Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (4 page)

BOOK: Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp
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FRIDAY, August 17
— Mom and I are going to Clear Lake for a week with Jerry. We leave early tomorrow. The arrangements are being made sort of suddenly. Don’t ask me why. I’m never consulted about these things. All I was told is we’re going to be staying in a cabin on the lake owned by a friend of Jerry’s.

I packed my grip. I’m taking my sunglasses, my harmonica, my zit salve, three books:
Bleak House, Atlas Shrugged
, and
The Function of the Orgasm
(by Wilhelm Reich), four F.S. albums, my favorite issue of
Penthouse
taped inside a portfolio of harmonica sonatas, and some clothes. I couldn’t decide
whether to take my baggy swimsuit or my skimpy, form-fitting trunks. The baggy suit looks dumpy, but the tight, form-fitting trunks don’t have enough bulging forms to fit. So I packed both. Maybe the lake air will revive my dormant growth hormones.

I let Mom pack the cooking gear and sleeping bags. This always makes her a bit touchy. Right before she and Dad split up, he went on a four-day fishing trip to Lake Shasta with the guys. Later, when Mom was putting away his camping gear, she found a brassiere (size 42D) in the bottom of his sleeping bag. Ever since then, the sight of ripstop nylon or a Coleman lantern always puts Mom in a bad mood.

Lefty came over to say goodbye. He was acting kind of jumpy. I suspect vitamin poisoning. Martha has stopped tormenting him with Joe Cocker and has switched to their parents’ old Barry Coma records. We both agreed that is hitting below the belt. Lefty threatened to tell their parents about the diary revelations, but Martha has burned the evidence and says they’d never believe him. Until he gets some leverage over her, his life will remain a living hell.

SATURDAY, August 18
— I’m on vacation! Believe it or not, I’m actually writing all this down in longhand on a legal pad for transcription later into the computer. What a tedious process. I suppose, though, back when the pencil was a new invention people must have thought it was a marvelous labor-saving device. Then some genius thought of adding an eraser and everyone had to upgrade.

We hit the road right after breakfast. The phone rang steadily from 6 A.M., but Mom was under orders from Jerry not to answer it. I called Lefty before we left to check on battle casualties. His mom answered and said he was still asleep in the back yard. He had pitched a tent and was now camping out. “I hope the damp ground doesn’t aggravate his condition,” she said. I said probably not if he slept on his back. She wished me a good trip and I said I’d send them a postcard.

We took the Lincoln, of course. Jerry insisted on driving with the top down. He had on baggy Bermudas, a
TRUCKERS DO IT IN OVERDRIVE
tee shirt, and a hat made from Coors beer cans. Mom wore a halter top that looked like an advertisement for Droop City. I was a bottle baby, so don’t blame me. She also had on short shorts to show off her legs, which are nice if you like bulging blue veins.

I sat in the back-seat wind tunnel. The whole four hours up to Lakeport I was smashing bugs with my face at 70 miles per hour. After a while I looked like Jeff Goldblum about an hour and ten minutes into the movie
The Fly
. A
couple of unidentified specimens dive-bombed my mouth and were swallowed reflexively, leaving behind the lingering taste of brackish bug. Yuck.

As we passed trucks and motor homes, Mom waved to the drivers like she was Miss Corn Dog of 1954. Just as we were overtaking a Greyhound bus, Jerry went into a prolonged session of crotch rearrangement. Even through the glaze of bug slime, I could feel the passengers’ curious stares.

Finally, the blue waters of Clear Lake came into view. Jerry wanted to stop for lunch, but Mom was all for driving straight through to the cabin. It took us 45 minutes to find the address—which turned out to be not a private residence, but the Restless Axles Trailer Park! Six busy, motel-clogged blocks from the lake.

Our trailer is a long, green, turd-shaped vehicle from some time in the Truman administration. It has a little patch of grass with a wagon wheel and some concrete dwarves, a dusty canvas awning over a small cement patio, and a decrepit picket fence with a sign that reads: “My Green Haven.” Mom looked like she was going to cry, but Jerry said it was “real cute” on the inside.

He was right. Inside was kind of dim and cool and cluttered and musty-smelling. Lots of old polished dark wood and 3-D religious art. Everything was in miniature. Up front was a miniature kitchen. Then came a compact living room, followed by a condensed bathroom, a long closet with bunk beds opposite, and then a tiny master bedroom with a shrunken double bed flanked by little built-in tables with milk-glass lamps topped with rose-covered shades. It was real cute.

