Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (49 page)

A sudden racket outside drew me to my tiny trailer window. My moronic dogs were howling indignantly as Uncle Polly packed away his new purchase in the trunk of his shiny black Caddy. I don’t see what those freeloading canines have to complain about. I’ll probably blow the entire fifty keeping them in overpriced dog delicacies.

10:05
P.M
. Damn. No nocturnal visitations. I had even lit a few romantic candles, brushed my teeth twice, and—to obscure lingering D——e odors—doused the mattress with some of Dad’s prestigious cologne (Stampede by Lalph Rauren). All for naught. Oh well, I suppose there’s nothing like a nice seductive atmosphere for enhancing the pleasures of autoeroticism.

Earlier this evening I found my old Cub Scout printing kit and spent a few pleasant hours doctoring my passport. I now have documentary evidence of having traveled to every continent except Antarctica—including several nations usually visited only by second-rate explorers, arms dealers, and TV evangelists.

During dinner, Mr. Ferguson vowed his intention of blocking “any and all scab truck movement” by the reckless imposition of his “living and breathing body.”

“Just make sure your rent is paid up,” replied Dad. “I don’t want to have to try and collect it from your estate.”

I won’t repeat what Mr. Ferguson said to that.

THURSDAY, November 8
— Only two weeks until I see The Mother of My Future Gifted Children. Perhaps we’ll be able to start practicing some of those tricky conception techniques now while our bodies are still nimble. Beginning a training regimen at this stage, experts say, can avoid those embarrassing fumblings later on when the biological gong is clanging.

I think I’m catching a cold. I had to open all the trailer windows last night to breathe and almost froze to death. At one point, I rose in the frigid blackness and spread all my clean underwear out on the bed for extra warmth.
That helped some. I suppose I could have moved the heater under the covers, but since Albert’s sudden passing, I found I’ve developed either a healthy respect or a morbid fear of electricity. I can’t decide which.

Still no reply from Apurva. Why are women so curiously noncommunicative after receiving sincere and concrete proposals? Do they, contrary to all reports, place a higher regard on subtlety? Should I instead have invited her over to view my stamp collection?

Dad’s scab conversion has had at least one positive result (besides enriching Vijay’s bloated wad). It was just the prod Mr. Ferguson needed to rouse him from his premarital doldrums. He was up like a shot at dawn and back on the picket line fomenting solidarity.

The scab himself was off the entire day at an undisclosed location receiving instruction from DeFalco subalterns in the operation of a concrete truck. He came home grimy with oil and disillusionment. Dad was surprised to learn that the men were expected not only to transport the concrete to the site, but also to dump it. “Those chutes weigh a ton,” he complained, guzzling a beer, blue-collar style, from the can. “And then they expect us to wash the damn things. I don’t see why. You just get them all covered with gunk on the next load.”

“Was the truck difficult to drive, Dad?” I asked.

“Nah. It has power steering and an automatic transmission. An old lady could drive it. Now, a BMW—there’s a road machine that rewards your serious driving skill.”

I know, Dad. I’ve got the whiplash to prove it. “When do you start, Dad?” I asked.

He looked around warily. “Where’s that nut-case commie?”

“Still picketing,” I said.

“I’m not allowed to say,” replied Dad, striving, unsuccessfully, for inscrutability. “It’s top secret.”

“Fuzzy at school said they were going to fire up the plant tomorrow morning,” I pointed out.

“Don’t tell that wacko,” he warned. “Flora is having him drive her down to San Quentin tomorrow to meet her husband.”

“What for?” I asked.

“How should I know? Maybe they want his blessing on their happy union.”

“I hope he takes it like a gentleman,” I said doubtfully.

“I hope he murders the old commie,” replied Dad, swigging his beer. “It’ll save me the trouble of running him over.”

9:45
P.M
. My cold is worse. Kindly Mrs. Crampton gave me her old electric blanket, so perhaps I won’t freeze again tonight. The thermostat is broken, but she assures me it still “gets to cookin’ real nice.”

FRIDAY, November 9
— Can’t write much. Too sick. Skipping school. Feel like tertiary malaria victim. Woke up sweating buckets under the Electric Blanket from Hell. Broken dial stuck on “High.” Chest all red. First-degree burn?

Lots of sirens, deep booms, and incoherent exhortations through bullhorns from direction of concrete plant. Oops, what was that? Sounded like a howitzer blast.

