Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (46 page)

“You touch that computer and you’re dead,” I replied. “And get your stinking Nintendo games off my bed.”

“Don’t boss me, Nick. Can I turn on your sign?”

“Don’t touch any of my stuff. Ever!”

“Nick, this is gonna be great. Just you wait. I’m so happy. And now I get to live with Kamu too. Nick, are you gonna change your underwear now?”

“Of course not. I just got dressed,” I replied. “And what business is it of yours?”

“I was just askin’. Jeez, what a grumpy grouch. Nick, you wanna wear any o’ my clothes? I got lots.”

“No, thanks, Dwayne,” I said. “Halloween is over.”

I arrived at school just in time for lunch. Vijay and Fuzzy were shocked to hear of Dad’s latest outrage.

“Gee, Nick,” said Fuzzy, “if things get too impossible for you at home, you could come live with me. We have lots of room and I don’t think my parents would care.”

“Are you serious, Frank?” I asked.

“Sure. I told Mom you liked Frank Sinatra and she about had a cow. She said to invite you over anytime. And bring your records.”

“Thanks, Frank. That’s very generous. Who knows? I might take you up on it.”

“Ask your dad tonight,” said Fuzzy.

Wow, living in a fabulous mansion with a sexy older woman who dug my taste in music. What an opportunity for spiritual growth.

7:45
P.M
. My rotten so-called father said no.

“Why not?” I demanded. “Think of all the money you’d save.”

“Your mother wouldn’t like it,” he replied.

“Why should Mom care?” I asked.

“That’s none of your damn business,” he replied.

“Is Mom paying you support money for me?” I demanded.

“Hey, wise guy! That’s none of your business either. And when are you getting rid of all those fucking dogs?”

“Uh, soon,” I replied noncommittally.

Dad is so transparent. He looks at me and sees dollar signs. I’ve become a major source of revenue for him. No way he’s going to let this gravy train depart the station. My situation is worse than desperate, it’s hopeless. The bitter truth cannot be denied: I’m a prisoner in Dwayne Hell.

Can’t write any more. Have to leave immediately. Dwayne just passed The Fart That Immolated Fresno.

SATURDAY, November 3
— A rough night. Three cups of black coffee later and I still feel like a sleep deprivation experiment gone awry. At 11:30 last night I locked myself in the bathroom to change into my pajamas. When I subsequently entered the bedroom, my roommate was standing stark, corpulently naked next to his bed with a boner worthy of a Freaks of Nature exhibit. If, as appears to be the case, penis size is inversely proportional to intelligence, why is this critical fact not divulged to preschoolers? I’d have happily skipped all those hours of homework, watched a lot of TV, picked my nose, and let nature take its prodigious course.

“Oh, hi, Nick,” said Dwayne, exhibiting everything except embarrassment. “Whatcha got those ’jams on for?”

“Dwayne! Please cover yourself!”

“Hey, Nick. What’s the trouble? We’re both guys.”

“Dwayne, if you don’t put something on immediately, I’m going to yell for your mother.”

“Oh, what a sissy,” he muttered, reluctantly slipping on a pair of dingy sweat pants. “Hey, Nick. You wanna play Nintendo all night?”

“Of course not. I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

“But, Nick. You don’t sleep! Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. OK, I’ll read. You go to sleep.”

“I ain’t tired, Nick. Can I come into your bed?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why not? Doncha like me? I like you. A lot.”

“Dwayne, you stay in your bed. I’ll stay in mine. Cross the space between these beds, pal, and I’ll scream bloody murder. Is that clear?”

“Doncha like me, Nick?”

“I like you as a friend, Dwayne. Now, go to sleep.”

Suddenly an 8.2 earthquake shook the house.

“That’s my mom and Mr. Ferguson,” commented Dwayne. “I guess they’re doin’ it now. Nick, were you ‘prised when you heard ’bout sex? I was.”

“I don’t think I was that surprised. It seemed quite logical to me.”

“Have you done it with lots o’ folks?”

“That’s none of your business, Dwayne. Now go to sleep.”

“You have a girlfriend, Nick?”

“I do. Yes.”

“Do you do it with her a lot?”

“Quite frequently. Now go to sleep. I’m trying to read.”

“If you asked your girlfriend, as a favor, would she do it with me?”

