Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (12 page)

“Like peer embarrassment,” I replied. “That’s good for some prolonged and acute suffering. Or guilt. A nice heavy guilt trip can blight a life for years.”

“That’d be great!” exclaimed Lefty. “Can you do it, Nick?”

“I’m working on it,” I replied. And I think an idea, dare I say a plan, may be germinating.

When I got home, Mom was in the back yard emptying big industrial-size bottles of bleach on the grass. Mr. Ferguson had called her at the DMV office, and she had left work early (after arriving late). Fortunately Mom works for the state, which is always pleasantly surprised if its many employees manage to do any work at all. Unless she assassinates the governor (or they outlaw cars), Mom has a job for life.

She was livid. “Wait ’til that friggin’ truck driver gets back!” she exclaimed,
sprinkling a toxic rain—like the Goddess of Death—on the once-verdant weeds. “I’m tired of his goddam messes! I got a cesspool in the garden. His damn Lincoln in my driveway. A friggin’ Chevrolet in my living room. He can take his little motel playmates and they can all go straight to hell! I’ve had it!”

Finally Mom was talking sense. But why can’t she come out and say “fuck”?

“What the hell is this?” Mom had a stick and was poking something dead and ugly in the muck.

It was my erstwhile bedroom slipper. I pretended to study it with interest. “Looks like a drowned rat to me.”

Mom screamed and ran into the house.

TUESDAY, August 28
— Still no letter from Sheeni. Not even a doting postcard for her love child. For a literary person who claims to have written one million words, she is remarkably parsimonious with her epistolary prose. At this rate the
Collected Letters of Sheeni Dillinger
(I expect she will want to take my name after we’re married) will be a slim volume indeed.

I managed to excrete another intellectually scintillating missive to her last night. What a tremendously brain-bruising task! I fear I may have exhausted my known reserves of scholarly allusions. The next installment in our correspondence may have to be copied straight from the encyclopedia. It’s hell to compete in this league when you’re only 14.

The way I figure it, a quarter of my lifetime I was a drooling, preconscious vegetable. Another quarter I was functionally illiterate. OK, now I’m a bright seven-year-old and my idea of great literature is
Bucky Beaver Builds a Dam
. So say it takes three more years to work my way out of the children’s section. Four years remain. Now subtract one-third for sleep. In the few remaining months I have to go to school, do my homework, eat, get haircuts, watch TV, play video games, mow the lawn, have interminable father-son bonding experiences, squeeze zits, and ponder the mysteries of sex. Is it any wonder I’ve yet to read Dostoevski? Thank God I’m not athletic, I’d still be a total moron.

Yet consider the example of Trent: perspicacious scholar, star swimmer. Of course, he’s had the advantage of growing up in the white-hot heat of the ultimate intellectual goad. I speak here of My Beloved. If every youth had a Sheeni behind him, ours would be a nation of mental titans.

I’ve worked out a plan for dealing with Martha. It’s rather extreme, but the situation is dire. At 4
A.M
. last night Lefty’s tent blew down in a light wind—trapping him and Albert in the limp, musty canvas. The ropes showed
evidence of having been tampered with. Then at breakfast Martha complained to Lefty’s parents about Albert. She said she got a flea bite on her nose and now it’s infected. Lefty replied it was just a big, gross, ugly zit, and she kicked him hard under the table. So he emptied his cereal bowl down her brassiere. Now they’re both grounded, and Lefty’s been ordered to clean up the yard and get rid of the dog within 24 hours. He’s heartbroken because he says if he can’t keep Albert his life will be even more of a “living hell” than usual. Needless to say, I am also gravely concerned.

WEDNESDAY, August 29
— Mr. Ferguson just brought over a large manila envelope. Finally a letter from Sheeni! I swapped it for the latest issue of
Field & Stream
that had been delivered here by mistake. Mr. Ferguson said he would read it, then take it to the proper addressee. If our mailperson is going to be so ruthlessly incompetent, he could at least misdeliver a copy of
Playboy
or
Hustler
once in a while.

The thick weighty envelope contained not a multi-page outpouring of deep-felt affection and passionate longing, but several brochures on dog care and a short, businesslike note. Sheeni reports it weighs greatly on her mind that she must be separated from our dog during his “formative puppy years.” She wants me to keep a daily journal recording his “experiences, growth, and developing personality.” I’d sooner bite the heads off live garden slugs. She also wants me to buy a camera and take lots of photos “of darling Albert at play.” Instead, I think I’ll send her photos of “darling Nick at play” (with himself).