Mom perked right up after she got the windows open. She resumed her reign as Corn Dog Queen and waved to all the curious neighbors as we unloaded the big Lincoln. After washing my face in the toylike sink, I unpacked my gear and put Frank on the tiny record player while Mom fixed lunch. After hot dogs, potato chips, and iced tea, Jerry scratched his balls, checked out Mom’s low-slung halter, and suggested I go look at the lake. I got the message.

I took my sunglasses, zit salve, sun block, beach towel, and
Atlas Shrugged
. This book weighs about five pounds and should come with a fold-out handle and wheels. I lugged it along in hopes it might impress any literary chicks I met on the beach.

I circled through the trailer park on the way toward the water. Most of the trailers were old and looked like they had retired from the call of the open road. A few trailerites were about—mostly old folks in their 30s and 40s. No kids my age, unless they were all at the beach.

I walked past the drive-ins and motels toward the lake. It was awesomely
hot. Lots of high school kids in souped-up cars and cute girls in skimpy bathing suits. The beach was noisy and crowded, but I found a vacant spot in the shade under a tree. There was a bit of a breeze off the lake, which is several miles wide at this point. Mt. Konocti rose, brown and sunbaked, above the distant shore.

I read my book for a while, but kept getting distracted by the passing bikinis. What a fantastic invention! All those enticing curves wrapped in small bits of thin fabric. Here and there the teasing outline of a nipple or a faintly perceptible furrow in that softly swelling vee below the navel. I got a killer T.E. (Thunderous Erection) beneath my weighty book and could feel the sticky warmth of lubricant oozing optimistically from the tip. In the shallow water beyond the sand, tanned couples wrestled and splashed, pausing in their noisy games to touch with their bodies and lips. I need a girlfriend!

After my T.E. subsided, I toured the town in the late-afternoon heat—the local idle youth eyeing me suspiciously. Not even a bookstore or movie theater. What am I going to do here for six days?

When I got back to “My Green Haven,” Jerry was kneeling on the cement patio with his shirt off trying to light the propane water heater. His beer gut bobbled and hopped with each cuss word. No luck. We could hear the hiss of gas, but the pilot refused to light. Six days of cold water loom ahead.

The Corn Dog Queen has mastered the abbreviated kitchen and made a great dinner of fried chicken, potato salad, and corn on the cob. Rhubarb cobbler for dessert. Jerry guzzled Coors and rhapsodized at length on the nomadic life. He is hot to buy a trailer he can hitch to the Lincoln. “Just big enough for the two of us,” he said to Mom. They exchanged a sloppy kiss, while I sat there feeling like an unexpected guest on a honeymoon cruise.

I
was
welcome to do the dishes. While I battled chicken grease with cold water, Mom tweezed hairs out of her legs and Jerry scanned the local paper for trailer ads. We were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a thin, ancient lady in white gloves and a flowered dress. She introduced herself as Mrs. Herbert Clarkelson, our neighbor, and invited us to a prayer meeting. Surprise! This is a church-run trailer park with its own meeting hall. They have services every day. Mom declined the invitation, but said maybe we’d come tomorrow. I can’t wait.

We went to bed to the sounds of hymn singing in the distance. Mom pretended that the issue of sleeping accommodations had just occurred to her and suggested I take the bunk bed while the “adults” took the back bedroom (as if they hadn’t been flogging the mattress back there all afternoon). I agreed. Everyone flossed, brushed, peed, and climbed into their tiny beds. What trailers lack in space they make up for in lack of privacy. As soon as I switched off
the lamp, my afternoon T.E. reasserted itself. I was all for putting it out of its misery, but any sort of vigorous arm movement shook the entire trailer. I went at it anyway, and just as I was about to blast a hole through the ceiling, Jerry kicked the wall and yelled, “Hey, kid, you wanna beat your meat go outside!” I told him I was scratching my foot.

Just wait ’til that jerk wants some privacy. I’m going to stick to him like glue. Meanwhile, I hope I don’t get terminal blue balls.

SUNDAY, August 19
— This may not be very coherent. I got about two hours sleep last night. Interruptions included returning churchgoers chatting about Armageddon timetables, barking dogs, Jerry’s snoring, Mom talking in her sleep, Mom and Jerry trooping past me to the bathroom, trucks roaring by on the highway, and Mrs. Clarkelson knocking on the door at 6 A.M. to announce that early church services began promptly at 7:15. Donuts would be served.

