Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (9 page)

This piqued Mom’s interest. She put down her paintbrush. “What kind of sports?”

“Well, they have this competition. Called a Tonzello-athalon. Each team consists of one athlete and one dog. It’s sort of a combination of running, acrobatics, and precision gymnastics. Quite a spectacle to watch, according to the encyclopedia.”

“Do they play it here?” Mom asked.

“Not too much,” I said. “But Spain is always petitioning to have it made an Olympic sport. If they ever did, it’d be real easy to make the U.S. team, because there are so few Tonzellos in the country.”

“The Olympics. My goodness!” Thoughtfully, Mom buffed her varnish. I hoped she was contemplating life as the mother of an Olympic gold medalist.

I picked up the young Tonzello and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I
hear they’re real easy to train too.” Albert squirmed in my arms, nipped at my hand, and dribbled on my shirt. I hastily put him down.

At that moment, the door opened and Jerry entered. Pink and damp, he was dressed in an off-the-shoulder bathrobe that showed off his lush back hair.

“Hi, Nick,” said Jerry, toweling his hair. “You get a piece off your cupcake yet?”

“Jerry, that’s not funny,” said Mom, walking toward the bedroom. Jerry hungrily eyed her bra and slip.

“I was just kiddin’, Estelle,” he said, following her. They shut the door. I heard Mom say, “Not now, Jerry. I just put on my makeup.” Then came the sounds of a scuffle followed by a slap. I was wondering if this county had 911, when things suddenly became ominously quiet.

“You OK in there?” I called.

After a pause, Mom answered, “We’re fine.”

Disgusted by parental lust, I put on a record and turned it up loud. “Albert,” I said, “this is Frank Sinatra. You are going to be hearing a lot of him.”

A half hour later, everyone except Albert was out on the patio waiting for my date. The Tonzello was locked in the trailer practicing his whimpering skills. Mom was wearing a flaming-red low-cut dress that looked like it had been mail-ordered from Hell, Carnal Sins Division. Jerry apparently had dressed to coordinate with his car: white linen suit, white shoes and belt, lime-green shirt, and yellow bow tie. I had on my usual dress-for-invisibility outfit: flannel trousers, beige shirt, conservative knit tie, and generic tweed jacket. I looked like a Young Americans for Freedom volunteer waiting for Dan Quayle’s motorcade to pass by.

We looked up to see a beautiful woman approaching. Improbably, she spoke to us. “Hi, Nickie. Good evening, Mrs. Twisp. Jerry.”

It was Sheeni. Makeup, pearl necklace, earrings, and chestnut hair artfully pinned up had added ten stunning years to her age. She looked like the world’s most beautiful graduate student. Her exquisite tan glowed like 24-karat gold against the deep blue of her gossamer dress. My heart thumped wildly. I was speechless.

“Good evening, Sheeni,” said Mom. “You look nice.”

Nice! Nice! How we violate our language!

“You look beautiful,” said Sheeni, compounding the language debasement. “And that suit is terrific, Jerry.”

“Thanks, dollface,” said Jerry.

My paralysis continued. Sheeni looked at me quizzically. “Something wrong, Nickie?” she asked, taking my hand.

“You. You… you’re beyond rapturous,” I stammered.

Sheeni frowned. “No, Nickie. Rapture is a mental state. I don’t believe the adjective rapturous can be used to describe someone’s physical appearance. That usage is incorrect.”

Jerry rescued me from this grammatical conundrum. “OK, let’s blow,” he said.

We all piled into the big Lincoln—now equipped with a shiny chrome ball on the back bumper. Fastened under the steering wheel was a trailer brake mechanism. Every time Jerry stepped on the brake pedal, a lever on the mechanism pointed obscenely at his crotch.

Mom insisted Jerry put up the top to preserve “the ladies’ hairdos.” He complied reluctantly, so we had a relatively breeze-free drive to the restaurant. I held Sheeni’s warm hand and tried to regain control over my tongue. I felt like Quasimodo on a double date with Esmeralda. Any minute I expected Trent and the king’s soldiers to stop the car and send me back to the bell tower for my presumption. Meanwhile, Esmeralda was giving off fabulous aromas.

“Is, is that perfume?” I inquired.

“Yes,” said Sheeni. “Like it? It’s Joy, my favorite. It was a gift from—” She stopped just in time.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I like it anyway.”

Sheeni leaned over and kissed me. “I like you too.”

I took advantage of the occasion to look down her dress—and caught Jerry leering at me in the rearview mirror. At that moment I felt like the world’s youngest dirty old man.

