Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (13 page)

“Poor Lefty,” said Mom. “I wonder why he did it?”

“He was a troubled teen,” I said sadly. “His parents wouldn’t let him keep a nice dog he found.”

Mom’s face was a mask of guilt. “I’ll get dinner started,” she said, “you sit there and relax, Nickie.”

8:45
P.M
. After a nice steak dinner, I sneaked out to take Lefty another tuna salad sandwich. Someone whispered my name. It was Mr. Ferguson lurking in the bushes.

“Nick!” he called, sotto voce. “I think there’s someone in your trailer. They plugged into my outlet.”

I thought fast. “Uh, I know, Mr. Ferguson. It’s, uh, refugees. From Central America.”

“Fleeing political oppression, I expect,” said Mr. Ferguson sympathetically. Although he doesn’t look particularly subversive, Mr. Ferguson was once on J. Edgar Hoover’s list of radical communist anarchists. Politically he was still somewhat to the left of Fidel Castro. “What can I do to help, Nick?”

“Well, Mr. Ferguson. I’m not much of a cook…”

“Say no more, Nick. I’ll bring them some food. How many are there?”

“Just one,” I replied, “and his dog.”

“I’ll make some spicy beans and rice,” said Mr. Ferguson. “And some nice tortillas.”

“Well, actually, I think he might prefer a hot dog and some potato chips. Maybe chocolate cake for dessert.”

Mr. Ferguson looked puzzled.

“Uh, Manuel,” I said, “is trying to become acclimated to this culture.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Ferguson. “I’ll bring it over in about a half hour.”

I told Mr. Ferguson that because Manuel was so paranoid about the INS, he should put the food down on the ground, knock softly on the trailer door, then leave quickly.

“Of course,” said Mr. Ferguson. “And what time does the brave lad want breakfast?”

“Early,” I said. “How about six?”

“Fine,” said Mr. Ferguson, retreating into the bushes.

What a swell neighbor!

Lefty, when I opened the door and crept in, was still deeply engrossed in
Penthouse
. “Good news, Nick,” he said, “My hard-on’s back!”

“Great,” I replied. “How’s the curvature?”

Lefty frowned and felt along the bulge in his trousers.” ’Bout the same, I’d say. Damn! I forgot to bring my vitamins.”

I gave Lefty the sandwich and told him to expect a nice meal in a few minutes. “But whatever you do,” I warned, “don’t let Mr. Ferguson see you. And if he tries to talk to you through the door, just reply in Spanish.”

“But I don’t know any Spanish,” said Lefty.

“Do your best,” I said. “Imitate Carlos.” Carlos was Lefty’s Mexican-American neighbor.

“That kid speaks dynamite Spanish for a three-year-old,” he observed. Lefty bit into his sandwich and tore off a piece for Albert, who greedily devoured it. Lefty looked thoughtful. “I wonder, Nick, if they found the note yet.”

“Oh, I expect so,” I said.

“I wonder if Martha is suffering.”

“I expect more than you even imagine.”

This cheered Lefty immensely. “Life is finally looking up!” he exclaimed.

I gave Albert an accelerated tour of the back-yard greenery, tossed him back in the trailer, and wished them both a good night. “Going to watch any more TV?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I might,” said Lefty. “Why?”

“It’s just that Mr. Ferguson asked that you go easy on his electricity. He’s on a pension, you know.”

“Oh, all right,” said Lefty. “What a cheapskate!”

9:45 P.M. I just got a phone call. It was Mitch Malloy in person! Somehow he found out I was a friend of Lefty’s and wanted to send over a film crew to interview me. I said I was too grief-stricken to talk and didn’t they have more important stories to cover. Then I asked him if it was true he was boffing Kate Cruikshank. He replied that was none of my business and hung up. Those news people are such hypocrites. Always exposing everyone’s dirt except their own.

11:30 P.M. Eyesocket-2-You News just hit a new low. All I can figure, it must be ratings week. First they did Lefty’s entire life story—full of shocking errors of fact like calling him an honor student. Then they had Kate Cruikshank live from the front porch reading a statement from Lefty’s parents. They said Lefty was despondent because he had recently been diagnosed with Peyronie’s disease. Don’t those idiots know how to read a suicide note? Or are they trying to spare their guilt-wracked daughter? Then Mitch Malloy, back at the news desk, did an in-depth report on Peyronie’s disease—complete with
X-rated diagrams. I hope, for Kate’s sake, it wasn’t Mitch who posed for the drawings. (I also pray Lefty wasn’t tuned in. He’d kill himself for sure.)

