Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (57 page)

“Fred Astaire was short?” I asked, surprised.

“Practically a midget. For all of his love scenes with Rita the director had him standing on a stepladder. Back in the ’30s RKO had to give Fred secret lessons to teach him to dance in elevator shoes. First they tried him on stilts but the planks showed under his trousers.”

“I didn’t know that!”

“Yes, and you know all that precision tap dancing he did in his films?”

“Sure. He was great.”

“It wasn’t him,” she whispered.

“It wasn’t?” I whispered back.

“No. It was a Negro they used to fly in secretly from Harlem just for those numbers. Then they matted in Fred’s head. It was all very hush-hush. Not even Ginger was in on it.”

“That’s incredible!” I exclaimed.

“Better keep it under your hat, Frank,” she said. “The studios still have goons on the payroll to keep a lid on explosive information like that.”

When I returned to the apartment, I discovered this message from Mom on Joanie’s answering machine: “Good news, Joanie. We don’t have to worry anymore. I just spoke to Nick in India. He’s living with a nice family, who may teach him some manners and sense. What a miracle that would be. Lance says as long as Nick’s not here to be prosecuted, we can’t be held legally liable for the fire damages. And Lefty’s sister, who snitched on him, won’t be collecting any reward either. So Nick running away to India may be a blessing in disguise. I certainly don’t mind having him out of my hair for a while. Oh, and your miserable father is being sued for $3.5 million for some dangerous neon sign Nick found and sold to a man which electrocuted him—the man I mean. Fortunately that is of no concern to me. Personally, I wish the man’s family the best of luck. I only wish they’d asked for more! Well, got to go. Lance is taking me out tonight to celebrate my birthday—not that that is apparently of much concern to you.”

Three and a half million dollars! That is pure pie in the sky. From my unemployed deadbeat father Fuzzy’s family would be fortunate to collect $3.50.

6:30
P.M
. Kimberly just returned from a hard day of business theory ingestion.

“Good news, Kimberly,” I said. “Joanie said I could sleep in her bed while she’s away, so I won’t be needing your couch for a few days.”

Kimberly shrugged with feigned indifference, but I could tell she was mentally calculating this unexpected assault on her net worth.

“Is Mario dropping by tonight?” asked François.

“I don’t know,” she said, flipping through her mail. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I thought maybe we could go to a movie or something,” said François.

“Who? You and Mario?”

“Er, no. You and me,” said François. “I’ll pay.”

“Sorry, Nick. I have to work on my marketing plan.”

“I could pay for the popcorn too,” persisted François.

“Sorry, Nick,” said Kimberly, walking toward her bedroom. “Maybe some other time.”

She went into her room and closed the door.

“She likes me. I can tell,” observed François.

“Then why did she lock the door?” I asked.

“Temptation,” he replied. “She’s trying to resist temptation.”

WEDNESDAY, November 26
— This afternoon’s movie was a 1942 black-and-white comedy,
The Talk of the Town
, starring Ronald Colman, Jean Arthur, Cary Grant, and Bertha Ulansky as an irate townsperson.

After the film Miss Ulansky filled me in on all the inside dope.

“What was Ronald Colman like?” I asked.

“Self-absorbed. Very self-absorbed,” she said. “That velvety voice of his is all fake. To hear him talk on the set, you’d think he was one of the grips. His accent is quite coarse and his natural speaking voice is a high falsetto. And he is very short.”

“Ronald Colman was short?” I asked.

“Dreadfully short. Practically a midget,” she said. “He refused to use an American stepladder for his love scenes. They had to import one from England with the rungs on the left side.”

“Was Cary Grant short?” I asked.

“Yes, quite charmingly diminutive,” she replied. “Standing next to Ronnie Colman, they looked like two jockeys at the track.”

6:30 P.M. When I returned from next door, Kimberly was microwaving dinner for Mario, who sat at the table blinking impatiently. I loitered about hoping to be invited, but the cook successfully resisted all impulses toward gracious hospitality. So I walked the eight blocks to McDanold’s. When I returned, Kimberly was watching TV on my rental couch while Mario was washing up in the kitchenette.

“Say, Nick, how old are you?” she asked, flipping off
The Nightly Business Report
with the remote control.

“Nineteen,” I lied.

