Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (11 page)

“
You famous guy,” said Bernardo, slapping me on the back.

“
This is most unfortunate,” said Sheeni.

“
It’s a disaster,” I replied. “I’m going to strangle that idiot Bonnet!”

My Love sighed and studied the photo.

“
I’m surprised they published such a homoerotic image,” she added.

“
What do you mean?” I demanded.

“
Check it out yourself, darling.”

I grabbed the paper and inspected it closely. An unfortunate lighting flare had highlighted Piroque’s requested padding. I appeared to be sporting a fairly spectacular T.E., presumably induced by homosexual dwarf grappling. How acutely embarrassing. Now all of Paris thinks I’m some kind of deviate dwarfophile.

3:46 p.m. My life as celebrity janitor goes on. Many tenants smiled and waved as I carried down their trash. Babette winked at me as she strolled off with Alphonse. The ladies of the wig salon gathered in the lobby and gave me a spontaneous ovation. Gratifying, but couldn’t they have waited until my newly mopped floor had dried? Señor Nunez thanked me for the free publicity, but complained that the caption hadn’t mentioned his name or profession. I said I had nothing to do with it and thought he had a legitimate beef. When I returned from walking Maurice, Mr. Hamilton looked at me with new respect and excused me from further baggie inspections. Exploiting my new prestige, Madame Ruzicka sent me on errands throughout the neighborhood. Only her lovely niece seemed suddenly restrained in her amiability. Lugging down Reina’s birdcages, I realized there was no way I could attempt to explain that bizarre photo without sounding like a complete degenerate. One simply does not broach the subject of theatrical crotch padding with France’s comeliest virgin.

“
I look forward to seeing your video,” she said softly, when we finished loading her car.

“
It’s awful,” I sighed, not looking at her. “I only did it for the money.”

She gently touched my arm. “Take care, my friend.”

“
You too,” I replied.

She does get under a guy’s skin. Even her birds are warming up to me. No one’s tried to bite me lately and this afternoon Zuza said, “Hi, Rick! You’re cu-u-ute!” I wonder who taught her that?

TUESDAY, June 8 — Another middle-of-the-night phone call from a distraught Connie Krusinowski. She has met my sister Joanie and nephew Tyler. She encountered the new mother and Brobdingnagian infant at the county jail. They were visiting Sheeni’s brother Paul.

“
What!” I exclaimed. “My sister doesn’t even know the guy.”

“
She does now, Rick. Paulo saw the article about her in the Times and sent her a congratulatory card, signed ‘your brother-in-law Paul Saunders.’ So she looked him up. Christ, Rick, your sister’s throwing herself at my Paulo!”

“
Now, Connie, don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know that.”

“
I saw all the obvious signs, guy.”

“
Relax, Connie. My sister’s not that attractive. Paul would never go for her.”

“
Don’t bet on it, Rick. All men subconsciously seek women capable of bearing children to perpetuate their genes. That’s why they’re attracted to wide hips and big boobs. So there she is flaunting her fecundity by showing off that monstrous baby. She’s single, available, and has already proven she can deliver the big genetic package. I could sense Paulo was smitten. And God knows she’s in desperate need of a husband.”

“
Connie, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“
That Tyler is no molehill, Rick. He’s a giant fucking freak! Besides, all women are attracted to guys who are incarcerated.”

“
They are?”

“
It’s a proven fact, Rick. Why else do you suppose all those murderers on death row receive so many marriage proposals? That’s why you need to call your sister and tell her to lay off my Paulo.”

“
Connie, be reasonable.”

“
Listen, Rick, I’ve always been on your side. I stuck my neck out for you. But if your relatives start butting into my life, I can turn on you—fast.”

“
Connie! You’d dime me to the feds?!”

“
I don’t want to, guy. That’s why you have to get your damn sister to back off.”

I never got back to bed. I sat there cursing on the toilet in the closet, then dialed my sister’s number in L.A. She answered on the third ring and seemed reasonably pleased to hear from me.

