Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (59 page)

“I don’t know, Nick. Mom likes to go up there sometimes and scream and beat the mattress with a tennis racket. She says it helps relieve stress.”

“Do you have any other place you could hide me? Frank, I’m desperate.”

“Well, there’s Grandmama’s house. No one’s living there. I guess I could sneak the key.”

“Great! What’s the address? I’ll meet you there tonight around eight.”

“Can’t, Nick. I’m grounded. But I could drop the key off on my way to school tomorrow. There’s a grape arbor in the back yard you can hide in until I get there. The address is 507 Cripton Street. It’s a little green house with pink shutters.”

“Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Nick! Whose plane crashed?”

“Buddy Holly’s,” I replied sadly. “He’ll never sing another note.”

2:15 P.M. Riding the bus to Ukiah. Three hours ago I packed my meager thrift-store possessions in a brown paper sack and left this note for my sister:

A gray rain is falling on the desolate cotton fields of the Central Valley. What a blow to my hopes. Frankly, I had expected more from my sojourn to Los Angeles. I imagined glamorous parties beside the pool, stimulating conversations with Nobel Prize for Literature winners in town for a fast buck, exciting evenings with nubile starlets desperate for career advancement. Oh well, at least I shall soon be breathing the same dusty rural air as My Beloved.

The overpriced bus ticket dealt a crippling blow to my finances. I have $68.12 to my name.

6:30
P.M
. A two-hour layover in downtown Sacramento’s fashionable skid row area. I am gripped by insecurities. Should I turn myself in? No way. Lance would have me sent upriver for a ten-year stretch. Being an uneducated ex-convict virgin at age 25 is not in my plans. Sheeni wouldn’t wait for me either, that I know.

10:15
P.M
. Can’t write much. Too cold. No light. Bus pulled into Ukiah about an hour ago. Fortunately, streets downtown deserted. No one noticed me. Glad I have mustache for disguise. Found Fuzzy’s grandmother’s house. Only two blocks from Sheeni’s! Now in dank grape arbor. Sharing old wooden lounge chair with 89 hairy black spiders. Please, God, don’t let it rain.

TUESDAY, December 1
— 12:45
A.M
. God not listening as usual. Icy rain falling. Getting soaked through. No shelter. Teeth chattering. Spirits sinking.

2:30
A.M
. Rain still falling. Fear onset of hypothermia. Will this night of hell never end?

4:45 A.M. Starting to thaw. Forced to abandon grape arbor. Found laundromat open 24 hours. Deserted except for one scary-looking guy washing oddly spotted blankets. Look suspiciously like bloodstains. Certain there’s a logical explanation. Probably shot a deer and had to bring carcass home in double bed of his Winnebago.

5:30
A.M
. Grizzled, shifty-eyed deer hunter finally left. Removed most of my clothes and put in dryer. Damn! Was that a police car that just cruised by?

6:45 A.M. Getting light. Still raining. Extremely fatigued. Have to leave. Can’t risk being seen on streets in daylight.

7:45 A.M. Back in dripping arbor. Just as wet as before. Pray Fuzzy comes soon.

8:30
A.M
. Where is that hairy scumbag?!!!!

9:10
A.M
. Fuzzy finally showed. Opened back door. Going to bed now.

7:30 P.M. I awoke at twilight after an intense, leaden, dreamless sleep. I yawned, stretched, and looked around: pink rose wallpaper, flowered drapes, rag rugs, dark ornately carved furniture, framed photos of swarthy people in old-fashioned clothes, large disturbing crucifix over the heavy walnut bed, faded black housedress hanging from a peg on the back of the dark-stained paneled door.

“Well,” said François, scratching our balls under the musty-smelling quilt, “you were the guy always saying you were born 50 years too late. Welcome to Little Italy, circa 1943.”

“I wonder if the utilities are still on,” I said.

“I’d kill for a hot shower right now,” he growled.

On the way to the bathroom I paused to examine my nascent mustache in the bureau mirror. Quite continental if you ask me. I look like a young Errol Flynn with zits.

François had to settle for a hot bath. The immense claw-foot tub in the black-and-pink-tiled bathroom lacked a shower. But the water poured out steaming hot from the tarnished brass tap. I settled back in the luxurious warmth and lathered up. The big square cake of soap smelled of violets.