Can’t write any more. Have to go puke.

SATURDAY, November 10
— Praying for recovery or death. Don’t care which at this point. Twenty-three strikers arrested, four in hospital, scab concrete now rumbling like clockwork past my sickbed. Strikebreaking Dad earning time and a half for weekend work. Likes job. Says other drivers on road rarely contest right-of-way with big concrete trucks. Mr. Ferguson, back from San Quentin, totally pissed he missed battle. Blames fiancée. Broke off engagement and now bunking with D——e.

SUNDAY, November 11
— Recovery dealt serious blow by dead-of-night tire slasher. Little Caesar now listing ten degrees to starboard. Bed at radical angle. Have to hang on or roll out. Difficult to nap under these circumstances. Dad incensed by vandalism to precious BMW. All vehicles on property struck except Mr. Ferguson’s aged Toyota. Dad accused elderly agitator of complicity in deed. Big argument. Dad ordered Mr. Ferguson to move out. He refused unless paid pro rata rent refund. Immediate stalemate. D——e in doghouse for making untoward advances on ex-future stepfather.

MONDAY, November 12
— Have not vomited for six entire hours. Feel corner has been turned. Life may be worth living after all. Vijay called from school with good news. Have won prestigious scholarship to study in India. He has released story and my photo to newspapers. “They sent you a voucher for your ticket,” he added. “The program is ongoing. Just cable them when you expect to arrive in Bombay.” Almost might be persuaded to go if they promised me a level bed. More good news: Ferguson-Crampton engagement back on. Mr. Ferguson off rallying troops for another decorate-your-face-with-tire-tracks plant blockade. Mrs. Crampton secretly frying resistance meatballs
for beleaguered union stalwarts. D——e in doghouse for chronic underwear boycott.

11:30
P.M
. Well, it happened. I might as well get the story down on microchip while the wounds are still fresh. As I was doggedly attempting to read
The Old Wives’ Tale
by Arnold Bennett (having first skimmed unsuccessfully for ribald passages), I heard a gentle tapping on my door. “Come in,” I croaked. More soft tapping. “Come in, Mrs. Crampton!” I shouted. “You can take my dinner tray away now.” The door unlatched and swung slowly open.

“Nick, is that you?” asked a lilting, tentative voice.

Apurva!

Fighting panic, I tossed my book and pulled the covers up over my vomit-specked pajamas. Had it really been three days since my last shower?

“Hi, Apurva,” I gasped. “Come in.”

The trailer creaked as Apurva climbed in through the narrow doorway and warily looked around. She was in full, no-holds-barred makeup and smelled of flower-strewn Himalayan meadows.

“Nick, it’s so small!” she exclaimed. “Is this really where you are staying?”

“For the time being. I don’t mind it.”

“Oh, Nick. You’re in bed! Am I disturbing you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Not at all, Apurva. I was, uh, hoping you’d drop by. Please, take off your coat. What happened to you anyway?”

“I’m sorry, Nick. Father wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Fortunately, he was called away unexpectedly on business today. He made me promise I would stay in my room. Of course, he does not realize I am now resolved to be bad. Nick, does the floor always slope at this peculiar angle?”

“Not usually. There’s been a sudden deflation of the tires. I was intending to fiddle with the jacks tomorrow.”

“I see,” she replied. Struggling to maintain her balance, she removed her gloves, scarf, and coat. I was surprised to see her hands were shaking. François was thrilled to see she had dressed for the occasion in a ravishing red knit dress that draped every enticing contour without restraint or apology. Since François often displays these very same qualities, I decided to let him do the talking.

“Have a seat, darling,” he said suavely. “I’d offer you some refreshments, but it’s the butler’s night off.”

“Thank you, Nick. That’s all right,” said Apurva, sitting at the tiny dinette and struggling—with some difficulty—to keep from sliding off while
modestly pulling her dress down over her lovely wheatish knees. “Nick, you don’t look at all well,” she continued, gripping the door handle for support. “Perhaps I should leave you to rest.”

“No! No, Apurva. I’m fine really. Never felt better.”

“Are you sure? Forgive me for saying this, but your eyes are watery and your nose appears to be inflamed.”

“Hay fever,” explained François. “Always get it this time of year.”

“Oh, that is a shame. Sister Brenda is similarly afflicted. She doesn’t mind. She feels harsh nasal discomfort is a worthy penance for her sins. Nick, are you cold? You are all wrapped up in blankets.”

