Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (25 page)

Rerouting and patching the cables took about an hour. While he was at it, Wally put in a new triple wall switch and wired in an AC to DC rectifier and a 12-volt transformer. He is certainly handy with tools.

That done, Wally resumed cutting. When at last the restless blade bit through the final inch of pencil line, Wally put down the saw and gave the wall a gentle push. It swayed indecisively, then fell slowly back and crashed to the floor. As the clouds of plaster dust settled, a neat Chevrolet-shaped portal to the dining room was revealed.

After lunch, Wally jacked up the car and, with much grunting and heaving, we pushed it into the cutout—stopping when the wall was neatly centered between the wiper blades. Already, it seemed to me, the living room looked so much less cluttered.

Next, Wally patched the seams between Detroit sheet metal and Oakland plaster. In both rooms he applied drywall compound and paper tape to the joints, smoothing everything neatly until the wall and car blended together seamlessly. While that dried, I masked the car windows, handles, trim, bumpers, and tires.

“Nick, would you by any chance have some leftover wall paint?” asked Wally.

“Sure,” I replied. “Out in the garage. There’s at least a gallon or two.”

“Uh, get it,” said Wally, almost assertively. He was much less shy when he was doing something masterful.

I rollered on the paint while Wally completed the final wiring connections. Rust, dings, camouflage coloring, unsightly road tar—all disappeared under gleaming off-white latex. Only the hood required an extra coat to obliterate fully that prophetic message “Pay up or die!”

We were just moving the last of the furniture back into place when Mom arrived home from work. Tired, dirty, sweaty, we stood beaming as she gazed dumbfounded at our handiwork.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mom.

Wally flipped a wall switch. The Chevy’s taillights began to blink.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Mom.

Wally flipped another switch. The headlights beamed on, shining bright circles on the opposite wall.

“Far out!” exclaimed Mom.

Wally flipped the final switch. The car radio flickered on; Elvis was singing “Love Me Tender.”

“Oh, Wally!” exclaimed Mom. “You’re wonderful!”

For once, I had to agree with her.

THURSDAY, September 27
— I just got my official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove back. Plus the rest of my impressive sports equipment collection. Officer Lanced Wreckedcock showed up with it and all the other burgled items while we were having breakfast. Thank God in the excitement no one thought to inquire why my jock-related losses had gone unreported.

Poor Wally had to sit there meekly drinking his coffee and staring at his shoes while the big-mouthed cop boasted of how he cracked the case. The confessed criminal is none other than 18-year-old unemployed dropout Leon Polsetta from down the block. Even though I always sensed Leon was destined for a life of
crime, I received the news of his arrest with regret. When I was nine, Leon took me into the garage and introduced me to an entertaining activity called beating off. He also patiently answered all my eager inquiries about sex, illustrating his lectures by pulling down his kid sister’s pants to point out areas of interest. Leon also told me a dark secret: he had sneaked into the garage once and watched his big brother Phil get it on with Joanie. I knew my sister once “went steady” with Phil Polsetta (today a successful radiator brazer), but I’ve never managed to work up the courage to ask her if it was true she had her first sexual experience leaning up against Dad’s old Subaru.

Unsettlingly, Mom was clearly impressed by Lance’s detective genius. She didn’t even object too much when Lance called Wally’s masterful remodeling job “a gross eyesore.” All Wally could do was seethe inwardly and restrain Albert, squirming with eagerness to clamp on to a juicy cop ankle. “Let go, Wally!” I mentally telepathized, but my silent entreaties fell on deaf ears.

As Mom and Lance flirted outrageously, I found little consolation in the fact that Wally had spent the night. The bedspring creakings had been alarmingly short-lived and constituted the only auditory evidence of sexual activity. I must find a way to loan Wally my copy of
Lovemaking for Advanced Gourmets
. Clearly, the guy needs help in this department. I only pray his shortcomings are in technique, not in equipment.

After the loathsome cop finally left, I moved quickly to repair the damage. “Gee, Mom,” I said, “I see where two of your favorite films are playing at the UC Theater tomorrow night.”

“Which ones?” she asked suspiciously.