“
Joanie, what’s that disgusting slurping sound?”

“
I’m breast-feeding Tyler, Nick. He’s got a big appetite.”

Total telephonic gross-out. Still, I persevered. I conveyed, in no uncertain terms, Connie’s message. My sister was not impressed.

“
So that rich bitch doesn’t like me visiting her boyfriend, huh? Too bad for her. Nickie, why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend had such a cute brother? And what’s this I hear about your getting married?”

“
Yeah, we got hitched in Tijuana. We’re living down in Mexico now. I’m having tacos every meal. Joanie, you’ve got to forget about Paul. He’s not the marrying kind, and he doesn’t dig chicks with children.”

“
So what’s the real reason you want me to give him a pass?”

As usual, my sister could see through me like a fluoroscope.

“
Joanie, Connie is threatening to squeal on me to the feds.”

“
You have the nicest friends, Nick. Not to mention you married a girl who already ratted on you once to the cops.”

“
How did you know about that?”

“
Paul told me.”

“
Well, it was all a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean to.”

Joanie sighed. “OK, Nick, we might be able to work out some kind of a deal.”

Foolishly, I hadn’t anticipated sibling extortion.

“
What sort of a deal, Joanie?”

“
Not that you’re interested, Nick, but our mother goes on trial next month.”

Unwisely entrusted with a gun by Lance Wescott (my repulsive cop stepfather), my homicidal mother was under arrest in Oakland for plugging him in the groin.

Joanie continued, “Things are looking bad, Nick. Lance’s reconstructive surgery has failed. The guy’s pretty irate.”

I could see where he might be, what with now being more capon than cop. That will teach the guy to cross Nick Twisp. I healed from the beating he gave me, but now he’s facing a lifetime of sitting down to pee. Serves him right.

“
What’s Lance doing, Connie?”

“
He’s put Mother’s nice new house on the market. And his nasty old mother just got custody of little Noel.”

Noel Lance Wescott is my baby brother, who I recently dropped on the floor.

“
But Lance isn’t even the father!”

“
His name’s on the birth certificate. That’s proof enough for the stupid judge. I pity poor Noel being in the clutches of that family. So we need more money for Mother’s lawyers. You have to send us another $25,000.”

“
What!”

“
I know you’ve got the money, Nick. At least your wife does. So send me a check and I’ll lay off her charming brother. And have fun in Paris.”

“
Did Paul tell you we were here?”

“
Paul doesn’t have to tell me a damn thing. Send me the money!”

I said I would see what I could do and rang off. Damn, why are Twisps such treacherous weasels? It’s no wonder I try to steer clear of my family as much as possible. Now I have to extract 25 grand from my loving wife. I might as well try to raise the Titanic!

11:25 a.m. After Sheeni left on a cultural mission to the Musée Marmottan Monet, I subjected our apartment to an intensive Power Snoop. More thorough than a normal snoop, it demands great exactitude in returning every article to its original undisturbed state. One bra strap slightly misaligned in her lingerie drawer is enough to arouse the suspicions of my vigilant spouse. In an internal pocket of her French typewriter case, I discovered this recent letter from Trent Preston:

Dear Sheeni,

It was so nice to hear from you at last. Thanks for having the foresight to send your letter to my place of employment. You were correct in supposing Apurva might misconstrue any correspondence between us. I’m pleased to hear you made it at last to Paris. I envy your opportunities for cultural enrichment there as I load concrete bags on trucks and deal with the petty annoyances of high school in Ukiah. Still, Apurva is doing her best to make me happy and we are struggling to make a go of it. We’ve had a setback lately from an incident involving another woman and some unfortunate missteps on my part while under the influence of marijuana.

Sorry, but I must respectively disagree with you re: your marriage. Even if your documents were not in order and some deception was involved, you stood before a judge and exchanged vows with another person. This cannot be dismissed as lightly as you suppose. I say this even as I must confess that I heartily disapprove of your choice in marriage partners.

