Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (20 page)

“Yes,” replied Sheeni. “Didn’t I tell you? He turned up last weekend. Six years without a word, and then he walks in while we’re having breakfast and asks for his toast medium brown. He’s living out in the studio over the garage.”

“Where was he all that time?”

“Maybe Tibet. Or Nepal. He’s not very coherent at the moment. He mostly talks in a language that sounds like Mandarin Chinese, but is not. Too bad Leff Ti isn’t here. Perhaps it’s Burmese.”

“You don’t think he could get the job?”

“Not likely,” said Sheeni. “Father, of course, is twisting arms—including Paul’s. Paul had an interview with Trent’s father and said he was more interested in plywood than anything else in the world except spiritual nirvana. His résumé also displays some troublesome gaps in employment. Therefore, I should have to rate him the weaker candidate—even if he has been supplying me with some wonderful psychedelics.”

“You’ve been taking drugs?” I exclaimed in alarm.

“Just a few mushrooms, darling,” replied Sheeni. “Nothing heavy. They’re wonderfully mind-expanding. I’ve put some aside for us to take together. In the interim, I suggest you read
The Doors of Perception
by Aldous Huxley.”

“OK,” I said doubtfully. “Just promise me you won’t get addicted to crack before I get a chance to move to Ukiah.”

“I promise,” said Sheeni, laughing. “You know why I like you, Nick?”

“Why?”

“You’re such an adorable throwback. A relic of a bygone epoch.”

“I’m as hip as the next cat,” I protested.

Sheeni laughed. Her wonderful, lyrical laugh. (The most addicting drug I know.)

WEDNESDAY, September 12
— Another stimulating day at the library. I found the Huxley book and read it most of the morning. Its pages were heavily annotated by generations of drug groupies. Al may have achieved brilliant insights through chemistry, but the evidence left by his acolytes suggests this is not always true. Still, he makes a persuasive case, so I am keeping an open (though as yet unexpanded) mind.

In the afternoon I photocopied the
Consumers
article on condoms and wrote a long, penetrating missive to Sheeni. Having the resources of the library’s reference department at hand makes this task somewhat easier. At one point, all five staff members were at work tracking down allusions for me. I enclosed the prophylactic rating sheet with the letter, remembering to address the envelope in the flamboyantly cursive hand of Debbie Grumfeld. Then it was home for another evening of oppressive grounding with Mom and Albert.

After dinner, while I was watching TV, Mom came in and demanded to know why I wasn’t upstairs doing my homework. I replied that I didn’t have any to do.

“Why not?” asked Mom.

“Public schools don’t give out homework,” I replied.

“They don’t?” she asked, surprised.

“No. Too many teachers were getting beat up. So they stopped assigning it.”

“Then how are you supposed to learn anything?” demanded Mom.

“What’s to learn?” I replied. “You don’t have to know algebra to sell crack.”

“Watch your smart mouth,” retorted Mom. But was that guilt I saw flickering across her countenance?

THURSDAY, September 13
— Dad got the job in Ukiah! Sheeni called collect in the morning while Mom was upstairs in mid-puke.

“Everything’s working out beautifully,” said Sheeni. “Of course, Father is livid. But Paul is accepting his rejection philosophically.”

“When does my dad start?”

“Next Monday, believe it or not. Trent’s father is going to help him look for housing today. And they’ve given him some plywood samples to study over the weekend.”

“Wow, that’s great! Now all I have to do is get him to agree to let me live with him.”

“And darling Albert too,” reminded Sheeni.

“Oh sure.”

“How does your father feel about dogs?” she asked.

I tried to think. It seemed to me that Dad disliked all life forms except under-20, braless, sexually uninhibited human females. “I’m not sure he likes them very much,” I admitted.

“Damn,” said Sheeni. “If I’d known that, I would have had Trent’s father specify dog ownership as an employment condition. I suppose now it’s too late.”

“Well, I can probably persuade him. I’ll tell him you need a dog for protection in the country.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said. “Yes, Dolores. The French test promises to be most exacting. Perhaps we shall be able to get together next week to study.”

“That is my greatest hope,” I whispered.

“Goodbye, Dolores,” said Sheeni. “Say hello to your dear black friend for me.”

