, Fuzzy’s uncle Polly (short for Polonius) raced to Granny’s house to claim her car. When he discovered it missing, he put two and two together and concluded that Fuzzy’s dad had prematurely and unfairly jumped the gun. Meanwhile, Fuzzy’s dad is convinced his lying brother has surreptitiously moved the car to an undisclosed location for purposes of cheating him out of his rightful inheritance as elder son. The families are now well past the name-calling stage. Since no one is willing to discuss funeral arrangements until the car is returned, Granny has been put temporarily on ice. Wisely, Fuzzy has kept his furry lips zipped tight through it all.

Vijay was thrilled by the news that Taggarty requested his photo for her love wall. He views this as confirmation that the act was indeed consummated. Unfortunately, the only photo he could produce was a school picture taken last term in which he resembles a more than usually nerdlike nine-year-old. Since Taggarty sounded pretty impatient, I told him it would have to do. He made
me promise to find out from Sheeni as soon as possible his assigned love grade.

“I’m certain I did well,” said Vijay confidently. “I know the
Kama Sutra
backwards and forwards.”

“Speaking of enlightened sexuality,” I said, “what did your parents say when you walked in wearing high heels?”

“They thought it was puzzling, but tremendously quaint. At times it is such an asset having parents from another culture. They believe the most improbable stories. My sister was more suspicious, but I bought her off by making her a gift of the shoes. I hope you don’t mind. They were just her size—though I can’t imagine Father permitting her to wear them out of the house.”

I only got to line four of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” at work today. I told Mr. Preston I was still so traumatized by Dad’s injuries I couldn’t concentrate. He swallowed guiltily, and excused me from the balance of the recitation. Dad, I noticed, has also been mining this rich vein. Every time Mr. Preston walked past, Dad let out a pitiful groan. Since Dad can’t type (at least not with both hands), he’s been excused from most of his work. He takes long coffee breaks, ventilates his bandage out on the fire escape with a cigarette or two, returns for a little light paper shuffling, then chats up Miss Pliny or the art director, Mr. Rogavere, until quitting time. What a role model. It’s no wonder I have a bad attitude toward work.

7:15
P.M
. Mr. Ferguson is still here. He spent the day on the cement plant picket line and was too tired to drive home. Diplomatically, he returned with an expensive bottle of zin to appease Dad and bouquets of carnations for Lacey and Mrs. Crampton. Dad grumbled, but said he could stay one more night. Lacey, of course, welcomes his company, since having such a chatty person around makes it easier for her to snub Dad. They talked at length about the brave strikers and evil bosses. Lacey was quite sympathetic and promised to visit the picket line on Saturday for some of her patented feminine morale boosting. Mrs. Crampton, looking alert and well rested, promised to bake some brownies for Lacey to distribute to the “nice Teamsters.”

“Can I have some too?” asked Dwayne.

“No! You’re…being…punished,” drawled his mother. “I don’t … know what’s …got…into that boy,” she continued. “I caught … him … this morning … trying to sneak … off to school… without… his underwear!”

WEDNESDAY, October 17
— Bruno Modjaleski’s been arrested! Two Ukiah cops dragged him out of Mr. Freerpit’s health class at 10:05 A.M. By 10:09 the news was all over the school. The charge is first-degree auto theft.
Later at lunch Fuzzy confided that his uncle Polly wants Bruno prosecuted for manslaughter as well. “He thinks Grandmama could tell her car had been tampered with,” whispered Fuzzy. “He claims that’s what killed her.”

“Nonsense,” hissed Vijay. “Your grandmother was a 92-year-old vegetable. Only the machines were keeping her alive.”

“Did they get the car back?” I asked uneasily.

“Dad and my uncle left for San Jose this morning,” replied Fuzzy. “It took them a while to work out the details. Dad’s going to drive the Falcon back and Uncle Polly’s driving Dad’s car as a security deposit.”

“A security deposit?” asked Vijay.

“To make sure Dad doesn’t steal the Falcon,” explained Fuzzy. “I can’t believe they’re making all this fuss over an old lady’s boring car. You’d think it was something hot like a Camaro.”

“When are they going to inter the deceased?” inquired Vijay.

“On Saturday. You guys are invited. Come on over. There’ll be lots of good Italian food.”

“There won’t be any corpses lying about, will there?” asked Vijay.

“Nah. Grandmama’s making her last ride in the morning. You guys come over in the afternoon. Maybe they’ll rent a U-Haul and have her towed out to the cemetery by the Falcon. She might have wanted it that way.”