Forgive me if I overstep the bounds of friendship here, but I think you should consider that any child you might bring into this world would doubtless be an exceptional person. I believe this to be true even if the father was indeed that disreputable N. Twisp.

[Thanks a pantsful, Trent!]

In the long run (perhaps the very long run) the choice for you that might entail the least regrets would be to have the baby and give it up for adoption. I’m sure a worthy couple in France would be delighted to love and raise your beautiful child. I know that in the short term this choice would involve considerable hardship and sacrifice for you. Naturally, I will support and respect any decision you choose.

I have heard from your parents and know they believe you to be somewhere in Mexico. They are frantic with worry, but were somewhat relieved by the information they received from Tijuana of your marriage. Although it is not in my nature to deceive people, I will do as you request and further in any way I can the general impression that you are residing south of the border.

Apurva’s doing well and our baby’s development is right on track. It really is thrilling to watch his little heart beating on the scope. Such a miracle. Perhaps someday he’ll have a chance to meet your daughter. I think that would be wonderful.

Do keep me posted on your experiences in that great city so far away. We think of you often.

Love,

Trent

An alarming missive. Not only has Sheeni removed her wedding ring, apparently she’s been dissing our union to Trent as a sham. Can her prejudice against Mississippi run that deep? Is it my fault that it’s the only state that sanctions teen marriage? Hard to believe, but I hope she takes Trent’s advice to heart. For a change that muscle- bound poet was making considerable sense. Not that I’m about to let some grasping Frogs adopt our kid. Very distressing that she’s writing him behind my back. And why such low regard for the institution of marriage—hers and Trent’s?

Prolonged Power Snoop failed to turn up any bankbooks, statements, or account registers. Only one thing to do. Must search Sheeni’s cavernous purse—always an enterprise fraught with peril.

WEDNESDAY, June 9 — A tumultuous morning. Several oblique allusions in bed to “Parisian heat” and “sweaty hair” propelled my offended wife into the kitchenette to bathe in our tin tub. Just the chance I was waiting for. I grabbed her purse, dumped its contents on the bed, and was immediately assaulted by a nerve- wrenching electronic wailing. My heart zoomed past coronary alert phase as my wife—naked and dripping—dashed in, exclaimed in surprise, and fished a small pen-like device from the pile. She pressed something on it, and the wailing ceased.

“
Just what do you think you’re doing!?”

“
Uh, sorry, Sheeni, your purse spilled.”

“
Liar! Snoop! Asshole!”

“
Darling, I can’t believe you’ve booby-trapped your purse.”

“
Don’t call me darling. Alphonse gave me this alarm-pen to guard against gypsies on the Métro. Just what were you looking for, slimebag?”

“
Sheeni, honey, I need $25,000 from my Wart Watch funds.”

“
What for? And stop ogling me, you pervert.”

It was true she looked even more alluring than usual garbed only in moist goose bumps.

“
Sheeni, love, I talked to my sister yesterday. She’s uh, been in contact with Mario and Kimberly, my Wart Watch partners.”

“
They owe us more royalties.”

“
Well, yes they do. But they’ve had some cash flow problems because of all the knockoffs. Anyway, they have a new concept ready for marketing and they need some tooling-up funds.”

“
What’s the concept?”

“
The concept? Uh, right. Well, it’s pretty confidential.”

“
I’m not investing anything until I hear the concept.”

“
Of course not. I understand. OK, the concept is, uh . . . metallic teeth.”

“
What?”

“
Well, they’re not real teeth. They’re kind of fake teeth. Kids just put them in for decoration. The effect is quite startling.”

“
I don’t get it.”

“
That’s the beauty of the concept, darling. They’re way ahead of the curve here. It seems their marketing research has shown that the oral cavity is the last great untapped region for bodily ornamentation. Teeth bleaching and tongue piercing are just the first harbingers of the coming wave of total mouth embellishment.”