“More like 14 or 15, I’d expect,” she replied. “Would you like to answer some questions for our survey?”

“What kind of survey is it?” I asked warily.

“It’s a marketing survey,” she explained. “Mario and I are thinking of starting a company to market unique, fashion-forward products to younger consumers.”

Mario looked over from his dishpan. “Nick, you American teenagers have an annual disposable income in excess of $80 billion.”

Eighty billion dollars! Boy, am I missing out on my fair share.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll answer your questions. Fire away.”

Kimberly picked up her clipboard and asked me a long series of exhaustively thorough, boringly repetitious questions about my expendable income, purchasing habits, and tastes in clothing, with a particular emphasis on footwear. Except for the income questions, I answered as honestly as I was able. Kimberly seemed pleased with my responses.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me one more question?” I inquired, when she had finished.

“What’s that, Nick?” she asked.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I would consider buying polka dot running shoes?”

Kimberly gasped. Mario nearly dropped a plate. “How did you know that?” they demanded.

“Well, it was obvious from your questions,” I explained. “You intend to sell running shoes with fluorescent orange or purple polka dots. Right?”

“No comment,” replied Kimberly.

“Certainly not,” said Mario, blinking even faster than usual.

“Good,” I replied. “Because I wouldn’t buy a pair of shoes like that in ten million years. And neither would my friends.”

“That’s just your opinion,” sniffed Kimberly.

“Well, I thought that’s what you wanted,” I said. “I thought that was the reason for conducting marketing surveys.”

“He’s right, Kimmy,” said Mario, blinking glumly.

“Yes, but look at him, Mario,” she replied. “He hardly qualifies as a member of our high-income, fashion-conscious target stratum.”

I chose to overlook that slander. “Now, I have an idea for a product that I think a lot of teens would buy,” I said.

“What’s that, Nick?” asked Mario, blinking eagerly.

“I’ll tell you,” I replied. “But I want a third of all the profits—in writing.”

After 15 minutes of fierce, no-holds-barred negotiating, my new partners signed a contract agreeing to pay me 19.6 percent of all net profits (after taxes) accruing from my proposal.

“Now what is it?” demanded Kimberly skeptically.

“OK, picture this,” I said. “Running shoes… shaped like … sports cars! With headlights and taillights molded into the soles. That actually light! And little license plates on the chromed rubber bumpers that kids can personalize with stick-on letters. I even have the perfect name: Roadsters.”

Mario and Kimberly exchanged glances.

“That idea sucks,” declared the latter.

“Where would you put the batteries?” demanded Mario.

“Lights on shoes,” scoffed Kimberly. “What nonsense!”

“OK,” I said. “You don’t like that idea. Fine. I’ve got another one.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Kimberly.

“What is it?” asked Mario.

“Same terms?” I asked.

“OK, same terms,” he replied, blinking doubtfully.

“All right,” I said, “this one’s a watch. Now, there are thousands of nice-looking watches on the market. Right?”

“Sure,” they agreed.

“But what about all those millions of kids who aren’t interested in dressing to look nice? Who, in fact, try at all times to look as offensive as possible. How about a seriously ugly watch? The dial could look rusty and broken—maybe with a fake bullet hole through it. And you could have a disgusting flesh-colored plastic band with scars, tattoos, and a big, gross, hairy wart on it. In fact, that would make a great name: the Wart Watch.”

I paused and gazed at them expectantly.

Mario sighed. Kimberly got up to leave.

“Well, what’s wrong with that idea?” I demanded.

“It sucks,” said Kimberly.

“Could you possibly be a little more specific?” I asked.

“Nick,” said Mario, “there’s one major problem I see with your idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Kids who want to dress like that don’t care what time it is.”

Oh. He had a point there.

“And what little disposable income those creatures have,” added his business partner, “they spend entirely on drugs and heavy metal albums.”

She had a point there too.

Oh well, like countless impoverished Twisps before me, I never aspired to success in business. Ours is a family devoting itself to the arts.

THURSDAY, November 27
— It’s been one week since I last held Sheeni Saunders in my arms. It feels like an eternity. How unbearable to be estranged from your beloved during the holiday season. Each romantic, soft-focus perfume commercial on TV plunges me deeper into despair. Perhaps I should mail her a nice expensive bottle anonymously. No, she might sprinkle it on for her dates with that traitor Vijay Joshi.