Mom, needless to say, was pinned to the screen with ghoulish absorption. “Honey, if you ever have any problems like that,” she said, “you won’t be afraid to come to me about it, will you?”

“Oh, of course not, Mom,” I lied.

FRIDAY, August 31
— 2:30
A.M.!
A ringing telephone roused us from our beds at this ghastly hour. I feared it was Mitch Malloy, hot on the scent of a counterfeit suicide. But they wanted to speak to Mom. It was Jerry’s dispatcher calling with shocking news. Jerry had a heart attack in a Dallas bar and took it rather badly. He died!

How unpredictable life can be. One minute, you’re swilling beer and being obnoxious. The next minute, you’re in front of St. Peter, answering for a lifetime of sexism, adultery, and odometer tampering. What a lesson!

Numbly, Mom asked when the body would be arriving. The dispatcher replied it had already been shipped. To Los Angeles. To Jerry’s wife!

Mom hung up, too stunned to speak.

That’s Jerry, I thought, a rat to the end.

6:00
A.M
. I heard Mom crying in her room last night. I guess she must be upset that Jerry passed on before she could tell him off. I hope this doesn’t make her late for work. I want to give Lefty an airing in the back yard this morning. We have to keep the brave lad’s spirits up. I figure it will take at least a week to inoculate Martha fully with guilt. What luck that Mr. Ferguson has volunteered to serve as caterer. I just saw him bring over a very nice breakfast tray—complete with daisies in a vase.

The
Chronicle
had Lefty’s story on page three, under the headline “Diseased Penis Sparks Apparent Youth Suicide.” More diagrams and this time the guy was much better endowed. Again, no mention of sisterly tormentors. When are the media going to take off their gloves and give Martha the pummeling she deserves? Thank God, the Coast Guard called off its search for Lefty’s body. I was beginning to get a little nervous about those federal tax dollars being consumed.

9:30
A.M
. Triple disaster! Mom decided she was too distraught to go to work. Then she dropped the bombshell that Joanie has agreed to fly up from Los Angeles and stay with her for a few days. And now Lefty looks like the “before” photograph in a fat-farm ad!

He said he could start to feel himself swelling up in the middle of the night. “It’s like my whole body was getting an erection,” mumbled Lefty
through swollen lips. “Except it feels kind of bad instead of good. I feel awful ’cause Al is such a terrific dog.”

Albert whimpered guiltily in a corner. Apparently the confined space of the trailer had concentrated the doggie dander until it reached critical mass. Worse, according to Lefty, the swelling won’t go down until all traces of dog are removed.

Lefty stretched out a fat arm and switched on the TV. Kate Cruikshank was doing a live report. Hurriedly, I flipped it off.

“Gee,” said Lefty, “that almost looked like my house.”

“Don’t be retarded,” I said. “We don’t have time to watch TV. We have to make plans.”

“Why can’t Al and I stay here?” asked Lefty. “The eats are great. And I don’t mind too much being swelled up.” His pneumatic features, I noticed, lent him a vaguely Oriental appearance.

“Because my sister Joanie is coming home tonight,” I replied.

“So what?” asked the rotund youth.

“So Joanie,” I replied, “is Queen of the Snoops. One look at me and she could tell I was hiding something. Then she’d look at my left eyebrow and know it was something in the back yard. Then she could see from my right nostril it was a runaway hiding in a trailer. Then, from a twitch in my left earlobe, she’d deduce it was a fat 14-year-old with curvature of the dick and an allergy to canines. There’s no hiding anything from Joanie.”

“She should be a detective,” observed Lefty.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “From the string of losers she’s gone out with, it appears I’m the one and only male she’s ever figured out.”

We lay on the cool trailer floor, inhaling dust mites and pondering our next move.

“Lefty,” I said finally, “how would you like to go visit Sheeni in Lakeport?”

“Up at Clear Lake? Great!” he replied. “Can I take Al?”

“No. But you can take his bed.”

3:30
P.M
. I just put Lefty, his grip, and Albert’s pee-stained bed on the bus to Lakeport. I borrowed the fare from the obliging Mr. Ferguson, who even chipped in 40 extra dollars “for the brave lad” (which I, needless to say, immediately pocketed).