“Well, you see, sweetheart,” François explained, “I don’t have much on underneath.”

My guest turned scarlet and looked away. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should leave and let you dress.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling. I have nothing to hide from you. Do you have anything to hide from me?”

Apurva blushed even deeper and examined the weave of her dress. “I, I don’t want to. Not necessarily.”

“Would you like to come sit on the bed? It’s big enough for two.”

“Well, I suppose I could. You’re sure you are well enough to receive visitors?”

“Never better.” I coughed. “I’ve never known a sick day in my life.”

Apurva edged toward the bed and sat down primly on the lumpy mattress. Only by rigidly bracing her knees was she able to keep from sliding toward the feverish François.

“Nick, what is that peculiar odor?”

“Stampede. It’s my expensive cologne. Like it?”

“Perhaps—in moderation.” She picked up my discarded book. “Oh, what are you reading? I’ve been reading endlessly since I’ve been staying home.”

François plucked the book from her hands and flung it across the trailer. Apurva gave a nervous start. “Let’s not discuss literature,” he said.

“What, what shall we discuss then?” she asked. “How is my sweet dog?”

“Forget your dog!” he replied. “Let’s discuss how that lovely dress unfastens.”

Without a word Apurva reached behind her, undid a clasp, and slowly pulled down the zipper. “Do you mind if we turn off the light?” she asked.

“Not at all,” said François, flipping off the wall lamp while simultaneously
shedding his foul pajamas. He reached over and pulled her toward him. She resisted only moderately.

“Are you entirely naked?” she whispered.

“More or less,” replied François, struggling with her bra snaps in the darkness.

“Please don’t do that, Nick,” she said, wriggling away. “Let’s talk first.” But gravity rolled her exquisite body inexorably back toward me. My lips sought out hers and François’s eager hand found a warm breast clothed in softest wool.

“Oh, Nick. I do like you,” she sighed. “But…”

“But what, darling?” cooed François.

“But your nasal discharge is dripping on my cheek.”

“Oh, sorry!” I exclaimed, searching among the blankets for my ghastly handkerchief. No luck. Desperate, I used a corner of the sheet.

“Nick, are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, but I’m terribly allergic to wool,” lied François. “Would you mind removing your dress?”

“I’d like to, Nick. But…”

François paused in his relentless groping for the elusive bra clasp. “But what, darling?”

“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Nick, but the circumstances are not as I imagined them to be.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” I asked. “Would you like another pillow? Shall I turn on the electric blanket? We’ll be toasty in a jiff.”

“Nick, you must realize that when a young woman is growing up, she is naturally curious about, well, these matters and often fantasizes about her first experience of, of lovemaking. Perhaps you have had similar thoughts?”

“They’ve crossed my mind once or twice,” I admitted.

“Naturally, then you can understand why a young woman should desire that her first time be, well… as pleasant as possible. She would not wish to have the experience tainted by anything smacking of, well… sordidness.”

“The mattress is not up to your standards, huh?” I sighed. “I want you to know I am not responsible for that odor. It’s an unfortunate legacy of a prior occupant.”

“It’s not only the bed, Nick,” she explained. “This doesn’t feel right. It would be disloyal to Trent.”

“But Trent never has to know!” argued François.

“But I shall know. And you will know. Nick, you must get well, move out
of this dreary trailer, and save yourself for Sheeni. Believe me, we shall all be happier in the long run. All four of us—you, me, Trent, and Sheeni.”

Yes, but what about François? In the short run he has to cope with the T.E. That Wouldn’t Die.

At that moment we were startled by the sounds of a violent altercation outside. Apurva leaped from the bed, zipped up her dress, and peered out the window.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “It’s Father!”

I groaned and dived under the covers.

“Come quickly, Nick!” shouted Apurva, throwing on her coat. “Your father is murdering him!”

Dad did not murder Mr. Joshi. He just bloodied his nose and tore his suit. In return, Mr. Joshi added a fresh greenish-purple patina to Dad’s barbrawl black eye. This is not to say as they grappled, panting and swearing, in the mud that they did not wish to murder each other. Clearly, homicide was on their minds. But a vigorous knee to the groin, although acutely distracting, is seldom life-threatening. Still, for two wimps going at it bare-handed, the combat was surprisingly ferocious. Apurva, for one, was terrified.