Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (53 page)

TUESDAY, November 19
— ANOTHER CATACLYSMIC DISASTER! When I arrived at school this morning, I learned that Fuzzy was absent. I found out in homeroom it was because a relative had passed away. By gym class I discovered my erstwhile friend was mourning the loss of an uncle. In wood shop my worst fears were confirmed as news reached me that the decedent was indeed Uncle Polly. At lunch I was shocked to learn death resulted from accidental electrocution. But only when I arrived home, was the full, horrifying extent of the tragedy thrust upon me. The agent of death, I was informed, was a secondhand neon sign, recently purchased by the victim from the son of a former employee.

“You’ve been fired, Dad?” I exclaimed.

“What?” he screamed.

“Dad! Have you been fired?” I bellowed.

“Yes, you fuck-up!” he replied. “Why do you suppose I’m hitting you?”

There’s no need for profanity or sarcasm, Dad. I just like to be in full possession of the facts as I’m being abused.

After Dad finished, I excused myself and called the DeFalcos. Mrs. DeFalco answered, sounding only partially paralyzed with grief.

“Hello, Nick,” she said. “I’m annoyed with you, you know.”

“It’s not my fault, Mrs. DeFalco!”

“Oh? You mean someone else has been tattling on us to my son?”

“Oh,” I said, “he told you, huh?”

“Nick, I thought I could trust you to be discreet. I see now my faith was misplaced.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. DeFalco. I’m sorry about your brother-in-law too.”

“We’re all sorry, Nick. Very sorry. I’m sorry my husband fired your father with such unseemly haste. He might have at least waited until after Polonius was decently buried. And I’m very sorry that he is at this moment downtown talking to his lawyers about bringing suit against your father.”

“He is?” I gulped.

“Yes. But perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this. That sign was dangerously defective, Nick.”

“I, I could refund the $50,” I suggested.

“I expect my husband will want more than that, Nick. Much more. The deputy sheriff found a bare wire exposed on the cord. It appeared to have been chewed—by some animal.”

“By a dog?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps the detectives will be able to determine that. Do you have any dogs?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “three.”

“I thought that was a flea bite I received in your trailer,” she commented. “You mustn’t let Frank visit you there.”

“No, Mrs. DeFalco,” I replied. “When did Uncle Polly die?”

“Last night. A former girlfriend discovered him floating facedown in his hot tub. His pizza was untouched.”

“You mean Uncle Polly kept an electrical appliance next to a hot tub?” I asked.

“Yes. He was under the impression neon lighting created an atmosphere conducive to romance.”

“But that wasn’t very intelligent, Mrs. DeFalco,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but it was very Uncle Polly.”

10:30
P.M
. I decided not to tell Dad about the potential lawsuit. I think it
would be best if the subpoena arrives as a horrifying surprise. Let him retain the shreds of his tattered happiness until then. No need for everyone to feel as miserable as I do.

I realize now I should have suspected something was amiss last night from the peculiar behavior of those damn dogs. Yes, Albert has exacted his revenge. But was Uncle Polly the true intended victim? Or was the sale of the sign unforeseen by my canine adversaries? Did they, in fact, intend that sabotaged wire for me? What have I done, I ask myself, to deserve such opprobrium? Is buying generic that heinous of a crime?

WEDNESDAY, November 20
— 8:30
A.M
. Dad and Mr. Ferguson have reconciled. They are sitting together in the living room watching Captain Kangaroo. Mrs. Crampton is using the last of the Crisco to fry up some homemade donuts. She has dropped some polite hints to Dad that he consider applying for food stamps. Soon we may be the only family on welfare with a full-time live-in maid.

Thank God Thanksgiving vacation starts today. I have no taste for knowledge at this time. I only hope Mrs. Crampton’s donuts give me the courage to call Sheeni. I must know what is happening!

11:45
A.M
. Palms sweating, eyelids twitching, spleen fluttering, I finally worked up the courage to dial Sheeni’s number. After wading through deep quagmires of Frog-speak, I reached my Reestranged Sweetheart.

“Hello, Dolores,” she said frigidly. “What a surprise.”

“Sheeni, darling, are your parents there?”

“Yes, Dolores. They’ve come to take me home. What do you want? I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“Sheeni, how is Bernice?”

“No change, Dolores. There has been one strange development, though.”

“What’s that, darling?”

“Do you remember the last letter you wrote to me?”

