Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (30 page)

After a long chat about my childhood, school interests, hobbies, vocational aspirations, and impressions of Ukiah, we agreed that I would work about 15 hours a week for the not too exploitative sum of $4.65 an hour (higher, at least, than the minimum wage). I was also free to miss work occasionally when I had exams or school activities. “You might even find the work interesting,” said Mr. Preston, tall and distinguished. “Though I don’t think it held much appeal for my son Trent. I was always finding him holed up in the coffee room working on a poem. You don’t write poetry, do you, Nick?”

“No,” I said. And neither does your son, I thought.

“You’ll get to meet him at Christmas,” added Mr. Preston. “I’m sure you’ll get on great. You boys seem to have a lot in common.”

“I’m sure we do,” I assented. Specifically, Trent is interested in seeing me dead. I am interested in assuring that his violent death is preceded by ruthlessly merciless torture.

8:30
P.M
. After supper (microwaved TV dinners), I took Albert for a walk around the neighborhood in the warm blue twilight. The residents of our street tend to favor large dead cars as lawn ornaments. As I passed the shabbiest, most automotively littered bungalow, someone called “Hi Nick!” from behind the broken screen door. The door swung open and out bounded Dwayne, my provocatively breasted wrestling partner. His ripped tee shirt displayed one jiggling tit and that evening’s dinner menu: spaghetti, orange soda, and chocolate ice cream.

“Er, hi, Dwayne.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Walking my dog Albert,” I replied, briskly walking on. Dwayne matched me stride for stride.

“Neat dog!” he exclaimed. “Looks like a pit. Does he bite?”

“When provoked,” I answered laconically.

“I seen you eatin’ lunch with that spic today, Nick. I thought you was fastin’ for dis’marment?”

“Just on Thursdays,” I said. “And Vijay, for your information, is from India.”

“I think he should go back where he come from. Like all the rest of them for’ners. They take all our jobs and steal all our wimmen!”

I could understand the source of Dwayne’s prejudice. Clearly he faced a lifetime of scrabbling for dates and employment at the bottom of the pile. Still, I felt I should defend the principles of enlightened secular humanism.

“By and large, Dwayne, I think this country is enriched by its immigrants. I like Vijay and look forward to getting to know him.”

Dwayne looked at me wonderingly. “You hang out with that spic, Nick, and the other kids are going to despise you!”

“I’m not sure of that,” I replied. “And it wouldn’t bother me anyway.”

“Dontcha want to be pop’lar? I do!”

“I don’t care much one way or the other,” I lied.

“Gee, Nick, you’re kinda fresh. I think it’s zinky we live so close, dontchu?”

“Uh-huh,” I lied.

“Want to sleep over tonight? I got a tent in my back yard. Or Mom’d let us crash in the camper.”

“No, thanks, Dwayne,” I replied, shuddering. “I’m allergic.”

“To what, Nick?” he asked.

“Uh, to sleep. I have to stay awake 24 hours a day or I get hives.”

“Wow! Dontcha ever get tired?”

“No. I’ve adjusted.”

“Wow. I’m going to try that too. If I didn’t have to sleep, I could play Nintendo all night long!”

SATURDAY, October 6
— At last our lethargic postal person brought a letter from Sheeni. That’s the good news. The bad news is it was written in French. Every endearingly unintelligible word!

12:15 P.M. Our kitchen looks like Guatemala City on market day. Lacey is interviewing prospective housekeepers. I didn’t realize she
habla español
so ineptly. She looks even more poignantly alluring than usual struggling to communicate by hand signals and pidgin Spanish. Dad’s bilingualism is slightly more advanced. He keeps chanting
“No tengo mucho dinero.”
For all I know he may be linguistically equipped to be a cheapskate in all the world’s major languages.

I just called Vijay for some emergency Frog deciphering. Fortunately, there was just one listing for Joshi in the phone book. A female answered with the most exquisitely lyrical voice I have ever heard. She purred, “Vijay? Yes, I
believe he is here. Please wait a moment, won’t you?” Then Vijay came on the line and said he would be happy to translate a letter from “your remarkable Sheeni.”

2:30 P.M. Vijay motored over on a flashy red mountain bike I would give Dad’s left testicle to own. I wonder how many
Progressive Plywood
letters I’d have to type and file to buy a bike like that?