Jerry pulled in and parked at a large lakeside restaurant called Biff’s Bosun’s Barge. Mounted on a tall steel pole at one end of the crowded parking lot was a World War II landing craft. Anchoring the other end of the lot was an immense plywood cutout of the Flag Raising at Iwo Jima. In between was the restaurant: a rambling, one-story wooden structure with vast expanses of blue-tinted glass facing the lake. Above the windows swam a school of blue neon fish.

As usual, we were on the very fringe of the smoking section. Jerry always requested this location so he could blow smoke at anyone he suspected of harboring antismoking sentiments. He felt strongly that freedom to smoke was a constitutionally protected right. As he lit up his first unfiltered Camel, I could see him scanning the nearby nonsmoking tables for potential fascists. But since this was the boonies, not Berkeley, no one seemed to mind the noxious fumes wafting their way.

“Isn’t this nice?” said Mom. We all agreed it was. The sun was setting on the opposite shore, painting the sky and water with pinks, blues, and fluorescent
oranges. Powerboats zipped by, the people on board laughing and holding aloft cans of beer.

Jerry ordered three margaritas and a root beer from our waitress—a 50-year-old country housewife in Biff’s regulation miniskirt and push-up bra. (Marketing question: do grandmotherly boobs swelling above low-cut bodices sell fish dinners? From the size of the diamond glinting on Biff’s pinkie I guess they do.) The waitress looked at Sheeni and didn’t even ask for an I.D.! So I slurped my soft drink while the three “adults” sipped their cocktails. Sheeni did offer me a taste of hers. It was intoxicatingly delicious. So far, I have enjoyed every alcoholic beverage I’ve sampled. Perhaps this means I shall grow up to be an oversexed alcoholic writer.

We studied the menu. Nouvelle cuisine it was not. Anything that was not deep-fried in molten grease was tossed—raw and bleeding—onto the grill. Mom decided on scallops, Sheeni requested sea bass, and the men ordered steaks.

Everyone except the child had a second cocktail and soon the conversation grew loud and boisterous. Sheeni told amusing stories about life in Ukiah and Mom related painfully embarrassing anecdotes about my childhood. From early toilet-training mishaps to my brief but mortifying kindergarten crush on Miss Romper Room, Mom trotted out them all with total recall—egged on by an inebriated truck driver and The Woman I Love. Gamely I smiled and tried to think of it as a celebrity roast.

I was made even more uncomfortable when Sheeni took a Camel from Jerry. It pained me to think of those carcinogenic tars sullying her perfect pink lungs. It saddened me even more to contemplate her Parisian future amidst hordes of nicotine-stained, debauched Frogs. At least I will be there to defend her honor and insist we sit in the nonsmoking sections at artsy Left Bank cafes.

For dessert we all decided on the specialty of the house: chocolate cheesecake. It was nice, but a bit on the heavy side. Only the men finished their huge, 3,000-calorie slabs. Jerry also cleaned up Sheeni’s and Mom’s. But, of course, he has a gut to keep in tone.

By then I was practically comatose, but the other three perked right up when the band started to play. This was a C&W quartet: Ginny and the Country Caballeros. Ginny was fat, 50, and flat (musically only). She sang and played the guitar. Backing her up were three skinny, middle-aged guys who looked like they could have constituted the day shift at the local Shell station. They commanded fiddle, drums, and accordion.

To my horror, couples at tables around us started getting up and drifting toward the dance floor. Like most 14-year-old white youths, I have a morbid
fear of being compelled to dance in public. I prayed Sheeni shared my sentiment. Alas, she did not. First Mom and Jerry got up. Then Sheeni took my hand and led me toward the dreaded Platform of Public Humiliation.

Except for the extremely pleasant sensation of Sheeni’s firm breasts against my chest, the experience was a nightmare. When it comes to dancing, I have no talent, no training, and no rhythm. I was also cold sober (unlike my partner), and was acutely aware that my rival in love had doubtless already proven his Terpsichorean mastery. It did not improve my concentration to imagine them clinched cheek to cheek (and, even worse, chest to chest), gliding gracefully across some Ukiahan ballroom.

So we danced. Sheeni danced like gay prewar Paris. I danced like the German Army retreating from Stalingrad. And then, finally, the struggle came to an end. We were out in the cool night air—walking arm in arm toward our waiting Lincoln. Jerry was singing, the Corn Dog Queen was whistling, Sheeni was humming, and I was immensely relieved.