“Of course, darling. I remember it distinctly. I wrote, among other things, that as I exhaled my last human breath, your name would be upon my lips.”

“Yes, Dolores. How ironic that seems now.”

“Sheeni, I meant every word!”

“Yes, Dolores. You certainly can’t trust everyone you meet on summer vacations.”

“Sheeni, what about the letter?”

“The authorities discovered it in Bernice’s room—when they were searching for suicide notes.”

“They did!” I exclaimed. “How did she get hold of it?”

“She must have taken it when she emptied my wastebasket.”

“Sheeni! You mean you haven’t been saving my letters?”

“No, Dolores. I am committed to resource recycling, as you know. Besides, they have no value to me now.”

“Darling, don’t say that!”

“Of course, Dolores, I am a realist. We all must be.”

“Sheeni, have some compassion! Consider our time of life. During these trying years one’s hormones can sometimes overpower one’s moral judgment. These slight missteps should not necessarily be construed as infidelity.”

“Yes, Dolores. We all recognize facile exculpations when we hear them. Well, I mustn’t keep my parents waiting.”

“Sheeni, one more thing. Did they find a suicide note?”

“No, Dolores. Few teens have the time or aptitude for composition these days. Ours is not a literarily inclined generation.”

Thank God for that, I thought. “Well, have a good trip home, darling,” I said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Dolores, you must dismiss that notion from your head. I remain firm on that issue.”

“Sheeni, we’ve been through this before,” I replied, just as firmly.

“If you persist, Dolores, I shall have no choice but to invite dear Trent as well. How would you like that?”

I wouldn’t like it at all, I thought. I said, “I’m not squeamish, Sheeni. If you can tolerate his loutish company, so can I.”

For being one of the sweetest, kindest persons I’ve ever known, Sheeni can be remarkably hard-assed at times.

More guilt for Nick. If Bernice succumbs, I shall have two deaths on my conscience. (Three if you count Albert.) I must make amends by leading an exemplary life from now on. I shall begin by forgiving Dwayne. He deserves understanding as much as any of us. He can’t help it that he’s an obnoxious cretin.

1:15
P.M
. (written in pencil). After a nice lunch, I invited dear Dwayne in to play computer games on my AT clone. Now he is banging away on my fragile, bargain-brand keyboard as happy as a four-year-old (his approximate mental age).

Dad and Mr. Ferguson have gone into town to meet with their respective lawyers. I look forward to their upcoming trials. They should offer valuable lessons in the operation of our judicial system. I hope neither defendant is persuaded to plead guilty. That seems like such an ethical cop-out.

Can’t write any more. I have to go prepare my chum Dwayne a snack.

2:30
P.M
. A man with “process server” written all over his suspicious face and thrift-shop suit just came snooping around asking for Dad. I told him a Mr. George F. Twisp used to live here, but had moved to Missoula, Montana, recently to find work as a TV weatherman. The guy left, but I’m not sure he believed me. Mr. DeFalco’s vengeful lawyers sure work fast.

4:05
P.M
. Candy Pringle and some other do-gooder seniors from my high school just dropped by with a frozen turkey and a big bag of canned goods. Mrs. Crampton was so grateful she started blubbering. I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

7:30
P.M
. Hard times are here. For dinner we had canned wax beans, canned creamed hominy on toast, and canned smoked oysters—washed down with reconstituted powdered milk. Canned kiwi cocktail for dessert. Needless to say, I only picked at my food. Mrs. Crampton is husbanding the less esoteric canned goods for tomorrow’s festive dinner of thanksgiving. I have never had such a gloomy meal. It did not help that Dad is down to his last half bottle of zin and is irritable in the extreme. His lawyer was not encouraging. The Ukiah police took a remarkably clear set of his prints off Lacey’s jimmied window.

10:45
P.M
. I have pressed my brown flannel trousers, brushed my tweed coat, and successfully pilfered Dad’s best knit tie. In less than 24 hours I shall be eating turkey and all the trimmings with The Woman Who Makes Me Thankful for the Human Sex Drive. But will she be thankful to see me?

I believe she will. That is the thought that sustains me as I, a disadvantaged American youth, go to bed hungry.

THURSDAY, November 21
— 11:45
A.M
. (written in pencil). I’m composing this in the back booth of the donut shop to calm my nerves. The maple bars are helping too.