“What a fantastic stepmother you have,” he exclaimed as we went in my room and closed the door. “Why is she wearing such a revealing swimsuit? Do you have a pool?”

I replied that Lacey dressed that way to stay cool and she was my dad’s girlfriend, not his wife.

“Then they are living together,” he whispered. “How racy! You are lucky to have parents who are open-minded. Mine are so straitlaced.”

“Yes, Dad’s a real bohemian,” I lied. “Say, Vijay, who was that who answered your phone?”

“My sister Apurva. She’s 16.”

Apurva! A name as beautiful as the voice. “Is she pretty?” I asked.

“She certainly thinks so. She’s always pouting because Father won’t let her go out with American boys.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He doesn’t trust them—or her. He says she has to stay pure and marry some nice Indian boy. I don’t think she wants to, though.”

“Stay pure or marry some nice Indian boy?”

“Neither,” declared Vijay. “But I expect she’ll do as she’s told. My father is a tyrant on that subject, you see.”

“Can you go out with American girls?”

“Of course,” he answered. “I just better damn well not want to marry one. Now, where is that letter?”

I waited impatiently as Vijay, smiling and chuckling, silently scanned Sheeni’s letter. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “Sheeni is so clever. And her French is superb. It really is unfortunate you can’t read it. My translation will never do it justice.”

“Do your best,” I urged.

So laboriously, with much stopping and backtracking, Vijay plodded through the letter, turning Sheeni’s “superb French” into a confusing muddle of English. It appears that she is excited by her new school and finds her classmates and teachers much more stimulating than at Redwood High. She is also enjoying the total immersion in French. English cannot be spoken on campus “even if you are hemorrhaging from an accidental limb amputation.” At first she wasn’t certain she was prepared for the challenge, but now believes it is
the only sensible way to acquire real language fluency. Her partial escape from parental bondage is also extremely liberating (not excessively, I hope). She has an interesting roommate from New York named Taggarty, who—though she is only 16—has already lived in London, Florence, Barcelona, and Paris. As further proof of her precocity, she already has slept with 17 guys and hopes to rack up 50 before college.

“I must meet this girl,” leered Vijay.

Sheeni and Taggarty have been exploring Santa Cruz and find it not without its cultural attractions for a “small, provincial American city.” They also like the beach and boardwalk, where Taggarty is conducting an ongoing quest for the “cutest and dumbest” surfer. Trent has taken up windsurfing and has been designated “target number one” by all the girls in her class. Sheeni says she is trying not to be jealous, but sometimes experiences “twinges of distress.” She says Trent’s appearance on campus came as a “complete shock” to her. He maintains it was merely a “fortuitous coincidence” that they both happened to transfer to the same school. (What a liar!) Of course, notes Sheeni, with his test scores and academic record, Trent has his choice of any school in the country. She says dorm food is not as bad as one might fear, and they have a view of the ocean from their bathroom window if they stand on the toilet. All in all, she is happy and looks forward to “further growth in this rich, intellectual environment.”

Vijay sighed and folded the letter.

“Was that it?” I asked, startled. “Wasn’t there anything about me?”

“Oh, yes. She said ‘love to you and Albert.’ Who’s Albert?”

“Albert is our dog,” I replied testily. “That’s all?”

“I’m afraid so, my friend. That’s the complete translation as best I can do it. Oh, and she’s noted her address and the number for the telephone on their hall.”

“I don’t like the sound of this one bit,” I said.

“No,” agreed Vijay.

“Her roommate sounds like a decidedly bad influence.”

“Yes, Nick, she certainly seems remarkably uninhibited. She must be good-looking to be so attractive to boys. I wonder if she’s made it with a Hindu yet?”

“This won’t do at all. I’ve got to get Sheeni to transfer back to Redwood High,” I said, thinking out loud, “as quickly as possible. She and Taggarty could be dating surfers as we speak.”

“I wonder if Taggarty likes intelligent boys too?” speculated Vijay. “Of course, I could always pretend to be stupid.”

“Vijay, help me!” I insisted. “We’ve got to get Sheeni back to Ukiah.”

“You’re right, my friend. Sheeni may be happy down there, but this town is a desert without her. She must return for the general welfare.”

“We all have to make sacrifices,” I pointed out.

“That is the road to enlightenment, so the philosophers tell us,” he added.

“Sheeni,” I announced, “I have to do this. For your own good.”