“Dwayne! Don’t be ridiculous. Guys don’t share their girlfriends.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t. Men are instinctually competitive. It’s so there’ll be lots of wars to keep overpopulation in check.”

“Oh, I get ya. You’re worried ’cause your girlfriend might get knocked up. What if I pull out, Nick?”

“Dwayne!”

Deep into the night the conversation lurched on. Each time sleep drew me to its warm breast, Dwayne posed a fresh absurdity. Finally, after I pointedly refused to speculate why guys had only two testicles even though they had ten toes and fingers, sleep stilled my loquacious interrogator. But not for long. Just as I was drifting off, someone strangled a moose beside my head. It was Dwayne. My roommate snores like six elephants in heat.

A few moments after my eyelids finally closed, they were flung open in panicked surprise as Mrs. Crampton, wearing a pink plastic hair net and a small flannel circus tent, barged into our room without knocking.

“‘Morning, Nick,” she said, beginning to shake violently her snoring son. “Did…you… sleep well?”

“What time is it?” I groaned.

“Six…forty…five,” she replied happily, still shaking. “Time…to rise…and… shine!”

Eventually Dwayne ceased to snore and gave evidence of regaining consciousness. Only when both of his eyes were opened fully did his mother finally desist.

“Where’m I?” he asked sleepily.

“In your … new home,” she replied. “With … your new … brother…Sorry, Nick…to wake you…but…Doc says Dwayne…has to keep…reg’lar hours.”

“Don’t worry ’bout that, Mom,” said Dwayne, smiling. “Nick don’t sleep. He’s ‘lergic!”

5:30
P.M
. A moment of privacy to catch up on my diary. Dwayne is in the kitchen helping his mother prepare dinner. I smell pork grease frying. Mrs. Crampton, concerned that her betrothed is too thin, has decided to shift the caloric content of her meals into overdrive. Soon, I fear, Dad may have to have the floors reinforced.

Mr. Ferguson had to skip picket duty today. An old Vietnam War peace demonstration injury flared up and kept him flat on his back most of the day. The man does not look at all well.

At work this afternoon Mr. Preston discovered me asleep in the coffee room.

“Nick, what are you doing?” he inquired.

“Uh, examining the tabletop, sir,” I stammered. “Is this walnut veneer plywood?”

“Yes, black walnut over a solid core. Very good, Nick.” My employer poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down beside me. “Nick, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes, Mr. Preston?”

“It’s about my son Trent. You know he’s away at school in Santa Cruz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’ve heard anyone talking about any sort of activities that my son may be involved in.”

“You mean like windsurfing, sir?” I inquired.

“No. Something perhaps less, uh, upstanding as that.”

“You mean like belly-boarding?”

“No, Nick. I’m not referring to sports at all. Have you heard of my son being involved in anything, well, illegal?”

“Why no, Mr. Preston. That doesn’t sound like Trent.”

“No, of course not,” he replied. “I didn’t think so either. Still, if you should happen to hear of anything, Nick, involving my son, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

“Sure, Mr. Preston. Will do.”

“I mean it, Nick. And please don’t think of it as—well, squealing.”

“Oh no, sir,” I said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You look tired, Nick. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—with pay.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Preston!”

On my way out, I glanced up at the dusty wooden clock over the door. The big plywood hand had inched to within 12 minutes of quitting time. My
employer’s magnanimous, morale-boosting gesture had cost him less than a buck. Oh well, at least I know our whisper campaign is beginning to reach the proper ears. I wonder if Sheeni’s parents have heard.

Waiting for me at home was a postcard depicting three nubile beach bunnies dressed only in tanned goose bumps and tiny, strategically placed sea shells. This message (lavishly misspelled) was scrawled on the back:

Damn, another friend over the top, as it were. Despite his impaired manhood, Lefty successfully sleeps with his sexy sweetheart, while I—virtually normal in every way—spend my nights cohabitating with The Roommate from Hell. Is that fair, God?

9:15
P.M
. I called Sheeni, Apurva, Vijay, Fuzzy, and Lefty—and found not one of them in. Everyone has a social life except me. Even the three so-called adults I live with are out boozing it up somewhere. Dad put on a tie and had the BMW waxed. This can only mean he is on the prowl for a fresh bimbette. As usual, I pray she is interested in younger as well as older men.