Later, as I was toweling off in the gloom, someone switched on a light in the living room. I froze. Suddenly a clangorous ringing broke out. Heart thumping wildly, I stood motionless, waiting for the intruder to answer the telephone. After 13 terrifying rings, the phone fell silent. I listened intently. Absolute silence. Still clutching the towel, I peered around the doorway into the old-fashioned living room. No one in sight. But the lamp by the front window was now lit. As I pondered this mystery, the phone rang again. After several moments of indecisiveness, I picked up the ancient black handset.

“Who is this?” demanded Fuzzy.

“Who do you think it is?” I whispered, sighing with relief. “How you doin’, guy?” asked Fuzzy.

“How come you didn’t answer the first time I called?”

“Frank! Someone’s here! They turned on a lamp in the living room.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Nick. That lamp’s on a timer. So the house looks lived in.”

“Now you tell me! I almost had a heart attack.”

“You OK, Nick? You looked pretty awful this morning.”

“Not bad,” I replied. “No signs of pneumonia yet. How do you turn the heat on? This place is like a crypt.”

“The thermostat is on the wall in the living room next to the picture of the Last Supper. Make sure you keep the drapes closed.”

“I know that,” I said. “Can I turn on lights in other rooms?”

“Sure. The yard’s such a jungle, people can’t see the house except from the front. Just don’t mess with the lamp on the timer.”

“OK.”

“I came by after school today,” said Fuzzy. “You were still sleeping. I put some food in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Frank. You’re a lifesaver.”

“How’s Merle?”

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend, the stewardess.”

“Oh, uh. She died. Cholera.”

“Man, Nick, that’s tough!”

“Yeah, it’s been a pretty rough week. Say, Frank, how come your parents are leaving this house empty with all your grandmother’s stuff in it? Are they anticipating her return as a ghost?”

“Dad says he’s too busy to deal with it right now. What with the strike, and Uncle Polly passing away, and Mom having an affair with your dad. They haven’t done anything with Uncle Polly’s house either. But I didn’t think you’d want to stay there. I mean, since it was your neon sign that, that …”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “What’s happening with Sheeni?”

“Not much, Nick, that I can see. Looking good, as usual. Still educating the teaching staff. Oh, and she had lunch again with Vijay.”

“Are they holding hands?”

“Nah. I think the shrimp’s too chicken. Looks like he’s trying to soften her up first with his French. Well, Gary, I better go now. Mom doesn’t want me to use the phone much since I’m grounded.”

“She came into the room?” I asked.

“Yes, Gary. The offense looks pretty strong too.”
Click
.

I found the thermostat and turned it up to a semitropical 82. Now to raid the refrigerator. I’m famished!

9:45
P.M
. Gathered in a lonely clump in the elderly yellow refrigerator
were a quart of low-fat milk, a loaf of white balloon bread, a jar of sliced sweet pickles, and a shrink-wrapped package of sliced bologna. The four basic food groups as interpreted by Frank Sinatra DeFalco. Sighing, I prepared a fast bologna sandwich and checked out the kitchen.

This was obviously the atelier of a serious cook: big double-oven chrome-top range (also yellow), arsenal of iron and copper pots hanging from hooks in orderly rows, cupboards stacked high with dishes and glassware, drawers stuffed with every imaginable utensil (including several mystery gadgets whose purpose I could not begin to fathom). Everything was at least 40 years old and shone like new. Here in a state of near-perfect preservation was a fully intact time capsule of 1950s cookery. Even the green-and-cream-tile counters and swirling greenish-purple linoleum were classics of that era. (Someday I hope to have an opportunity to experience that linoleum on mushrooms.)

I hit the jackpot when I opened the door to the pantry: row on row of big glass jars filled with flour, sugar, beans, lentils, and every imaginable form of pasta. Dozens of smaller jars filled with spices. Large tins of olive oil and more baking supplies in neat formations. And an entire canned goods section of a large supermarket.

“Holy shit,” said François, surveying the mountain of tin. “Why would anyone need 48 cans of garbanzo beans?”