In the dark back seat, Sheeni planted a long, ripe one on my lips. She tasted of tequila, cigarettes, and chocolate—a provocatively volatile mixture that ignited my nervous system. I longed to take her right there—even with my condom expired and my mother seated three feet away. I gasped as her exploring hand found the bulge in my trousers. “What about Albert?” she whispered.

“Just go along with anything I say,” I whispered back. She gave my throbbing T.E. an assenting squeeze.

I reluctantly removed her hand and leaned forward. “Mom,” I said, “Sheeni and I have been talking, and she’s willing to give up Albert if it will help me get in the Olympics.”

“You don’t say!” exclaimed the tipsy Corn Dog Queen. “You’d do that for Nick, Sheeni dear?”

“Uh, yes, Mrs. Twisp. I guess I would,” said Sheeni.

“Oh, that’s marvelous, Nickie,” replied Mom. “Sheeni, we’ll take good care of your dog.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Twisp,” said Sheeni. She looked wonderingly at me.

I smiled and kissed her. Trent, I thought, you are history.

Jerry was in no condition to be driving anything larger than a golf ball, but soon we were lurching safely to a stop in front of “My Green Haven.” Sheeni said good night, and gave Mom and Jerry a hug. The latter also swiped a kiss, which the surprised recipient later confided to me had been of the most intimate French variety. I added that to my long list of wrongs to be avenged.

I escorted Sheeni home. We have a donut date for tomorrow morning, but this was to be our last few moments of (comparative) privacy. As we walked arm in arm past the darkened trailers glinting silver in the warm moonlight,
I explained Albert’s metamorphosis from generic ugly mutt to glamorous, Olympic-caliber Tonzello sports dog.

“You are a genius,” exclaimed Sheeni, laughing. “An absolute genius!”

I said it was nothing, but, in truth, these were the very words I had always longed to hear from the lips of a beautiful woman. And I was only 14! Some men wait a lifetime and die never having heard those sweet syllables.

In the deep shadows under Sheeni’s trailer awning, our eager bodies joined in unrestrained passion. Cautiously, I tasted her hot lips, happily detecting not a trace of the vile truck driver. Soon, we were exploring the erotic limits of the human kiss. My tongue found her tongue, her teeth, her molars, her gums, her uvula, and even dislodged an unchewed morsel of sea bass. As I was attempting to introduce my right hand into her dress, a light came on in the trailer and the door opened. Looming in the doorway was Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother.

“Sheeni,” she croaked, “is that you?”

Sheeni smoothed her hair and strolled over into the pool of light.

“Yes, Mother,” she said calmly. “I’m here with Nick.”

“Let’s see this young heathen.”

Sheeni motioned me over. I gulped and edged into the light. “Hello, Mrs. Saunders. Nice to meet you.”

“I doubt that very much,” said the bathrobed crone. “I’ve been discussing your case with Mrs. Clarkelson. Her reports are most unsettling. I fear for your immortal soul, young man.”

“Nick is a very sweet boy, Mother,” said Sheeni. “He’s agreed to adopt Albert.”

“That is no step toward spiritual redemption. That dog should be stabbed through the heart with a silver dagger one hour before the cock’s crow on a moonless night.”

Even for Albert that seemed a bit extreme. I was at a loss for a reply. Sheeni shook my hand. “Good night, Nick. Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Uh, good night, Sheeni,” I said. “Good night, Mrs. Saunders.”

“Look into your soul, young man. Before it’s too late!”

“OK, I will,” I said, edging toward the gate. I waved to Sheeni as she entered the towering trailer. Pale and expressionless, she didn’t wave back.

When I got back to our trailer, I was surprised to see Albert outside tethered to the patio shed. He tugged glumly at his leash and barked. Inside was another surprise. Mom was still cleaning up the mess. Someone had gone systematically through the trailer ripping down and destroying the art. Scattered across the floor were shards of broken glass, chewed pieces of plastic frames,
and torn bits of three-dimensional apostles. Oddly, the vandal had spared the one piece of secular art: a 3-D portrait of a pale, overfed Elvis.

“Look what your horrible dog did!” exclaimed Mom, gingerly picking glass out of the rag rug.

I tried not to panic. “How could Albert have done that? They were way up on the walls! He’d have needed a stepladder.”

“All the doors and windows were locked,” declared Jerry.

“That dog is going back to Sheeni in the morning!” announced Mom.

Rising alarm. “Aw, Mom. He’s just a puppy. He’ll learn. I’ll watch him!”

“No!” said Mom.

Horrors, the dreaded parental “no.” I floundered for a life rope. “I’ll keep him outside. I’ll make him a doghouse in the back yard!”