Right as I hung up, the phone rang. It was Lefty. He was preparing for his hot date tomorrow and wanted some advice on what brand of condom to swipe after school. I told him the name of the brand recommended by
Consumers
and asked him to pick up a dozen or two for me as well. He said in the course of boning up for his date, he asked his sister to describe the seduction techniques employed on her by Carlo, her Italian waiter, but she refused, calling Lefty a “truly degenerate dweeb.”

I had another pleasant, uneventful day at the library until 3:30
P.M
. when fat Rhonda Atari lumbered in. She spotted me, smiled inanely, and steered her flab in my direction.

“Hi, Nick!” she beamed, docking against a table. “Have you been sick?”

I replied I was in the best of health, thank you.

“I got worried when I didn’t see you in school,” said Rhonda. “Especially when Mrs. Tiffin didn’t call your name in homeroom. I was afraid you transferred. Turns out it was all just a computer error.”

“What?” I asked, startled.

“Yes,” smiled Rhonda. “I asked Mrs. Tiffin to check and she discovered that Mr. Orfteazle had hit F5 instead of F7 on his computer. You almost got left off the enrollment! It’s all fixed now, though.”

“Thanks a pantsful,” I muttered, noticing with alarm that someone had written “Nick” inside big red hearts all over the notebook Rhonda was clutching to her massive bosom. I prayed I was not the only Nick of her acquaintance.

“Will I see you in class tomorrow, Nick?” Rhonda inquired coquettishly.

“If my brain tumor permits,” I sighed.

“Your brain tumor!” she exclaimed. “I thought you said you were fine.” “I am,” I replied. “Except for my malignant brain tumor. It’s the size of a grapefruit.”

Rhonda screamed. Fat girls can scream quite loudly. It must be that extra-big resonation chamber.

5:30 P.M. Wally Rumpkin is back. I came home to find him stretched out on the floor under Jerry’s dead Chevy with a wrench in his hand. The big sap has volunteered for automotive disassembly duty. I can’t believe he would go to all that work just for the privilege of hanging around my mother.

“Hi, Wally. How’s it going?” I said, peering under the rusty Nova.

Wally peeked out, blushed, then examined the muffler as if he had never seen one before. “OK, Nick,” he mumbled, “It’s a hard…”

He was interrupted by Albert, who lunged at him in the semi-darkness and planted a wet, juicy one full upon the lips. Evidently Albert has worked through his shyness toward Wally.

Wally put down his wrench and gently pushed Albert away. “Now, doggie, I’ve told you not to do that.”

“Here, Albert!” I called.

As usual, the repellent canine ignored me and—dodging right, then left—landed another deep, probing kiss on the supine truck driver. Again, Wally pushed him gently away. “Doggie, you’re going to have to stop that.” Albert kissed him again.

“Looks like he likes you,” I observed.

Wally slid out from under the car, sat up, and studied a door handle. “Maybe I’ll work from the top down,” he said. “I wasn’t having much luck under there anyway.”

“The bolts aren’t loosening?” I asked.

“Not a single one,” he sighed.

Just then, a canine torpedo catapulted out from the passenger window and slammed tongue-first right on target. Wally recoiled from the salivatory assault.

If I didn’t dislike that mutt so intensely, I’d wonder why he seems to like everyone except me.

9:45
P.M
. Mom and Wally are downstairs listening to a ’50s radio station and petting in Jerry’s Chevy. Talk about recycling your déjá vu. I went down to get a book a while ago and all the car windows were steamed up. Even through the mist I could tell some buttons were awry. Why don’t they just come upstairs, go into the bedroom, and screw? I certainly would.

Speaking of sexual union, for the first time I am allowing myself to believe that I may soon be living in Ukiah. My brief week with Sheeni seems now almost to have been a dream. Slowly, the “realness” of our days together is draining away. If only she would write to me. One of the great teen stylists of the age and all she can do is pen one measly (though masterful) letter.

So, while millions in this great metropolis happily copulate, I am left to experiment with different handgrips, manual lubricants, and stroke speeds. Thus, the solitary teen chips away at the Mountain Range Called Desire.

FRIDAY, September 14
— I went into the bathroom this morning and there was Wally Rumpkin in the buff, combing his fine baby scalp flocking. No, curiosity seekers, all of his bodily parts are not in proportion. Flaccidly speaking, I’d say I’ve got at least three-quarters of an inch on that giant. No wonder the guy can’t look you straight in the eye.

Wally turned red, let out a squeal, and dived behind the shower curtain. I apologized and hastily shut the door. Why such girlish modesty? Maybe Mom told him I was gay.