Since our trailer shower had no hot water and was only big enough anyway for bathing a penguin, I put on my robe and walked sleepily over to the park rest room. This turned out to be an austere cement shed with three dripping shower heads and no privacy walls. A fat bald man was toweling himself off when I arrived. I brushed my teeth (for about 10 minutes!) while he slowly dressed. Finally he left and I disrobed and turned on the shower. Ten seconds later, Jerry entered, stripped, and stepped under the shower next to mine. Guess what? The guy has more hose than a nervous fireman. No wonder ladies go for him. If Jerry had been my father, I’d be dumb, happy, and have a penis length in the 99th percentile. I’d also stand to inherit a nifty Lincoln convertible. Still, would I make the switch if I had the choice? I wonder!

Jerry is a very athletic showerer. He hopped around, splashed, gargled, spit, belched, and warbled truck-driving songs. I cut short my ablutions and left as soon as I could. As I walked out, red and damp, I passed a cute girl about my age going in the women’s door. Garbed in a modest but nonetheless alluring flannel robe, she had chestnut shoulder-length hair, pretty blue eyes, and an aristocratically chiseled nose. She smiled at me! I panicked and returned a philosophical scowl. As we passed, she whispered softly, “Your robe’s open.” Flustered, I looked down. No winkie in sight. That was a bald-faced tease!

After breakfast, I walked through the trailer park hoping to run into her again. No luck. I figured she must be having donuts with God like the rest of the residents. Then, when I got back to our row, there she was—sitting on our patio drinking coffee with Mom. She now had on sandals, yellow shorts, and a
white blouse just sheer enough to reveal the shape of her bra. She was thin, but interesting developments were in progress. As I walked through the gate, she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Hi, stuck up.” I stammered an incoherent reply. Mom said, “Nick honey, meet Sheeni.”

Sheeni had to go to the grocery store, and invited me along as her bearer. I would have carried a Volkswagen. As we walked into town, my panic started to subside. I can actually talk to girls!

She is 14, is one of two intellectuals living in Ukiah, California, and is an atheist. This causes terrible fights with her Bible-thumping parents. She refuses to go to church and now the entire trailerite congregation is praying for her salvation. Her father is a big-time lawyer in Ukiah. I told her I never heard of a born-again lawyer. Sheeni said yes and he’s prepared to sue for Christ.

She has been reading the existentialists this summer—Camus, Sartre, and other guys I never heard of. She said Ayn Rand is deplorable and will damage my “inchoate mind.” She promised to draw up a study list of books for me to read. When she’s 18 and free of “parental bondage” she wants to go to Paris and study philosophy. She is the only person in Ukiah studying French-language tapes.

In the grocery store, Sheeni bought a large watermelon and permitted me to buy her a Popsicle. We walked back slowly in the heat, the watermelon progressively dislocating my shoulder. Sheeni said the arrival of the Lincoln excited considerable interest in the trailer park. Most residents are still reserving judgment, although Jerry’s large beer cooler on the patio has been disquieting to some. Sheeni said she liked my mom, but thought my father was “perhaps rather dim.” I hastened to point out that Jerry was only my mother’s consort and that I had absolutely no blood links of any kind to him. This seemed to put her mind at ease.

As we passed the cement-block meeting hall, we could hear the congregation inside shouting and stomping. Sheeni said that even though she was no longer a believer, she had to admit that the services were “wonderfully aerobic.”

“You could say the same thing about sex,” I surprised myself by saying.

Sheeni stopped and looked at me intently. “I hope, Nick,” she said, “you’re not going to turn out like all the other young men and have nothing on your mind except carnal pleasures.”

I assured her that was not the case. “I hardly ever think about sex,” I lied.

“I think about it all the time,” Sheeni said. “It’s the hormones at work, you know.”

We walked on in silence. I felt confused. Sheeni ate the last of her Popsicle.
I longed to taste the orange sweetness on her lips. She has lovely, full lips that cry out to be kissed. Sheeni turned in at a trailer I had noticed before. It was a 1959 Pacemaker (not to be confused with the medical device) and was the only two-story mobile home in the park. “Father bought it so he could look down upon the world,” Sheeni explained. “For him Christian humility has always been a struggle.”

BOOK: Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp
4.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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