Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (37 page)

What a pretentious, duplicitous, conceited liar! And only one crummy scholarly allusion. How dare he boast of his philandering while libeling The Woman I Love. Sheeni assured me last summer that it was she who was resolutely resisting Trent’s boorish advances. As I recall, she stated quite explicitly that she preferred “grand passions in exotic European locales” to “furtive gropings in the California boondocks.” How perversely does Trent deceive himself. Only a frighteningly sick person could write such untruths in his own
private journal. Not to mention all that bizarre blemish envy. I must protect both Sheeni and Apurva from this deranged young man. Yes, clearly that is my duty.

At 12:30, after making several clandestine copies of the Trent Papers on the office copier, I rode my bicycle over to Fuzzy’s house. The place was jammed with grieving relatives laughing, eating, and having a good time. I found Fuzzy and Vijay with their shirts off in the sunshine down by the pool. They were guzzling from soda cans filled with beer. Fuzzy, looking somewhat like an oversized Angora rabbit with sunglasses, handed me a foaming can.

“Eighty-four to two,” he said morosely. “A new Redwood Empire Athletic League record.”

“Rupert Trobilius didn’t rise to the occasion, huh?” I asked, sipping my beer. Yuck. It tasted like warm sock soak.

“He fumbled handing off 16 times,” said Fuzzy, shaking his head. “That’s a new record too.”

“Well, at least we avoided a shutout,” Vijay pointed out.

Fuzzy smirked. “You know how we scored? The other team was laughing so hard, they fell down in our end zone with the ball. It was a safety!”

“Does Heather know?” I asked.

“Yeah. She called me this morning in a panic. I told her it wasn’t my fault—I was out for the entire game with a groin pull.” “What did she say?” asked Vijay.

“She said she wished she was here. She’d rub it with liniment.”

“Rub what?” demanded Vijay.

“My groin, I guess,” replied Fuzzy. “I wish someone would rub it. Besides me, I mean. It would make a nice change of pace.”

Vijay and I both nodded in agreement.

I pulled off my shirt and relaxed on a lounge chair. Yes, I thought, I could get used to this lifestyle. I swilled the warm beer and looked around: stately poured-concrete-and-glass mansion, high cement garden walls enclosing vast expanses of concrete patios, concrete pool with cement dive tower and pool cabana, molded concrete birdbaths scattered here and there. Even the chair I was reclining on was immutable concrete under its foam cushions.

“Fuzzy,” I remarked, “your parents must crave permanence. This place looks like it was built to survive nuclear attack.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dad and Uncle Polly own a concrete company. Whenever a truck doesn’t use its full load, they send it here to dump. Dad always has a form set up somewhere. You should see the concrete toys he used to make for me when I was a kid.”

“Uh, wait a minute,” I said. “Where is this concrete company?”

“Oh, you know it, Nick,” interjected Vijay. “You can see the plant from your house.”

Startled, I suddenly realized I was hobnobbing with Malefactors of Great Wealth. Mr. Ferguson would not be pleased. “Fuzzy,” I said, “aren’t your dad’s employees out on strike?”

“Yeah,” he confessed. “It’s a real drag. Dad had to cut my allowance. But things might get better soon. They’re thinking of hiring replacement drivers.”

“A sensible strategy,” commented the alien Republican.

“They’d really hire scabs?” I asked, shocked.

“Not scabs,” said Fuzzy. “Replacement drivers. If the other men don’t wish to continue working, it’s only fair to give the jobs to new people. It helps keep our local economy healthy. We’re fighting unemployment.”

“But what about the drivers on strike?” I asked.

“They can go do something else,” replied Fuzzy. “Maybe get jobs they enjoy more. Would you want to drive a truck all day? Booorrrring! We’re doing them a favor.”

Yes, I thought, not unlike the favor we’re doing Bruno Modjaleski.

On the way to raid the buffet table, we were intercepted by Fuzzy’s mom. She was a shapely maturing beauty, keeping time at bay with cosmetics, hair dye, and wire-reinforced undergarments.

“Boys!” she exclaimed. “Show some respect for the dead. Go put your shirts on. And who is this young man, Frankie?”

“He’s my friend Nick Twisp, Mom,” said Fuzzy.

“Hello, Nick,” she said. “Glad to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. DeFalco. Sorry about your mother-in-law.”

“Yes, so sad,” she exclaimed happily. “Marie didn’t make it to 100 after all!”

When we returned fully garbed, Fuzzy pointed out more relatives across the room. “Dad’s the big, balding guy with the five o’clock shadow in the black suit. Uncle Polly is the fat guy next to him crying.”