Dwayne’s placid nature continues to amaze me. Although just ten minutes ago I excoriated him mercilessly for attempting to insert a Nintendo game cartridge into my computer floppy drive, he has just brought me a cup of hot cocoa. Pretty good too.

Can’t write any more. Suddenly swept by a wave of overwhelming fatigue. Must rest immediat…

SUNDAY, November 4
— A strange night. After a frightening nightmare in which I was wrestling for what seemed like hours with an amorous walrus, I awoke this morning with a headache, bruised ribs, and a peculiar
stabbing ache in my backside. Oddly, my pajamas, which I remember putting on before I retired, were now on the floor beside my bed. My undershorts had disappeared completely. Putting two and two together, I came up with a disturbingly queer total.

“Dwayne!” I yelled.

Abruptly, the snoring ceased. “Oh…morning, Nick,” yawned my roommate, broadcasting sour breath throughout the room. “Is it time to get up?”

“It’s time to answer some questions,” I replied, struggling to remain calm. “What did you put in my cocoa?”

“What cocoa?” he asked innocently.

“Don’t lie, you cretin! You put a capsule into it, didn’t you?”

“No, I put two in it. What of it?”

“So, I know what else you were doing, you disgusting beast. And I’m going to tell your mother!”

“You snitch on me, Nick,” he warned, “and I’ll tell your pop ’bout you sendin’ those pills down to Santy Cru’.”

This threat caused me to pause, but did not long impede the headstrong François. “I’m going to get you for this, Dwayne,” he replied coolly. “I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

“Don’t be mad, Nick,” pleaded Dwayne. “I like you. You can do it to me too. Anytime. Want to do it now?” He pulled aside the covers, revealing a repellent landscape of rolling pink flab.

Just then, Mrs. Crampton barged into the room. “Boys, time to get—Dwayne! Where’s your… pajamas?”

“Nick made me take them off, Mom,” he said, hastily grabbing for the sheet. “He took his off too.”

“You liar!” I screamed.

“Nick!” she cried. “You got…your pajamas… on?”

“That is none of your business,” I replied. “And please knock before you enter.”

“You leave…my son… alone,” she said, her voice quaking. “He’s … a nice…boy… Don’t you go…co’rupt him…with your … nastiness!”

Despite François’s anger, I felt some parental appeasement was called for. “We weren’t doing anything, Mrs. Crampton,” I assured her. “It was just hot last night. Must be this Indian summer we’re having.”

Outside it was gray, 42°, and raining. Nonetheless, Mrs. Crampton seemed willing to accept my explanation. “If you get hot, boys,… open a
window…Don’t you go…takin’ off …your pajamas…That’s nasty.”

“OK, Mom,” said Dwayne meekly.

“I certainly won’t!” I replied, glaring at her son.

“Now get up…boys,” she said. “I’m makin’…hushpuppies… for breakfast.”

10:15
A.M
. I have decided never to speak to Dwayne again. As I silently swallowed my hushpuppies (another misleading euphemism for mush), it suddenly occurred to me that I may no longer be a virgin. I wish there were a board of experts somewhere whose job it was to decide these technicalities for teens. If I were speaking to you know who, I’d ask him if he’d had the forethought to don a condom. Probably not, knowing that cretin. Now, along with all the other teen blights, such as pimples and dancing in public, I have to worry about fatal diseases. Fortunately, my roommate is so monumentally unattractive, his circle of sexual contacts must be necessarily minute.

Dad is still holed up in his bedroom; he did not come out for breakfast. I have looked for all the obvious signs—strange car in the driveway, lipstick-smeared cigarette butts in the ashtrays, unfamiliar lingerie dangling from the lampshades—and have discovered no bimbette evidence. It appears that last night I was the only occupant getting laid. As for our other Don Juan, Mr. Ferguson took his breakfast on a tray in bed. The man looks terrible. He is skipping picket duty again today—a bad sign if you ask me.

11:30
A.M
. The phone just rang and D——e handed it to me. After an elaborate display of wiping off the cooties, I said, “Hello?”

“Nickie, is that you?”

It was my trapped-in-a-tragic-marriage mother.

“Oh, hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Nickie, Lance caught the burglar!”

“He did?” I asked, shocked. “Who?”