“Hair
and
Woodstock,”
I replied. “Why don’t you and Wally make a night of it?” Hard to believe my rigid, uptight, cop-loving mother had once frolicked through the sixties a quasi flower child. As far as I can tell, the only vestige of that liberated decade that had persisted into middle age was her tendency toward multiple sex partners.

“I’d like to go, Estelle,” declared Wally wimply.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mom. “Officer Wescott might want me to testify against Leon.”

“The trial won’t be for weeks,” I said.

“OK, I guess so,” said Mom unenthusiastically.

“Swell,” said Wally, hugging Albert in his immense pink arms. “It’s a date. You want to come too, Nick?”

“No, thanks, Wally. I know three’s company. You two have a nice romantic evening. I’ll find something else to do.”

Anyway, François has something planned for tomorrow night. Something ruthlessly Belmondoesque.

Although my shoulder was feeling much better, I didn’t want to risk a relapse by subjecting it to the pressures of contemporary public education. So I skipped school and rode my bike down to the library. I didn’t stay long. Some sadistic kindergarten teachers had organized a field trip; the building was overrun with screaming five-year-olds. Even the homeless were fleeing in droves. I checked out one book,
Safe Driving for the Modern Teen
, and came straight home. I’m not sure I really qualify as a “modern teen,” but the librarian didn’t object.

As I was biking home, I stopped to chat with fellow truant Patsy Polsetta, whose prepubescent privates I formerly studied. Little Patsy is maturing rapidly. She now wears a grimy bra and smokes Lucky Strikes. As we talked I found myself wondering if she’d care to visit the garage again with me (just for old times’ sake). But not even François had the nerve to ask her.

Patsy disclosed how her brother Leon was brought to justice. Her mom found his burgled stash and called the cops! The only detective work Lance Wescott had to do was track down the Polsettas’ doorbell when he came to arrest Leon. And even then, he probably knocked. Mom will certainly hear of this.

I read my driver education book in the front seat of our new modular wall unit: Jerry’s dead Chevy. This gave me a chance to simulate all the highspeed maneuvers (labeled “Bad Habits of the Immature Driver”) condemned by the book’s prim authors. I now know how to peel out and lay rubber. I also know how to be discourteous, drive offensively, fail to yield the right-of-way, ignore warning signs, and travel in excess of posted speed limits. Perhaps this is the book Dad studied when he was learning to drive.

After dinner, Lefty checked in by phone. Everything is set for his date tomorrow with Millie. Mom and Wally’s movie starts at 7:05. At 7:30, the ardent teen couple arrives at Nick’s We-Pay-No-Rent Love Emporium. They find the lights romantically dimmed, Frank softly crooning “Songs for Clandestine Lovers” on the stereo, bedcovers thoughtfully turned down, Albert demurely tied up in the basement. Second movie lets out at 10:25. Satiated teen couple to depart Nick’s Passion Pit no later than 9:50. Nice evening is had by all.

“What are you going to be doing?” asked Lefty.

“Oh, I think I’ll ride up to Skyline and watch the sunset,” I replied.

“Well, we’re still going to check the closet for Peeping Toms,” he said. “Millie told me she doesn’t trust you.”

“Don’t forget to look for hidden cameras,” I added sarcastically.

“She’ll probably do that too,” Lefty replied. “It doesn’t matter that much to me, Nick. But with a body like hers, Millie really can’t be too careful.”

How true, I thought. How excruciatingly true.

FRIDAY, September 28
— So far so good. No boyfriends slept over last night, though Lance Wescott called this morning while Mom was in the shower. I told him Mom had instructed me to inform him that she never wished to speak to him again. Furthermore, I said that she was now engaged to Wally Rumpkin, who has agreed to adopt me. “From now on you may address me as Nick Rumpkin,” I said. Lance replied by stating precisely how he would choose to address me. I don’t think it’s proper for a police officer to employ such language—especially with impressionable minors.

Mom is still distracted. She spent a frantic half hour after breakfast turning the house upside down searching for the keys to the Lincoln. She never did find them. So she had to drive her old Buick to work. To her credit, Mom was unaware that François had sneaked the keys out of her purse last night and concealed them in the thumb cavity of his official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove. Nonetheless, an organized person would have had the foresight to keep a spare set in reserve.