It all started before breakfast as I was peacefully sitting in my tiny home polishing my dress shoes. Dwayne knocked on the door to tell me I was wanted on the phone.

“Who is it?” I asked him warily.

“Some for’ner,” he replied, with evident distaste.

“Man or woman?”

“Girl, Nick. I think it’s that one what tried to swipe Kamu from me.”

My sweet, lovely Apurva! I greeted her warmly.

“Nick, something terrible has happened!” she said, alarm adding to the poignancy of her unflagging charm.

“Your father hasn’t married you off?” I asked.

“No, thank God. But he has been acting most suspiciously the last few days. I’m afraid he may be plotting the ruination of my hopes. No, I’m calling about another emergency. Vijay has just been arrested!”

“What a surprise,” I said, not at all surprised. “What is the charge?”

“Breaking and entering, malicious mischief, and grand theft. Two nice Ukiah officers and a rude policeman from Oakland have taken him away. Nick, they confiscated a pair of my shoes. My nice red pumps!”

“What did Vijay say?”

“He assured my parents it was all a misunderstanding. That’s why they’re all going over to talk to you.”

“They’re coming over here?” I asked, alarmed. “Why? I don’t know anything!”

“Well, Vijay thought you might.”

“Apurva, I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling. Remember, no matter what you hear, I’m innocent. Totally innocent!”

“Of course, Nick. I never imagined that you…”

Rudely, I hung up and raced out to Little Caesar. Dressing hurriedly, I was interrupted by another knock on the door. My blood froze.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” said Dwayne.” ’Nother call, Nick. It’s your ma.”

“Tell her I’m too busy to talk now!”

“She says it’s a ‘mergency, Nick.”

“Damn!”

I grabbed my day-old flowers (Flampert’s bargain bouquet), my bankbook, a few other vital necessities, and hurtled past Dwayne toward the house. No sign of approaching police cars. So far so good.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” I gasped.

“Nickie, I have some bad news!” she exclaimed.

“OK. I’m ready. What is it?”

“Nickie, you don’t sound well.”

“TELL ME THE BAD NEWS, MOM!”

“The Berkeley police were just here. They know you started the fire. I think Lefty’s sister snitched on you for the reward. Oh, I wish Lance hadn’t left in such a big hurry early this morning. They made me tell them where you live. Nickie, they’re on their way up there!”

“They’re coming here?” I exclaimed, with a distinct sense of déjá vu.

“Yes. They’re driving to Ukiah to arrest you!”

No longer merely quivering, my testicles were dancing a rhumba in my
pants. I slammed down the phone and fled out the front door, nearly flattening a low-life process server.

“I’ve called every TV station in Montana,” he announced snottily. “I think you’re lying!”

“So sue me!” I replied, scurrying past him. I stopped abruptly as a black-and-white car crested the hill in the distance. As I turned to retreat, the loathsome court lackey blocked my way.

“Where’s George F. Twisp?” he demanded.

“Inside in bed!” I replied. “Go in if you want! Tell him Nick sent you!”

As I fled toward the welcome cover of distant trees, a bloodcurdling scream rose from the house. Dad was having a bad morning too.

1:30
P.M
. I am lurking in some bushes one block from Sheeni’s house. I hope I don’t get my trousers soiled. I have picked some municipal flowers to flesh out my decaying bouquet. I am extremely nervous and growing more so by the minute. Where did I go wrong?

5:30
P.M
. (written in pencil under a bridge on the outskirts of Ukiah). Well, Thanksgiving dinner is over. I didn’t stay for dessert.

I rang the ornate Victorian doorbell precisely at 1:59. After an ominously long interval, Paul—wearing an apron and grasping a large turkey baster—opened the front door.

“Hello, Nick. Right on time. Come in.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said, cautiously entering the dark-paneled foyer as Lacey, smiling beneficently, floated toward me in a golden fog of hormone-wrenching pulchritude.

Pressing me forcefully against her as if taking an impression for a custom-made brassiere, she exclaimed, “Oh, what interesting flowers, Nick! Who are they for?”

“Uh, Mrs. Saunders,” I stammered.

Every nerve cell madly palpitating, I followed my host and hostess into the chintz-bedecked parlor. Dressed in their best holiday finery, Sheeni’s larger-than-life father and 5,000-year-old mother were sitting cross-legged on the floor—running their ancient, liver-spotted fingers over the hooked rug. Had someone lost a contact?