I studied the DeFalco brothers uneasily and decided they were not the sort of men I would choose to confront across a picket line.

We carried our laden plates up to a vast unfinished attic over the four-car garage. Two small windows at each gable end cast a dim light over piles of dusty trunks, boxes, musty garment bags, and discarded furniture. Fuzzy led the way toward a small central clearing containing an elaborate weight bench and a king-size mattress on the floor.

“Have a seat, guys,” said our host. “I’ll get the wine.”

Vijay and I sat gingerly on the heavily stained mattress, as Fuzzy disappeared into the gloom under the eaves. He returned shortly with a dusty bottle wrapped in a woven straw basket.

“Real dago Chianti,” he said, attacking the cork with his Swiss Army knife. “I found a whole case of it back there.”

“Have you drunk any of it before?” asked Vijay doubtfully.

“Sure,” replied Fuzzy. “This is the real stuff—what the Godfather drinks. Well aged too. I think it was my grandpoppa’s private stash.”

Vijay and I exchanged grim glances.

“Eat guys,” said Fuzzy. “This may take me a while. Damn, I wish Uncle Polly had given me a knife with a corkscrew.”

I tasted the ravioli. Delicious. “Fuzzy,” I said, “I didn’t know your name was Frank.”

“Yeah, Mom named me after her favorite singer. Believe it or not, my real name is Francis Albert Sinatra DeFalco.”

“That’s incredible!” I gasped. “He’s my favorite singer too!”

“Yeah?” said Fuzzy. “I never cared much for the guy. Too drippy. I prefer the Flesheaters.”

“They’re totally extreme,” confirmed Vijay.

“Though I’m not so sure I’d want to be named Flesheater DeFalco,” admitted Fuzzy. “Gee, Nick, maybe you and my mom should get together. Play a few records, see what develops. I don’t think Dad would mind. Rumor is he has a cupcake out at the plant. One of the dispatchers.”

“Is she also on strike?” asked Vijay.

“Only for more foreplay,” answered Fuzzy, prying out the last chunk of cork. “OK, gentlemen, the wine is served.” He took a big gulp from the bottle and passed it to Vijay.

Vijay hesitated. “How is it, Fuzzy?”

“Superb. An excellent vintage.”

Vijay sipped, grimaced, and handed the bottle to me. I took a deep, pre-alcoholic’s draft. A fetid, sour brackishness washed down my throat.

“A bit medicinal, but pleasant,” I lied, passing the bottle to our host. I only hope French wine is more palatable than Italian. I would not wish to embarrass Sheeni in artsy Left Bank cafes by ordering ginger ale.

3:30
P.M
. As I pedaled my Warthog homeward, wine continued to sluice from my stomach into my bloodstream. Feeling extremely light-headed, I stopped at Flampert’s variety store to buy some urgently needed dog crunchies. I encountered Sheeni’s prodigal brother Paul in the checkout line. He was buying just the essentials: cigarette papers and
TV Guide
.

“What airline are you flying, Nick?” he inquired.

“Aged Chianti,” I slurred.

“That stuff will pickle your brain.”

“That is my great and earnest hope,” I replied.

“Your plan is working, Nick. World War III broke out at 11 this morning.”

I wondered if everyone was so transparent to Paul. Or just me. “A letter arrived?” I asked.

“A cunning forgery,” he confirmed. “You are playing with fire, Nick.”

“Pyromania is my passion,” I slurred. “What’s new with you, Paul.”

“I’m getting my trio back together. Come and hear us rehearse. You’ll know where and when.”

How can he be so sure?

When I got home, Lacey was in the living room tormenting Dad by performing aerobics in her most curve-hugging body tights. If I were him, I’d bring that foolish quarrel to a screeching halt as soon as possible. Dad, though, continues to sulk and play the pain-crippled martyr. I wonder if thumb injuries depress the libido? He’s also incensed because Lacey just returned from some morale-boosting cookie-distribution work among the strikers—while wearing those same Incendiary Orange workout togs. She may prove to be the AFLCIO’s ultimate secret weapon.

Lacey interrupted her aerobics for an important bulletin. “Nick, Sheeni called twice. She wants you to call her right away.”

“Fine,” I mumbled. “Nice. You look nice, Lacey.”

I felt like experimenting to see if lying down made the room stop spinning, but instead I stumbled into Dad’s bedroom and dialed Santa Cruz. Within moments I was audibly reunited with The Woman Who Owns the Pawn Ticket to My Soul.

“Nickie, where were you? I’m frantic. Have you heard what has happened?”

“I do not believe I have, no,” I slurred.

