Revoltingly Young (11 page)

THURSDAY, July 21 – Like a branch of Niagara Falls on the trailer bed last night. Just the mention of W--------a sabotages my plumbing. Very embarrassing to have to sneak into Joanie’s laundry room this morning to wash my bedding. And my thumb looks like it passed the night plugging some dike in Holland.

Tyler so wanted to go with me today, but he had football practice. Why do those big guys have to practice so much just to run around and slam into each other? The appeal of that game eludes me, although I do appreciate the skimpy outfits on the cheerleaders. I took the bus to North Hollywood, then rode the Metro train to downtown. Yes, you can get around sprawling L.A. without a car, though nobody in their right mind does it unless they have to. As agreed, I hooked up with Veeva in front of the swanky Biltmore Hotel. She arrived by taxi from her Bel Air pad only 20 minutes late. I hate to think what that ride cost. She gave me a perky smile and a perkier kiss. I could get used to kissing that chick if I had the opportunity. She was dressed very stylishly in a pale gray ensemble that probably cost more than my entire lifetime clothing budget. It must be nice having rich parents (or any parents for that matter).

I was having second thoughts about the whole enterprise, but Veeva took my hand and led me down some grim side streets to the building matching George Twisp’s address. It was a dingy old redbrick residence hotel with some down-and-out types lingering out front. I was aggressively panhandled of all my change, then allowed to proceed into the building. The bearded and turbaned Indian man behind an armored grill in the dim lobby said Mr. Twisp was out, but mostly likely could be found in Pershing Square.

“
What does he look like?” I asked.

“
Just look for an elderly bald fellow with pigeons,” the man replied.

We retraced our steps and entered the park (across the street from the Biltmore) that we had crossed earlier. Veeva said Pershing Square had once been lush and beautiful, but in the 1950s they tore it up to build an underground parking garage and carted all the palm trees off to Disneyland for the Jungle Cruise ride. Now it was a bleak urban space with lots of concrete, a Legos-on-steroids fountain, and a monstrous purple bell tower that looked like something from another planet. Not the sort of place I’d choose to meet the man who engendered my being, but those were the cards life had dealt me. After a few minutes we spotted an shabby old guy sitting on a bench with three pigeons perched on his white-flecked shoulders. He wasn’t feeding them; they were just hanging out in the sun and cooing softly. I was all for walking right on by, but Veeva tugged me to a halt in front of him. I swallowed and cleared my throat.

“
Excuse me, sir,” I said. “Are you by any change George F. Twisp?”

He and the pigeons looked up at me suspiciously.

“
Who wants to know?”

“
Uh, I’m a friend of, uh, Nick . . . Nick Twisp.”

“
Then tell that son of a bitch his goddam check is late.”

“
Excuse me?”

The man took a swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag.

“
My check. I’m supposed to get it by the 15
^th
. It’s late. If I don’t pay my rent by the first, I’m out on the fucking street!”

The man smelled of booze, but was not obviously drunk. Of course, it was still early in the day. Teeth the color of old piano keys, with a few prominent ones missing. Was it possible my father did not own a toothbrush?

“
Actually, uh, Nick is in Prague,” I explained. “That may be why your check is delayed.”

“
In Prague? What’d that dirtball do–defect?”

“
Uh, I don’t think they have Communists over there any more. He went to a convention of jugglers.”

“
Do you mind if we sit down?” asked Veeva.

“
It’s a free country. Don’t sit too close. You’ll bug my friends.”

“
You enjoy pigeons?” Veeva asked.

The man stared at her defiantly. “What kind of question is that?”

An uncomfortable impasse; I tried to keep the conversation rolling.

“
Have you trained those birds?” I asked.

“
Nope. They trained me. They trained me to sit here and let them shit on me. Took a while, but pigeons are pretty patient. Do you have twenty bucks?”

I pulled out my wallet and handed my father $20. He slipped the bill furtively into a pocket and took another swig.

“
Would you mind answering a few questions about your son Nick?” I asked.

“
I thought you were buddies with him.”

“
Well, uh, I am, but he doesn’t talk very much about his past.”