Sheeni was nothing less than magnificent when I telephoned. She even claimed to be sorry to hear about Jerry. (Women can be such forgiving creatures!) She immediately grasped the Lefty dilemma and proposed a brilliant solution. Her parents are delighted they will soon be hosting a visit by a Bible exchange
student from Burma named Leff Ti. He’s from Burma because, as Sheeni pointed out, “No one has the slightest knowledge of or interest in that country.” She promised to keep Lefty swelled up from dog dander and away from TV and newspapers. “He’ll want to go to all the services, of course,” Sheeni observed. “Fortunately, as the congregation is still divided, there are twice as many as before.” For his part, Lefty promised to speak halting English, demonstrate at least some pretend piety, and keep his fat mitts off my girlfriend.

Meanwhile, once again I am left holding the proverbial dog leash.

4:30
P.M
. Mom said I can keep Albert! She even helped me make a bed for him in the back seat of Jerry’s dead Chevy. I fear she may still be so distraught she doesn’t know quite what she’s doing. She certainly looks like hell. In fact, she didn’t even inquire how Albert happened to turn up. (I was going to suggest a miraculous homing instinct had guided him on an incredible journey.) Anyway, the loathsome mutt is in for now. As a prophylactic measure, I have removed from the house all items of an even vaguely religious nature.

6:30
P.M
. The tragic story of Lefty is becoming stale news. All Mitch Malloy had to say was one brief sentence, noting the body still hadn’t been found. Meanwhile, Kate Cruikshank did a tasteful live report from a local cemetery, solemnly concluding their weeklong Eye Opener Report on teen suicide by panning across the headstones as a lone bugler played “Taps.” This set off a gusher of tears from Mom. I never knew she cared that much for Lefty.

Uh-oh, the cab just pulled up with Joanie. I must try to make myself inscrutable.

10:05
P.M
. Joanie and Mom are talking in her bedroom. Fortunately they’ve been closeted together since Joanie’s arrival, sparing me a sisterly inquisition. Joanie has a new haircut, a new hair color, and a new figure (padding? cosmetic surgery?). I don’t know, but she looks terrific. I only hope her new look is attracting a better class of men.

As I write this, my best friend is going to sleep under the same roof as The Woman I Love. I would gladly sacrifice my left nut to be able to trade places with him. I know that is a common expression, but in this case, I actually mean it. My left nut!

SATURDAY, September 1
— Where did the summer go? You’re 14 only one summer of your life and now for me it’s almost over. Already, I am feeling nostalgic for my transient youth. Of course, another part of me would just as soon fast-forward to age 21. I’d have money in my pockets, freedom to do as I
please, and a beautiful young wife. Best of all, I’d have squeezed my last oozing zit. There’s a furuncle erupting on my chin right now that looks positively life-threatening. Against my will, every five minutes I am drawn to the bathroom—there to be newly revolted by the horror in the mirror.

Still, life (and death) must go on. I just got back from a sad and deeply moving memorial service for Lefty. I kept wishing he could have been there. He would have enjoyed it immensely. (Fortunately, though, it was all captured on videotape.)

Before the service, Mom, Joanie, and I went out to breakfast. Mom drove us in style in Jerry’s Lincoln. Starting the powerful engine, she announced, “I’m not giving up this car to that woman.” (Her term for Jerry’s surprise widow.) Joanie told her she should keep the trailer too. “I intend to,” said Mom. “Jerry bought it just for the two of us. That woman can buy her own damn recreational vehicle.”

I asked Mom if I could drive the Lincoln when I turned 16.

She replied she had been thinking about it and had decided that when I get my license, if I’ve kept up my grades and haven’t become a crack addict, she was going to give me Jerry’s old Chevrolet.

Great! If I ever get it running, I can play bumper cars with the sofa. “Wow, gee,” I said, “I’m truly underwhelmed.”

Joanie turned around angrily and said if I really wanted to help Mother in her time of need, I could start dismantling “that eyesore.”

“No, thanks,” I replied, “auto mechanics is not where my ambitions lie. I think you must have me confused with Phil Polsetta and your other high school boyfriends.”

Joanie was going to reply, but decided, for Mom’s sake, just to seethe inwardly. Then, in the restaurant, she started peering at me suspiciously over her waffles. “You’ve been up to something, Nickie,” she said. “I can tell. What have you been doing?”

I decided the best defense was a good offense. “What have
you
been doing?” I demanded.

“What do you mean?” asked Joanie nervously.

I puffed out my chest.

Joanie blushed. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she replied, “but I’ve taken a class to improve my posture.”