Returning to my room, I passed Mom in the hall. “Oh, Nick,” she said, “Mr. Rumpkin may be dropping by for breakfast this morning.”

“OK by me,” I replied. “As long as he puts some clothes on first.” I smiled innocently. After all, it’s none of my business she’s an easy lay.

Then at breakfast Wally proved he could eat an entire bowl of Cheerios without once removing his eyes from the ceiling. At least he doesn’t slurp hideously like Jerry. In her postcoital glow, Mom was actually nice to me. She even dragged out the waffle iron (unheard of on a weekday) and made pecan waffles. Of course, the ever-laconic Wally had some too. While we dined, Albert nuzzled Wally’s ankles under the table—tugging down his socks so he could lick the bare pink flesh. The dog is either completely lovesick or about to evolve into a man-eater.

6:30
P.M
. The shit has hit the wind tunnel. Mom got the latest phone bill today. $107.36 in willfully disobedient collect calls from that suspicious number in Ukiah. Plus, Dr. Browerly mailed in his first payment demand—for $350. Then, in mid-harangue, the phone rang. It was Mrs. Tiffin, my homeroom teacher, inquiring of Mom how my brain tumor was and did she want my homework sent to the hospital or the house since I had missed four days of school. (Thank you, Rhonda the Rotund!)

With this fresh outrage, Mom totally lost it. She FLEW OFF THE HANDLE as never before. I thought for sure she was going to rupture an internal organ. She would have ruptured some of mine, but I fled the house when she picked up a floor lamp and started swinging.

When the screaming died down, I slunk up to my room. Here I sit awaiting final sentencing and execution. In my present grounded, privilege-deprived, penniless state what further exactions can be made? This is the great dilemma facing the modern parent. Once you’ve made your child’s life a living hell, what do you do for an encore? What’s next—ritual disfigurement?

8:15
P.M
. Mom just came up to impose sentence. In addition to the prior two-month grounding, I am now facing one month of confinement to my room. (It’s still unclear whether these sentences are to run concurrently; I was too afraid to ask.) For a full 30 days starting now I am not allowed out of my room except to go to the bathroom or to school. All spending money is frozen. I will be given a bag lunch to take to school and 25 cents for milk. In addition I am denied all mail or phone calls. My isolation is to be total. Yes, world, Hitler lives.

10:30
P.M
. The phone rang downstairs and I heard Mom answer it. A few minutes later she walked into my room. To my mother, knocking is something you do on your kid’s head, not on his bedroom door.

“I have a message for you from Lefty,” she growled. “He said to tell you Honus Wagner is safe on second base.”

Wow! Lefty got to second base with Millie Filbert on the first date.

SATURDAY, September 15
— Wally spent the night again. No screaming yet from Mom. I hope this doesn’t reflect poorly on his sexual performance. I could tell Wally slept over because Albert spent the night whimpering for his buddy outside Mom’s bedroom door. Perhaps, though, it’s only a case of puppy love.

By imposing such a tyrannical sentence, Mom has ironically turned herself into my servant. At 8:15 she was obliged to bring me my Cheerios, crumb donut, and orange juice on a tray. She glared at me, slammed down the swill,
and marched silently out of the room. What a termagant. Even in San Quentin the guards at least give you a grudging “hello.”

Mom has also forced on herself the burden of walking loathsome Albert, washing the dishes, cleaning the toilet, and mowing the yard—irksome tasks formerly palmed off on me. Serves her right!

11:15 A.M. Ear pressed tightly against the floor, I heard Wally downstairs suggest to Mom they go to a show of customized pickup trucks at the Cow Palace. Sure enough, five minutes later Mom barged in and said she was “going out for a few minutes.” (A lie! The Cow Palace is way on the other side of the bay.)

“Don’t you dare leave this room,” threatened Mom. “What about lunch?” I demanded.

“You can fix it yourself,” she replied. “While you’re at it, you can do the dishes, mop the kitchen floor, and clean the bathroom.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t allowed out of my room.”

“Don’t ask questions,” she yelled. “Just do as I say!”

The woman is a total Nazi.

As soon as I heard Wally and Mom drive off in Jerry’s Lincoln, I went downstairs. In the wastebasket under the kitchen sink I found a letter from Sheeni. Torn to bits! For this atrocity, Mom is going to suffer.