“
Why should he? The kid was a total fuck-up from the get-go.”

“
How so?” asked Veeva.

“
Hell, he burned down half of Berkeley. Then he shot some fat lawyer. Then he kidnapped some girl that he knocked up and took her to France. The French cops nailed his ass though. Serves him right. Went to the slammer. I washed my hands of him.”

“
Yet now he’s supporting you,” Veeva pointed out.

“
The ungrateful bastard sends me a pittance when he feels like it. Man, I paid child support on that kid for years. He owes me.”

“
Don’t you collect Social Security?” I asked.

“
Shit no. Not old enough.”

“
How old are you?” I asked.

“
I don’t know. Sixty, I guess.”

Veeva and I exchanged glances of wonderment. The guy looked at least 75. So much for those Twisp anti-aging genes. Fortunately, I have always expected to die young.

“
I could have been a man of property,” he went on. “I was hooked up solid with a wealthy woman. Rita had the bucks big time. And she was nuts about me too.”

“
What happened?” asked Veeva.

“
Sabotaged by her damn dogs. A couple of nasty little Chihuahuas.”

“
They didn’t like you?” I asked.

He took another swallow.

“
Nope. And I always treated them like royalty too. A couple of runty mutts and here I sit in bird shit heaven.”

“
Did Nick get married to that girl?” asked Veeva.

“
He claimed he did. Fuck, the little squirt was only 14 at the time.”

“
Do you ever think about, uh, Nick’s brother?” I asked.

“
His what?”

“
His brother,” said Veeva. “Your other son. The one who lives in Nevada.”

“
He’s not my son. I’m not getting on the hook for another one of her goddam bastards. I paid all the fucking child support I’m paying.”

“
He may not be interested in your money,” I replied.

“
I prefer pigeons,” he said, tickling one of his companions under its beak. “They’re all the family I need.”

Veeva and I stood up.

“
I’ll e-mail Nick and remind him about your check,” I said.

“
You do that. And thanks for the loan. What’s your name, kid?”

“
Uh, Michael.”

“
Nice talkin’ to you, Mike.”

“
Take care, Mr. Twisp,” said Veeva.

“
Yeah, you too. And kick a Chihuahua for me.”

I didn’t feel much like eating, but Veeva took me to lunch in nearby Little Tokyo. We had miso soup and California rolls. I’m not sure Veeva ever gets any protein. We agreed my father was a sorry case, but that he had divulged some interesting information, if it could be believed.

“
I really think Nick and Sheeni
were
married,” Veeva declared.

“
How can a 14-year-old on the run get married?”

“
I don’t know, Noel. I’ll have to do some research on that. Do you think she was really pregnant?”

“
I don’t know. A smart girl like her doesn’t seem like the type.”

“
If she was, she must have had an abortion. They’re easy to obtain in France. Of course, it is an enlightened and civilized nation.”

“
I wonder who that lawyer was that Nick supposedly shot?”

“
That part I doubt, Noel. If he shot some lawyer, he’d still be in jail. My grandfather’s a lawyer and those guys stick together.”

“
Yeah, that’s true.”

“
You know, Noel, my grandmother is named Rita and raises Chihuahuas. She’s rich too, of course. And single.”

“
It’s a big world, Veeva. Even if what he said was true, I very much doubt my father was banging your grandmother. Though it’s a cross-family tradition we could start sometime.”

“
Cool your jets, Noel. I’m like total jailbait.”

“
Yeah, well I bet you wouldn’t say that to Tyler.”

She changed the subject.

“
So how come you didn’t tell him your real name?”

“
Ah, what’s the point? I met the guy. I satisfied my curiosity. OK, that’s that. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.”

“
No, he’s kind of a bastard. I’m glad you and Tyler don’t look anything like him.”

“
Yeah, me too.”

To contrast paternal heritages, we then discussed Veeva’s dad. He puts on concerts and owns his own record company. Too bad he only handles jazz musicians.

“
Well, it’s great that he’s so successful,” I said. “Seems like a tough business.”

“
It is. Daddy’s done very well, but of course, he’s never made much money at it.”