I decided cream of mushroom soup would make a nice complement to bologna. Thirty-five maddening minutes later I found the can opener (a big chrome hand-crank model clandestinely mounted to the back of the pantry door). I warmed the soup on the gas range, laid out a setting for one on the yellow chrome dinette, poured a glass of red wine (from a dusty jug discovered on the floor of the pantry), and sat down for my first meal in my new home.

François proposed a toast: “Live fast. Play hard. Death to Vijay Joshi.”

“Hear, hear,” I said, taking an experimental sip of wine.

The flavors were complex: peppery cherry, blanched oak, sunny wild-flowers, postgame jockstrap, dead skunk, battery acid, toxic waste. The first glass was a struggle. The second slithered down somewhat easier. The third was a total breeze.

WEDNESDAY, December 2
— 9:25
A.M
. The rain stopped. Now, if only the pounding in my head would cease, I might feel positively nonsuicidal.

Fuzzy stopped by on his way to school to say hi and yell at me for leaving dishes in the sink.

“Nick, you have to keep a low profile here,” he said.

“Why?” I demanded, listlessly eating my breakfast of toasted balloon bread with a side order of fried bologna.

“Well, what if my mom or dad should happen to drop by?”

“Frank, I thought you said they never came here?”

“They don’t, Nick. As a rule. But they might check on things once in a while.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll lie low. Say, how do you like my mustache?”

“Is that what you call it?”

That Fuzzy brought a certain braggadocio to discussions of facial hair I felt was understandable.

“Yes, Frank. Now here is my question. Suppose you were to run into me on the street. Does my new mustache so alter my appearance that you would be unable to recognize me?”

“Sure,” he replied, “if I was blind.”

“It doesn’t, huh?”

“No way. You look like Nick Twisp with something on your upper lip. Maybe a dust ball.”

“Damn,” I sighed. “I guess I’m stuck in this house. At least in the daytime. Frank, can you get me a few groceries? I made a list.”

Fuzzy scanned my list with alarm. “Nick, this is like $20 worth of stuff. I haven’t got that kind of bread.”

I took out my wallet and handed him one of my precious twenties. “Buy generic if you can,” I implored. “And please bring me the change.”

3:30
P.M
. Medical tip: If you keep swallowing aspirin, any headache—no matter how excruciating—eventually goes away. And the lingering numbness can be mildly exhilarating.

I revived enough to spend a pleasant day snooping through the late Mrs. DeFalco’s closets and drawers. Hanging in her bedroom closet were dozens of nearly identical dresses: all old, all neatly pressed, all in shades of black. Along the floor were ranks of old lady’s shoes: all nicely polished, all black.

“Who died?” asked François, surveying the morbid scene.

“Maybe her hobby was attending funerals,” I replied.

“You know,” said François, “she might have been one of those seriously wacky types who liked to stash small fortunes in cash around the home.”

I searched all the conventional hiding places: under the mattress, in the cookie jar, in the toilet tank, in the freezer compartment, behind the water heater, inside the furnace, under the bureau drawers and couch cushions, behind the pictures on the walls, in the Brillo box under the sink. Total haul: $1.73 in coins and 12 lira in greasy Italian currency. I was checking the laundry room for loose floorboards when Fuzzy arrived with the groceries.

“Hi, Nick. Whatcha doing?”

“Uh, looking for dry rot. The washing machine hose has a small leak.”

“Don’t sweat it, Nick. This dump is falling down anyway. I got your stuff. You owe me $1.28 more.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

I paid him from my treasure haul; he refused the lira notes. “How was school?” I asked, putting away the groceries. “Boring. Oh, I found out something interesting in gym class from Dwayne.”

I was immediately intrigued. “What, Frank?”

“You know your ugly dogs, Nick?”

“Of course. I’ve got three of them.”

“Not anymore. Trent Preston came by yesterday and took two. Boy, was your dad thrilled. Trent’s keeping them for Sheeni and his girlfriend Apurva.”

TRENT PRESTON HAS OUR LOVE CHILD! MY ONE IN FRANGIBLE LINK WITH SHEENI SAUNDERS. NOW IN ENEMY HANDS! THAT IS THE FINAL, FINAL STRAW!