Later, as I passed the Polsettas’ house on my way to the Chevron station with Dad’s old gas can, little Patsy was out front decarbonizing the cylinder block of Leon’s Harley. She seems to attend school as infrequently as I do. She looked up, pushed back a wisp of black hair with one greasy hand, and flicked the ash off her cigarette with the other. I prayed the solvent she was using was not explosive.

“Hi, Nick,” she said, “better get out of here fast.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Ma bailed out Leon and he’s looking to pound your ass.”

“Why?” I exclaimed. “I haven’t done anything!”

“He says you made him turn to stealing. Having all those neat gloves and bats and shit, and never using any of them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I replied.

“Maybe, maybe not. But you’re in deep trouble, Nick. Leon said this morning he’s going to castrate your cop-kissing balls. He’s got a knife too.”

“Thanks for the warning, Patsy,” I called, hurrying down the street. I could feel the targets of Leon’s ire quivering in my pants.

I took another, tortuously circuitous route back from the gas station. After stashing the full gas can in the trunk of the Lincoln, I closed all the drapes in the house and locked the doors. I also untied Albert and instructed him to attack anything that broke through a door. He yawned and trotted off to nap in the back seat of the Chevy. I just hope Leon doesn’t cut the phone line before he breaks in.

2:30
P.M
. No sign of Leon yet. François was getting cold feet, so I had to
remind him of the young woman whose love he was fighting for. Think of Sheeni up in Ukiah with odious Trent, I said.

“That asshole had better not cross me,” muttered François. “And that goes double for Leon.”

It’s a comfort having François around. Though I wish he were better trained in the martial arts.

4:15
P.M
. Leon Polsetta, his jailhouse pallor fixed in a menacing stare, just walked past the house. I wonder if I could appease him by making him a gift of my entire sporting goods collection?

6:05
P.M
. Mom gave me two dollars to buy dinner out. Where does she expect me to go, the Salvation Army soup kitchen? She and Wally just left for Berkeley to have an upscale, pre-theater dining experience at some sumptuous yuppie cafe.

François is impatient to get started, so I have to go now. The next passage I write will be the words of a bold youth in open revolt.

9:30
P.M
. Things are grim. Very grim. François is making a run for the Mexican border. I wish I could join him. I’m typing this as a conscious effort to keep my panic under control. And to leave a written record in case I should be killed or commit suicide tonight. Anyway, this is my side of the story:

After Mom and Wally left, I got the keys to the Lincoln and went out to hitch up the trailer. Problem number one. Mom had gone in Wally’s car and left her Buick in the driveway blocking the Lincoln. Naturally, she took with her the only set of keys. Cursory inspection revealed every door of the Buick was locked, the brake was set, the transmission was in Park, and the steering wheel was locked. Two tons of immovable steel were blocking my way, Lefty and Millie were due to arrive soon, and at any moment I could expect an assault from a crazed, knife-wielding felon. I decided to turn the problem over to François.

He fired up the Lincoln, backed it up against the Buick’s front bumper, and goosed the throttle. Tires spun against asphalt, metal ground into metal, the Buick’s insides clanged and clunked, but backward progress was achieved. François stopped when the Buick—its grille now extensively rearranged—was astride the sidewalk. This afforded the Lincoln a kind of Polish Corridor to the street across the front yard. By backing into the yard and maneuvering laboriously over the landscaping, François was able to swivel the Lincoln 180 degrees and back it up the driveway toward the trailer. Not bad for a first-time driver.

By now, Mr. Ferguson had come out to see what all the commotion was about. “What are you doing, Nick?” he inquired mildly.

I tried to think of a logical explanation. “Uh, we’re going camping tomorrow and Mom asked me to hitch up the trailer. Can you help?”

“Sure,” he replied.

While Mr. Ferguson made cryptic hand signals, François struggled repeatedly to back the Lincoln’s hitch ball under the trailer’s socket. Finally, as tempers and bumper chrome wore thin, union was achieved. Mr. Ferguson cranked up the trailer jack and I plugged in the wiring cable. The rear of the Lincoln sagged contentedly under its familiar burden.

“Aren’t you supposed to connect those chains too?” asked Mr. Ferguson, pointing to two short lengths of chain dangling from the trailer A-frame.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, unfastening the shackle and linking the chains firmly together. “There, that’s that. Thanks, Mr. Ferguson.”