Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (22 page)

“Well,” sighed Dad, “I guess we could do it on a trial basis. But don’t bring too much of your stuff—in case it doesn’t work out. And I need your mother’s OK too.”

“Great! Dad, you won’t regret this.”

“I doubt that,” he said, “I regret it already.”

What a prize-winning asshole. Still, he did say yes. But his consent was so tentative, I dared not mention Albert. I’ll just have to cross that canine when
I come to him. At least, it shouldn’t be hard getting Mom’s consent. At this point she should be thrilled to be rid of such an incorrigible truant.

2:30
P.M
. WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! I have been stabbed in the back by a mother’s wanton lust! Here is the shocking conversation:

“Great news, Mom! Dad is moving to Ukiah and he says I can come and live with him.”

Mom slams down box with new car radio. “Oh yeah? Well you can just forget that idea, buster!”

“But, Mom! Why?”

“I’m not going to go through this alone. You’re going to help me!”

Nick scratches head in confusion. “Help you do what, Mom?”

Mom fumbles in purse; Wally ponders ceiling. “Go upstairs and look in Joanie’s room!” shouts Mom. “Here’s the key.”

Distressed, alarmed, puzzled, Nick races upstairs, unlocks door, stares into room in horror. Pink walls, frilly curtains, framed scenes of bunnies and lambs, toys scattered about, big crib in center. Only one conclusion is possible: Joanie IS PREGNANT BY A MARRIED MAN! Oh, the shame! The inconvenience!

Nick races downstairs. “Mom, when’s Joanie having her baby?”

“Don’t be stupid,” declares Mom, “Joanie’s not pregnant. She’s been on the pill since she was 12.”

“Then who…” Nick stops as dreadful realization dawns. “Mom! It’s not…you!”

“Who else, buster?”

“But, but…you’re… old!”

“Oh yeah? Well, some men don’t think so. Right, Wally?”

“Er, that’s correct,” states giant.

Nick collapses on stairs in shock.

Second jolting realization: PROBABLE FATHER IS JERRY, LATE KING OF THE MORONS!

Third alarming realization: NAME OF THE PUTATIVE HOUSEKEEPER, AU PAIR, AND GENERAL BABY-CARE SLAVE: NICK TWISP!

Fourth horrifying realization: FUTURE PROSPECTS FOR NICK/SHEENI RELATIONSHIP: VIRTUALLY NIL!

Fifth paralyzing realization: NICK’S LIFE IS NOW AND LIKELY TO REMAIN A LIVING HELL!

10:30
P.M
. All is black. Too depressed to write. Hateful enceinte mother just barged into bedroom with telephonic message from Lefty: “Mrs. Honus Wagner had a snack on third base.” Happy, at least, that friend is progressing in love.

MONDAY, September 17
— Stayed home all day. Have not killed self yet.

TUESDAY, September 18
— Stayed home all day. Refuse to speak to despicable mother. No progress on suicide front.

WEDNESDAY, September 19
— Stayed home all day, except for trip to doctor instigated by hateful mother. Doctor says youth is depressed, recommends counseling. Hateful mother says, “He’ll snap out of it.”

THURSDAY, September 20
— Stayed home all day. Hateful mother suspends 30-day lockdown; 60-day grounding remains in effect. Still stay in room except when harangued by hateful mother to come to meals. Do not eat. Look gaunt, but lack of food improves skin condition. Hear voices downstairs. Go down to investigate. Hateful mother is having tea and cookies with Officer Lance Wescott of Oakland PD! Wally Rumpkin not in sight.

FRIDAY, September 21
— Stayed home all day, despite continued haranguing by loathsome mother. Try to write farewell letter to Sheeni, but can’t find words. Hateful mother comes home from work in cheerful mood, gets dressed up, goes out for evening with surprise date: Officer Lance Wescott of Oakland PD. Hapless Wally on road to Iowa.

SATURDAY, September 22
— Early
A.M.:
wake to sounds of hateful mother screaming. Attribute vociferation to sexual ecstasy. Wonder if energetic intercourse safe for fetus. Hope not.

Hours later: surprise large naked cop gargling in bathroom. Looks like partially shaved bull. Could feed family of six for long winter. Pendulous testicles hang down halfway to knees. Cop not bashful, says: “Hi, Nick. You know what you need, kid? A swift kick in the keister. And I’m just the fella to do it.” Contemplate pilfering naked cop’s service revolver and shooting everyone in sight (commencing with him). Pass loathsome mother in hall. She says, “Oh, Nick. Officer Wescott may be dropping by early to ask us some more questions about the crime.” Which crime is that: Fornication? Betrayal of Wally? Corrupting the morals of a minor?