7:30
P.M
. Since it was raining, my generous dad offered me a ride home from the office. He’s worked out a way to shift his fine German gearstick by gripping the metal shaft with his unbandaged pinkie. Despite occasionally grinding the gears and being forced by a Mexican in an old pickup truck to back down or lose a fender in a lane merge, Dad remained suspiciously cheerful the entire drive.

Dad’s houseguest has finally departed. Perhaps that’s lightened his spirits. On his way back to Oakland, Mr. Ferguson stopped downtown for a long, friendly chat with Dad on the fire escape (now facetiously designated “Mr. Twisp’s office” by Miss Pliny). Dad’s been whistling like a cretin ever since. Maybe Mr. Ferguson filled him in on what a rat Mom just got shackled to.

Lacey came home five minutes later with a used, soggy mattress (twin size) strapped to the roof of her Toyota. Dad cheerfully refused to help her unload, so Dwayne and I had to lug the damp, floppy bundle into Dad’s erstwhile study. It appears Lacey won’t be sleeping on the floor another night—nor, alas, exposing to passersby her incomparable charms on the couch.

During dinner (Mrs. Crampton’s famous red-meat-down-the-sluice-gates pot roast), Lacey steadfastly ignored her alleged boyfriend and conversed with me instead.

“I had a client in today who says she knows you,” she announced.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“I didn’t get her name. She was an Indian girl. Very attractive …” Apurva!

“… Beautiful thick hair—she wanted it all chopped off, but I just evened up the edges and got rid of the bangs. I managed to convince her that short hair would be a mistake with her bone structure.”

“What did she say about me?”

“She said she thought you were a very nice boy. Very charming and cute.”

“Must be two Nick Twisps in this town,” commented Dad, swilling the zin.

We both ignored him. “What else did she say?” I asked breathlessly.

“Well, let’s see. She said she was mad at her father. That’s why she wanted to cut off all her hair. She’s fond of a boy who lives out of town, but her father doesn’t approve of him. He keeps intercepting her mail and tearing up letters from her friend. Can you imagine that? In America? In this age?”

“My mother tore up my love letters,” I pointed out.

“Your mother has had a difficult time,” observed Lacey, glancing at the zin-swiller. “She’s had a great deal to put up with. I am just beginning to appreciate that now.”

“Are you by any chance referring to me?” slurred Dad.

“If the shoe fits,” replied Lacey, mixing her metaphors, “suck on it.”

“We’ll see who’s sucking on what soon,” Dad replied ominously.

The guy has something nasty up his sleeve. I can tell.

8:45
P.M
. Fuzzy just called with amazing news. He found out at football practice that reliable sources on the jock grapevine are reporting that Bruno Modjaleski doesn’t have an alibi for last weekend.

“He doesn’t?” I exclaimed.

“No!” said Fuzzy. “Coach told him after the game last Friday that next week Stinky Limbert would be starting at quarterback. Bruno got so bummed, he hopped on his chopper and roared off into the woods. He didn’t come home until late Sunday night.”

“Wow! And no one saw him?”

“Nobody! He didn’t even call Candy, who he’d promised to take roller-skating Saturday night. Boy, was she pissed. Man, I would never keep that chick waiting.”

Head cheerleader Candy Pringle was the senior class boys’ unanimous choice for “Most Likely to Be a Future Playmate of the Month.”

“What was Bruno doing all that time?” I asked.

“Camping, I guess,” said Fuzzy. “Talking to the bunnies and squirrels
maybe. Though if you ask me, I bet he was giving his passing arm a workout. Not that it would do any good. The guy throws like a girl.”

“Wow! Do you think they’ll convict him?”

“Looks bad for Bruno,” admitted Fuzzy. “Coach says it’s a good thing he’s so untalented. Otherwise, he’d be jeopardizing a big-time athletic scholarship.”

“Is the car back?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s back. Not a scratch on it, thank God. They parked it in Grand-mama’s garage, and Dad and Uncle Polly each put their own padlock on the door. Looks like we won’t be driving down to Santa Cruz again soon.”

“Too bad, Fuzzy.”

“You’re telling me. I want to see Heather so bad I can hardly even think about football.”

Bruno in disgrace and facing a long jail term. That will teach the brute to keep his repulsive mitts off my girlfriend.

THURSDAY, October 18
— Mr. Ferguson is back. My devious, unscrupulous, grasping father has rented him the third bedroom for $250 a month plus board fees. The aged radical pulled in just after supper with a small cargo trailer attached to his wheezing Toyota. Dwayne was out renting my dog, so I had to help Mr. Ferguson unload his stuff all by myself. He intends to stay until the strikers achieve victory or he is convicted of fomenting labor unrest. “It’s a grand cause, lad,” he said, carrying in his army cot, bullhorn, and riot shield. “I feel 30 years younger.”