Sheeni also reports the Rev. Knuddlesdopper case has split the trailer congregation into warring factions. One camp, led by Mrs. Clarkelson, regards the pastor as a sinner beyond redemption. They’re agitating for immediate expulsion. The opposing camp agrees the reverend has sinned, but views him as “moving in the right direction.” They favor retaining their spiritual leader—but only if he “takes a wife as soon as possible.” Several of the older maiden ladies have volunteered for this perilous duty. No one can agree and the acrimony grows more bitter daily. Already, as the factions begin to assert territorial rights, some trailers have been uprooted and moved. Worse, Sheeni’s parents are divided, with her mother siding with Mrs. Clarkelson and her father favoring the moderates. “Life is full of confusion,” notes Sheeni, “it’s all quite stimulating.”

She concluded this torrid love letter with a tepid “Love to you and Albert. As ever, Sheeni.” So much for grand passion. And not even one intellectually challenging scholarly allusion.

Wait a minute. I just shook the envelope and out fell a small photograph
of an impossibly beautiful young woman. In an ovoid hand, it is inscribed: “To my dearest Twispy—all my love, Sheeni.” Once again, my heart overfloweth!

6:00
P.M
. Mom is depressed. Jerry was supposed to call from Dallas, but the phone refuses to ring. I think she’s anxious to tell him off. Meanwhile, I’m trying to lie low, as I’m the only living, breathing frustration outlet within these nervous walls. I wonder how childless people let off steam.

8:30
P.M
. Lefty has written the note and packed his grip. Operation Sibling Retribution commences at dawn tomorrow. By the way, he says Sheeni is one “stoking hot chick” with “great taste in dogs.” I fear I can only meet him halfway on that assessment.

THURSDAY, August 30
— A day packed with intrigue. I rose at 5
A.M
. and met Lefty and Albert at the donut shop at 5:30. Lefty was having second thoughts about the plan, but by plying him with Pepsi (his morning beverage of choice) and marshmallow-filled chocolate donuts, I was able to stiffen his resolve. Even though I had instructed him to bring the note with him, he said he left it on the camp table in the tent. “They’ll be sure to find it there,” he explained. I said that was fine, but in the future to leave all the brain work to me.

By 6:15 Lefty and Albert were holed up in Jerry’s trailer in my back yard. Of course, since their presence there had to be concealed, we couldn’t crank up the roof. This was no hardship for Albert, but Lefty had to crawl in on his hands and knees. I told him just to keep thinking about all the suffering he would be causing Martha. This seemed to cheer him up. “What’s that awful smell?” he asked. The back yard now smelled like a septic tank explosion in a chlorine factory. I told him not to worry, that the “slight odor” would obscure his scent in case his parents brought in bloodhounds.

With Lefty and Albert secreted, I rode my bike over to Lefty’s house and found the note in the tent. There was no mistaking Lefty’s childlike scrawl: “Dear Dad and Mom, I’m sorry but I’m going away forever. I can’t take it anymore. Tell Martha I forgive her. I hope she can live with her conscience.—Your desperate son, Leroy.” (It’s a good thing for parents their children can’t sue for emotional distress caused by abhorrent given names.)

I folded the note and put it in Lefty’s grungy backpack (veteran of countless shoplifting capers and itself acquired through a past five-finger discount). I also stuffed in his
WHO FARTED?
tee shirt and a couple more easily identifiable Lefty clothing items. Concealing the backpack under my sweater, I sneaked out of the yard and rode back home for breakfast.

Mom was still on the warpath. No word yet from the wayward trucker. She watched me sullenly while I ate my Cheerios. She was having the French
Legionnaire’s breakfast: black coffee and cigarettes. She told me to clean my room. I said OK fine. She told me to clean the house. I said OK fine. She told me to do the laundry. I said OK fine. She told me to watch my smart mouth. I said OK. Having no luck picking a fight, Mom drowned her cigarette in her coffee and left for work. If Jerry doesn’t call by tonight, I may have to run away from home too.

After checking on Lefty (he and Albert were napping on the trailer floor), I rode my bike down to the Berkeley waterfront. Only a few fisherpersons were out on the pier. I parked my bike, and—trying my best to look inconspicuous—walked with the backpack far out to the end of the pier. The morning fog still hung chilly and gray over the churning green water. Across the bay rose the shiny towers of San Francisco.