Half hour later: small, ugly black dog bites Officer Lance Wescott in left ankle. Possible motive: avenging wrong against Wally. Only light bleeding. Hateful mother swats dog with newspaper, invites bellowing policeman out for brunch. Invitation not extended to son.

10:15
A.M
. The phone rang, I answered it, and God switched the sun back on. It was Sheeni. She’s in San Francisco with her parents!

“Darling, I was worried sick!” exclaimed Sheeni. “Nothing’s happened to Albert, has it?”

“No,” I replied, “I’ve been stabbed in the back. By my mother. She says I can’t move to Ukiah.”

“But why, darling!”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Who’s pregnant?”

“My mother.”

“Your mother! But your mother’s old!”

“She’s ancient,” I agreed. “But she’s still knocked up.”

“Let that be a lesson to us all,” said Sheeni. “Who’s the poppa?”

“Old moldering Jerry, one presumes. Meanwhile, her new boyfriend’s out of town, so she’s shanghaied yet another guy into her bed—a fascistic cop. Even for this family, it’s all amazingly sordid.”

“You don’t say, Debbie,” said Sheeni. “Yes, I would love to get together this afternoon. Why don’t I take BART over and meet you in downtown Oakland around one? We could do lunch.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I’ll meet you in front of city hall.”

“Great, Debbie,” said Sheeni, “and do bring that dear black friend of yours.”

Lunch with Sheeni! Suddenly, I was ravenous. Five days without food. What was I thinking of? But what smooth, virtually zit-free skin to bring to those intimate embraces. Oops, instant T.E. Life is looking up!

7:30
P.M
. A whole afternoon and part of an evening with The Woman I Love. What an exquisite day—even if there was hell to pay when I got home. Mom didn’t buy it that I’d been taking Albert for a six-hour walk. She came dangerously close to flying off the handle again. Doesn’t she realize how damaging these tantrums are to young Jerry Junior? Of course, the kid is facing many, many years of life with Mom. So perhaps it’s best that he come into the world with that first layer of emotional scar tissue already formed.

I was a half hour early and Sheeni was 15 minutes late—ample time to work myself into a state of near nervous collapse. When she finally appeared, the adrenaline rush almost killed me. I’d forgotten how excruciatingly lovely she is. She strode toward me in the bright sunshine in a pale blue sleeveless dress the color of her eyes. She had a white cashmere sweater slung over her tanned shoulders and a big canvas bag under her arm. She was also wearing her patented Sheeni smile: quizzical, ironic, faintly bemused.

Fortunately, Albert went ape-shit when he saw her, so I had several seconds
to compose myself before she transferred his doggie germs to my famished lips.

“Hi, Nickie,” said Sheeni, “miss me?”

“It’s been years,” I stammered.

“Decades,” she replied.

“Centuries.”

Sheeni frowned. “Centuries, I fear, may be transporting us to the realm of hyperbole.”

We had lunch in a small Thai cafe selected for its authentic Third World atmosphere, cleanliness, and prices. Sheeni chose a booth by the front window so she could coo and wave to lonely Albert, tied up outside. “Do sit beside me, Nickie,” said My Love, sliding over in the tiny booth. I squeezed in beside her. Slowly, the unexpected shyness I felt in her presence was beginning to thaw.

Over spiced coffee and lemon-grass chicken we caught up on all the news.

“How long are you in San Francisco?” I asked.

“Only today, I regret,” said Sheeni. “Father and Mother are here to interview a new minister for the congregation.”

“What happened to Rev. Knuddlesdopper?”

“Canned, I’m afraid,” she replied. “There was another incident in the men’s shower room. Mrs. Clarkelson’s faction waged an intensive letter-writing campaign among the church hierarchy that finally bore fruit. Knuddy has been defrocked.”

“Happens to us all sooner or later,” I leered.

“Alas, much later than some people anticipate,” replied Sheeni.

I sighed. “Damn that Jerry. There should be compulsive sterilization laws for morons like him.”

“I’m amazed your mother wants to go through with a pregnancy at her age,” said Sheeni. “It seems to me a timely miscarriage at this point would be greatly beneficial to everyone concerned.”

“Well, I have thought of loosening some treads at the top of the stairs.”

“Too Hitchcockian,” said Sheeni. “Strategies like that never work in real life. Chances are someone else would fall and then you’d be tormented by remorse. Or you’d forget and trip yourself, and then be paralyzed for life—probably from the waist down.”