“
Then how come you’re living in the Taj Mahal?”

“
My mother’s loaded. That’s her one saving grace.”

“
Your father should sign the Pickled Punks.”

“
What’s that, Noel?”

“
A completely awesome band I heard in Hollywood. They’re fabulous.”

“
Well, I’ll mention your suggestion to him. Say, what was your grandmother’s news last night?”

“
Oh, nothing much,” I lied. “I think your father was a little out to lunch on that one.”

Veeva walked me back to the Metro station for our sad parting. Who knows when my next trip to L.A. will be? Nor was it likely she’d be stopping by Winnemucca anytime soon. We both agreed it sucks that I live on the back side of the moon. She gave me a hug and her warmest kiss so far. If anyone could make me forget Uma, it was that crazy chick. We seemed to connect on all bases–or at least I did. So we said good-bye, and I headed back to the Valley.

10:37 p.m. I just spent the last 45 minutes running my probing hand over a female form. This is very pleasant work if you can get it. Wylie and Awanee came over, and we took a cruise to nowhere with Tyler in the GTO. This is a compromise my nephew has hammered out with his parents. He’s allowed to entertain chicks in the car, but not in the trailer with its superior privacy and areas to stretch out. As a further inhibition against wanton acts, Tyler knows that any stains left on the GTO seats will be regarded as grounds for homicide by his stepdad. Steaming up the windows in the driveway, however, is permitted.

Awanee and I in the back seat broke through our reserve big time. She has quite a delectable body from what I can tell (and I could tell quite a lot). Very proficient kisser too. Toward the end she slipped a small but busy hand down my pants with explosive results. Much more satisfying than my own feeble efforts along that line. I was prepared to return the favor, but she kept her thighs tightly clamped. Anyway, I appreciated the experience and her willing spirit. At last I may have exorcized the ghost of Consuela, my doomed grammar school love. Not to mention a certain Nevada gum and mints purveyor.

FRIDAY, July 22 – On the bus east. Why is it that vacations always come to an end? It seems like I just got to L.A. Beautiful weather today too to make the parting even more poignant. Distant mountains now loomed where impervious smog once lingered. Clogged though it is, L.A. can still pass for a paradise in the sun when it tries. Bill had to go to work, but Joanie took me and Tyler out for a farewell breakfast. She apologized for not being able to get in touch with my dad. I assured her it was no big deal and not to bother in the future. Of course, I had told Tyler about our encounter in the park, but his lips are sealed. Awanee called while I was scarfing my pancakes, and I assured her I would keep in touch by e-mail. She seemed quite bummed by my leaving, but what’s a guy to do?

My sister gave me a souvenir t-shirt from Mariposa, California–a place neither of us had ever been, but she liked the butterfly design. She said I’m like a butterfly about to emerge from its cocoon and take wing. Could be, or it could just be a shirt she scored at a recent garage sale and it proved too small for Tyler. In any case, I thanked her for the gift.

Just passed the Nevada state line. You can always tell you’re in Nevada by the lunar landscape and absurd summer heat. The driver just reported over the intercom that the outside temperature is 112 degrees. I don’t know how people out here coped in the days before air conditioning. Of course, no one ever moved here who wasn’t a bit batty in the first place.

SATURDAY, July 23 – Back home in my trailer hovel. It doesn’t look any better after a week’s absence. I’m trying not to imagine Uma sitting at our rickety table and contemplating my gnarly home environment.

Veeva called bright and early (11:30 a.m.). She’s convinced the only solution is for me to go live with my sister in L.A. This is doubtful for many reasons. Their house is quite small (only two bedrooms), so where would I fit in? Plus, I’m not sure I’d want to live perpetually in the shadow of my accomplished and handsome nephew. Tyler’s stepdad is pretty laid-back, but even if my sister agreed to take me in, she exhibits signs of being temperamental and high-strung. After all, she is a full-blooded Twisp. I told Veeva I’d give it some thought. She had other news as well. Surprisingly, her father has agreed to go hear the Pickled Punks. And she’s now convinced that my father and her grandmother were once lovers.