6:20
P.M
. No sign of Kimberly and Mario. There was another panicky message from Philip on the answering machine. The guy sounds like a real mess. I decided to show some compassion and put him out of his misery. I found a listing for Philip Dindy, PhD, in Santa Monica and dialed the number. A woman answered.

“Is this Mrs. Dindy?” I asked, in my most lyrical Bombay accent.

“Yes, it is.”

“Mrs. Dindy, I believe you would do well to ask your husband about the lovely young flight attendant in Marina Del Rey.”

“What flight attendant?” she demanded.

“The one who is expecting his child!”

Having done my good deed of the day, I hung up quickly and went out for dinner. Tonight I thought I’d try Taco Bomb.

8:40
P.M
. I decided to gather intelligence on the unfolding situation up in Ukiah. I put on my Ravi Shamar record and dialed Fuzzy DeFalco’s number. Fortunately, the hirsute teen himself answered my call.

“Nick! Where are you?”

“I’m in Bombay, India. I’m calling international long distance.”

“Really? It sounds like you’re right next door.”

“Frank, I’m sorry I made up that story about your mom and me in bed together. I guess it was a pretty lousy joke.”

“That’s OK, Nick. No hard feelings. Mom told me it wasn’t true. I figured you must have been stressed out. Wow, I can’t believe you’re in India. What’s it like? Is it hot?”

“Pretty hot, Frank. About 112° in the shade. But they’re forecasting a monsoon for this afternoon which should cool things off.”

“Neat! A monsoon!” he exclaimed. “Nick, how are you getting by? Do you have a place to live?”

“Yeah, a great place. I met a stewardess for Air-India on the plane. I’m staying at her penthouse apartment.”

“You’re staying with a real live stewardess! Is she cute?”

“Gorgeous. She looks just like Merle Oberon.”

“Who did you say?” asked Fuzzy. “Merle Haggard?”

“No, Merle Oberon. She was a famous movie star. Rava’s thinking of going into films here when she gets tired of flight attending. That’s her playing the sitar.”

“Is that what that is?” commented Fuzzy. “I thought maybe it was a bad connection.”

“Frank, what’s happening there?”

“Oh, man, Nick. You cut out just in time. I guess the cops traced Vijay’s fingerprints. They grabbed him and the fink ratted on all of us. I thought my parents were going to kill me for sure when they found out we were the ones who swiped Grandmama’s car. My dad hit the wall again.”

“Did he miss the stud?”

“Yeah, thank God. But he went clear through both layers of plasterboard. I’m grounded ’til Christmas. And they’re limiting my calls to Heather to five minutes a week.”

“Too bad, Frank,” I said. “What happened to Vijay?”

“The cops didn’t arrest him. They’re a lot more interested in finding you, Nick. Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a kid in as much trouble as you are. It’s a good thing you had that plane ticket to get out of the country. You’d be dead meat for sure here.”

“Possibly,” I conceded, not wishing to dwell on the negative. “Frank, what did Vijay’s parents do?”

“They yelled at him a lot, I guess. I’m not talking to that stool pigeon anymore. Nick, he told Sheeni you were the one who spread all those rumors about her and Trent smuggling birth control pills.”

More grim news.

“Is he putting the moves on Sheeni?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“He’s doing his best. They had lunch together today in the cafeteria. They were talking in French, the stuck-up creeps.”

“How does Sheeni look?” I asked.

“Kind of sad. I don’t think she’s that thrilled to be back in Redwood High. She kept correcting Mr. Perkins in English today, and she wasn’t even polite about it like she used to be. I bet a lot of the teachers would be willing to chip in and buy her a bus ticket back to Santa Cruz.”

“Is she hanging around Trent?”

“No, I see her more with Vijay, Nick.”

“Are they holding hands?”

“Not yet, Nick. But what do you care? You’ve got Merle your sexy stewardess.”

“Her name is Rava,” I corrected him. “And whatever you do, don’t tell Sheeni about her. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone you’d talked to me.”

“OK, Nick. I understand. I’m zipped.”

“Frank, your mother isn’t going out with my dad anymore, is she?”

“They had a date last night, Nick. It’s so gross. I don’t see what she sees in the creep. No offense.”