“But what are you going to do?” asked Vijay.

“I don’t know exactly. I haven’t figured it out yet. But I’m desperate.”

“Whatever it is,” said Vijay, “let’s make sure it involves meeting this remarkable Taggarty. At least once.”

“I take it then, Vijay, you are still a virgin?”

“Yes, and I find it extremely galling. When Gandhi was my age, he had already been married three years.”

No wonder Gandhi turned out to be a great man. When you get your love life nailed down that early, think of all the time it frees up to devote to Great Ideas.

SUNDAY, October 7— 12:20
P.M
. Sheeni just called. Lacey and Dad were out taking Albert into the hills to pee on redwoods, so I was able to accept her collect call.

“Bon jour
, Nickie,” whispered The Woman of My Dreams.

“Hello, Sheeni darling,” I replied. “I can hardly hear you. Is something the matter?”

“I’m calling from the dorm, so I have to talk softly. We’re not supposed to speak English on campus, even on the phone.”

“I know. I tried calling you last night but you were out.”

“Yes. Taggarty and I went to a party.”

“Oh, I see. How was it?” I imagined dim rooms full of debauched surfers.

“It was fun. The people here are so interesting. Nickie, I want you to feel you are free to go out with other people. As Taggarty points out, we really are rather young to tie ourselves down. Especially with all the miles separating us.”

“I love you, Sheeni,” I replied. “I don’t want to go out with anyone else.”

“I feel the same way, Nickie. I just want you to know you are free to do as you wish.”

A generous sentiment, Sheeni, but one with an alarming corollary. “Well, darling, it may be un-American to say this, but I don’t want to be free. I’m perfectly happy being enslaved—to you.”

“How sweet,” whispered Sheeni. “Oh, did you get my letter?”

“Yes, darling. Your French was marvelous. Very clever.”

“You didn’t have any difficulty reading it then?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Blandage says I am a born linguist.”

Sheeni then spoke animatedly for several minutes in French. When she finished, I said, “Uh, darling, I guess my oral comprehension still lags somewhat behind my reading level. Could you repeat that in English?”

“I was just describing my classes, Nickie. How do you like Redwood High? Have you made any friends yet?”

“Just a few. You know Vijay Joshi?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a nice boy. Very cultured for Ukiah. Odd politics, though. He once invited me to a rally welcoming an aide to Dan Quayle. Vijay’s sister is quite beautiful. She’s been writing letters to Trent.”

“Does Trent write back?” I asked, shocked.

“Of course. I think he may be in love with her. The rat. Just kidding, Nickie. It’s all hopeless, though, since her father is so strict.”

I must meet this sister, thought François. We then talked for an additional one hour and fifteen minutes. Finally, my heart filled with love, my ear inflamed, I said goodbye and rang off. I can see I won’t be buying any mountain bikes soon. All my hard-earned wages will be going straight to AT&T.

4:20
P.M
. The familiar hiss of air brakes brought me to my window. A big semi had stopped outside and there was no mistaking the driver. It was Wally Rumpkin. The immense pink seven-footer was just climbing down from the cab as I walked out to greet him.

“Hi, Wally! What a surprise!”

“Oh, hi, Nick,” said Wally, shyly addressing a scraggly juniper by the edge of the drive. “I was hoping this was your street. I had an awful time finding it.”

A black blur darted between my legs and leaped—all wiggles and lapping tongue—into Wally’s surprised arms.

“Doggie, please don’t do that,” said Wally, gently returning the squirming Albert to the ground. “I’m making a run to Tacoma, Nick. So I brought you your bicycle.”

“That’s great, Wally. Thanks!”

Wally opened the great swinging doors of his rig and carefully lifted down my old Warthog ten-speed (a $5 garage sale purchase presented to me on my eighth birthday by my loving dad).

“You’re a lifesaver, Wally. Boy, can I use this. I’ve been walking 12 miles a day.”

“No trouble, Nick,” replied Wally to the concrete plant in the distance. “It was on my way. And it gave me a chance to see your mother.”

“Oh, her. How is she?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid. She’s engaged to be married.”

“Engaged! Not to that fascist cop, I hope.”

“I’m afraid so. They’re going to Reno next Saturday.”

In less than one week I will have an evil stepfather. And I wasn’t even consulted.

“That’s terrible, Wally. Couldn’t you talk her out of it?”