But I didn’t stop to sightsee. I opened the pack, put the farewell note in the top pocket, tossed the clothing into the bay, leaned the pack against a deck piling, and sauntered over to a pay phone beside the pier rest rooms. Inserting my quarter, I dialed 911. When the call was answered, I affected a Latin accent. “Hey, man. I jes’ saw some kid go off da end of da Berkeley pier!” The concerned policewoman wanted to know more, but I hung up, grabbed my steed, and pedaled off in overdrive. After a few blocks, I could hear sirens in the distance.

Of course, I should concede here that when Lefty wrote down the note I dictated, he did not realize he would soon be taking the extreme step of suicide. For his own peace of mind, I let him believe he was merely running away. These days, though, kids run away all the time and parents hardly seem to notice. I think they’ve all come to expect it. But suicide, even in these jaded times, still packs a considerable emotional wallop. I expect not even Martha will be able to laugh this one off.

1:30 P.M. I fixed Lefty a nice tuna salad sandwich and carried it out to him on a tray. He crawled forward out of the gloom and blinked in the sunshine streaming in through the open door. “I’m bored, Nick,” he said, taking the sandwich. “There’s nothing to do in here. The air’s kinda bad. I have to use the toilet. And I think Al does too.” Albert looked up and growled at me.

“No problem,” I said brightly. “Enjoy your lunch and I’ll see what I can do.” I found everything I needed in the garage. In five minutes I was back with an old black-and-white portable TV, three extension cords, and an empty mayonnaise jar. Lefty accepted the jar gratefully. “But what about Al?” he asked. “I don’t think he can go in a bottle.”

I replied that Albert would just have to hold it until I could take him for a walk after dark. I put the extension cords together, but came up five feet short
of the outlet by the back door. So, I sneaked through the bushes and plugged into Mr. Ferguson’s patio outlet. In the trailer, Lefty flipped through the channels on the TV. “I can’t get anything except Channel 2,” he complained. I looked in. Even Channel 2 was coming in poorly.

“Must be interference from the aluminum walls,” I said. “I tell you what. You watch TV for a while. Then I’ll bring you out a lamp and some of my
Penthouse
collection.”

“OK,” said Lefty, brightening. He and Albert settled down to watch
The Dating Game for Seniors
.

3:00
P.M
. I just cruised by Lefty’s house. Three police cars were parked out front. And a Channel 2 news van!

5:30
P.M
. Damn Kate Cruikshank! Damn Mitch Malloy! Damn the entire EyeSocket-2-You News Team! How was I to know this week’s Eye Opener Issue was teen suicide? Talk about playing into the hands of the media. They’re covering this story like Lefty was Elvis’ baby brother.

Thank God I had the perspicacity to get Lefty distracted with
Penthouse
before the news came on. I tried to confiscate the TV, but he threatened to set Albert on me. Fortunately, Lefty has never manifested the slightest interest in news, current events, or public affairs. He probably wouldn’t even sit through a news show.

At least “this unfolding tragedy” (Kate Cruikshank’s words) has had a salutary effect on Mom. After coming home and haranguing me for not cleaning my room, vacuuming the house, or doing the laundry, she got very quiet when Channel 2 launched into their maudlin sensationalism. Especially when the Berkeley psychologist being interviewed live from Lefty’s back yard said any teenager “was a potential suicide.” Mom glanced over like she was trying to see if I had any razor blades hidden in my pockets.

“Did, did Lefty seem depressed?” Mom asked.

“Well, I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “His parents were giving him a lot of grief. Always bugging him to clean his room.”

Mom gulped. “I know you must be upset, honey,” she said. “How about I fix you a nice steak for dinner?”

“OK, I guess,” I said. “Lefty always liked steak.”

“Did they find his body yet?” Mom asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “According to Mitch Malloy, the Coast Guard is still sweeping the bay for him. They did find his tee shirt, though. Mitch says his body may have been swept out to sea.”

“Oh, how awful for his poor parents!” Mom exclaimed. “Have they made a statement yet?”

“Not yet. But every few minutes Kate Cruikshank pounds on their front door. They did show Lefty’s sister Martha arriving home from a tennis match. She looked kind of glum, but she swung her racket at the camera and refused to comment.”