“Somehow Dean Wilson found out about your being discovered in my room. He has written a libelous letter to my parents!”

“How did they react?” I inquired mildly.

“How do you suppose they reacted? You know my parents!”

“All too well.”

“They were horrified, shocked, and enraged. I fear there may be no appeasing them. They’re on their way here now!”

“They’re driving down?” I could scarcely believe the wonderful news.

“That’s what I said. Nickie, you sound peculiar. Have you been drinking?”

“I took a little light refreshment at lunch,” I confessed. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

“You sound totally plastered. I hope you do not intend to abuse alcohol habitually. In that case, I shall have to consider removing Albert from your care.”

“The only thing I intend to do habitually is make love to you, darling,” slurred François. For all his sophistication, he didn’t hold his liquor any better than I did.

“That’s sweet, Nickie. I’m sorry I hung up on you.”

“I’m sorry I implied that you had slept with Bruno Modjaleski. I realize now that was hitting below the belt. I should have known all along it was Bruno Preston.”

“How did you know that?” she demanded.

“I am wonderfully resourceful, Sheeni,” I replied. “You should know that about me by now.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Nick. And how does your wonderfully resourceful mind propose to placate my parents? If they make me leave school, I shall die!”

“Simple, darling. Tell them you are pregnant and have to get married right away. We’ll live in married students’ housing and your parents can pay for both of our tuitions.”

“Oh, Nickie, it’s hopeless talking to you in your present condition. You are no help at all. Call me back when you sober up. And please stay away from my darling dog until you do so. Goodbye!”
Click
.

9:30
P.M
. I just awoke with a splitting headache. Inexplicably, I had passed out and slept through dinner. I found this note, written in a nearly illegible scrawl, stuck in my left nostril: “Lier! You do so too slepe! Too bad for you! Mom made hambergars for super! I ate yors!—Dwayne.”

My body complains but my spirit soars. Sheeni is coming back to me. But what was Dwayne doing spying on me in my own bedroom? And who unzipped my pants?

SUNDAY, October 21
— Disaster struck at 3:45 this morning. There was a sharp retort, a blinding flash, the acrid smell of burning flesh, and then all-encompassing blackness.

“That was a concussion grenade!” shouted Mr. Ferguson, stumbling about in the dark. “We’re under attack! They’ve killed the power!” He swung his riot shield at a menacing figure advancing toward him from the shadows.

“Aaaa-iiii-eeyy!”
screeched Dad, as cold steel impacted his bandaged hand.

“Don’t come any closer!” screamed Lacey, huddled behind her fabric walls. “I’ve got a gun!”

“Throw it to me, girl!” yelled Mr. Ferguson, diving toward her linen bedchamber. In one athletic lunge, he yanked down the sheet, screamed in agony, and fell heavily atop the scantily clad occupant.

“Get off!” she screamed.

“I’ve been shot!” bellowed Mr. Ferguson. “I’ve been shot! I’ve taken a slug to the foot!”

“Get off or I’ll fire!” screamed Lacey.

“Give me your gun, girl!” pleaded Mr. Ferguson.

“Take our money! But don’t kill us!” shouted Dad, diving for the floor.

I got out of bed, put on my robe, found my Cub Scout flashlight, and hurried into the living room. “What’s all this commotion?” I demanded, sweeping the room with my powerful three-volt beam.

“Get down, Nick!” hissed Mr. Ferguson. “You’re in their line of fire! And turn off that damn light!”

I switched off the beam. Everyone froze and listened intently. The only sound was the wild thumping of four beating hearts.

“Maybe they’ve gone,” whispered Lacey.

“Give me your gun just in case,” whispered Mr. Ferguson.

“I haven’t got a gun,” she replied. “I just said that to scare them.”

“Now you tell me!” he sighed.

“Somebody call 911!” hissed Dad.

“Why?” demanded Mr. Ferguson. “It’s probably the pigs outside who are shooting at us. Damn, I’m bleeding to death!”

I shone the beam on his foot. “You haven’t been shot, Mr. Ferguson,” I said. “You have a thumbtack stuck in your big toe. By the way, do you know you forgot your pajamas?”

Lacey pulled a sheet over Mr. Ferguson’s hoary nakedness and extracted the tack from his toe. I wonder if this makes them friends for life.

We found the source of the trouble 20 minutes later in the crawl space under the house. Crouching in my pajamas on the damp soil, I shone the rapidly dimming beam of my flashlight on a horrifying scene. Tiring of his innumerable soup bones, Albert had taken to chewing the main power cable from the meter box to the circuit-breaker panel. Tonight he had bit through the rubber insulation—propelling himself with great speed and deadly finality into the next world.