“That would certainly be inconvenient,” I agreed. “Well, what can we do?”

“How about a reconciliation between your father and mother?” suggested Sheeni. “The entire family happily reunited in Ukiah.”

“Out of the question,” I sighed. “They hate each other—as well they should. Besides, Dad only goes for younger women.”

“Yes,” said Sheeni, “I’m told all work came to a complete halt at
Progressive Plywood
yesterday when his friend Lacey dropped by. She certainly made quite an impression on Trent.”

I didn’t like the wistful way Sheeni lingered over that despised name. “You sound like you’re jealous,” I observed pointedly.

“No one enjoys being replaced in the affections of former sweethearts, Nickie. Think of how you’ll feel when I marry François.”

“Who’s François?” I demanded.

“My future French husband,” she replied. “I’ve had a presentiment that he will be named François. It came to me while on mushrooms.” How I hate that ethereal, drug-induced Frog!

After lunch, Sheeni, Albert, and I took a long stroll around Lake Merritt. I held her slender hand and wondered if I could live with the name François Dillinger. It was better than Nick Twisp, but not by much.

We came to a pleasant hillside overlooking the lake and lay down in the warm grass. Sweating joggers trotted by on the path above us; below us, a few paddleboats churned across the polluted green water. In a minute, Albert was noisily asleep. I leaned over and kissed the future wife of François. My sense memory confirmed they were the same sweet lips I had tasted in Lakeport.

“Oh, Nickie,” sighed Sheeni, “what are we going to do?”

As we lay on our sides facing each other, I could peer past the neckline of her dress and see a pink nipple nestled in white lace. I have tasted that part of her too, I thought, and felt a deep thankfulness that the world permits such miracles. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m getting pretty desperate. Last week, my mother tore up one of your letters.”

“That’s awful,” said Sheeni. “And my parents are questioning the sudden boom in Debbie Grumfeld correspondence. They’re extremely suspicious. I had to take a holy oath it was she I was visiting today, not you.” Sheeni lay back and looked wistfully up at the sky. “If only, Nickie, you were a tad more rebellious.”

I sat up. “What do you mean!” I demanded. “I’m extremely rebellious! I’ve cut every single day of school so far except one. I’m in deep shit with my mother at all times. I’ve had my allowance and privileges suspended. I always accept the charges when you call collect. What do you want? Grand theft? Drug smuggling? Political assassinations?”

“Nickie, you’re ranting like my father.”

“Well, I thought we were going to be revolting together. I don’t see you racking up any forbidden calls on your parents’ phone bill!”

“You’re entirely correct, Nickie,” said Sheeni, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “I’ve shown an unconscionable lack of contumacy. Perhaps it is my middle-class upbringing. I’ll endeavor to do better. It just seems to me that if
your behavior were unrestrainedly insubordinate—and I know that is asking a lot from one so virtuous as you—your mother might eventually be persuaded that life without you is preferable to life with you.”

I had to admit she had a point there. “What exactly should I do?” I asked.

“Nickie, darling,” said Sheeni, “you must become a rebel. Yes, even an outlaw. I propose you rent the film
Breathless
as soon as possible. You must emulate Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

“But our VCR was stolen,” I pointed out.

“Then steal one yourself!” replied Sheeni.

Of course. What a liberating concept!

As the setting sun dyed the sky a vivid magenta, we resumed our walk around the lake. Sheeni was under strict parental orders to return no later than five, but—in a willful act of filial rebellion—she delayed her departure until after six. As we said our farewells outside the BART station, Sheeni kissed me nearly as fervently as she did Albert. “Be good, Albert,” called Sheeni. “And, Nickie, be bad. Be very, very bad.”

“I will, darling,” I replied, choking back the tears as The Woman I Love descended the escalator and disappeared again from my life. “I will!”

SUNDAY, September 23
— Another night interrupted by through-the-wall bedspring gymnastics. Officer Lance may be even more frenetically rabbitlike in his mating than the oversexed Jerry. I can only pray he is similarly predisposed to life-shortening heart disease.

As I lay awake in the dark, I decided one of François’s first tasks will be to rid the house of all uniformed policemen. To overcome the inhibitions that compel me to be law-abiding, polite to elders, and excessively “nice,” I have decided to create a supplementary persona named François. Bold, reckless, contemptuous of authority, and irresistible to women, François is just the sort of atavistic sociopath who can wage and win a war of nerves. In my new split personality, François is the side with the calculating intelligence, itchy trigger finger, and
cojones grandes
.