Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (34 page)

“Oh, of course,” I lied. “It’s all instinctual behavior. We’re animals after all.”

“I fear it could be terribly addicting,” added Vijay. “This night has ignited in me a lust of disturbing insatiability.”

“Me too,” confessed Fuzzy. “So Taggarty put out?”

“Most enthusiastically. We were approaching the consummation of the act when the authorities broke in. I may in fact have passed beyond the portals. It was very difficult to tell with that damn condom. Nick, why do you buy such thick ones?”

“Sheeni insists on it,” I replied. “That brand was top-rated by
Consumer Reports.”

“Well, she’s safe,” he exclaimed. “No organisms could penetrate those stout walls.”

“What do you think they’ll do with the girls?” asked Fuzzy.

“Notify their parents, I should think,” said Vijay. “Perhaps even expel them.”

EXPEL THEM! OF COURSE! IT’S ALL GOING TO TURN OUT FOR THE GOOD! SHEENI’S REACTIONARY PARENTS ARE CERTAIN TO BE OUTRAGED AND DEMAND HER RETURN. THANK YOU, BERNICE, YOU SWEET ANGEL OF THE LAVATORY!

Only now I wish I’d had the guts to climb into Sheeni’s bed. Surely being discovered
flagrante delicto
is inextenuatory grounds for expulsion.

I just remembered. I forgot my copy of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” More disappointments for Mr. Preston from the Twisp family.

10:30
A.M
. (hitchhiking somewhere in San Jose). We ran out of gas on the freeway! After barely traveling 50 miles.

“This is impossible!” screamed Fuzzy, staring in disbelief at the gauge as we coasted to the shoulder. “We had a full tank!”

“Well,” said Vijay, “either there’s a leak somewhere or some wretched dacoit siphoned out our petrol last night. Does this car have a locking cap?”

“Are you kidding?” replied Fuzzy. “They didn’t have crime back in 1965. Fuck! Now what’ll we do, guys?”

We sat in silence, looking out at the cars whizzing by in the cold gray rain.

“Well,” I said, “we can’t stay in the car. Sooner or later the Highway Patrol will stop and want to see Fuzzy’s driver’s license.”

“But what’ll we do?” protested Fuzzy. “We don’t have any money!”

“I don’t have any shoes!” objected Vijay.

“We haven’t had breakfast!” lamented Fuzzy.

“I don’t have a jacket!” complained Vijay.

“I can’t leave my grandmother’s car!” whined Fuzzy.

“I’ll catch pneumonia!” puled Vijay. “And die an indeterminate proto-quasi-virgin!”

“We’ll all go to prison for car theft!” simpered Fuzzy.

“Exactly,” I said, trying to remain calm. “That’s why we have to ditch this car right now. We’ll hitch as far as Oakland and I’ll get some money in my mom’s house. Then we’ll take the bus to Ukiah. With any luck we’ll get there tonight and nobody’ll be any the wiser.”

“But what about the car!” wailed Fuzzy.

“The cops’ll find it and trace it on the computer. They’ll get it back to your grandmother. Don’t worry.”

“But they’ll know it was us!” whimpered Fuzzy, starting to cry.

“Not necessarily,” said Vijay, thinking out loud. “We’ll wipe down our fingerprints and leave them a red herring.”

“What’s that?” asked Fuzzy.

“Your jacket,” replied Vijay.

“My jacket?” he gulped.

“OK, Fuzzy.” I said. “’Fess up. Whose is it?”

Fuzzy clutched the jacket to his bare but furry chest. “Mine!”

“Well, my friend,” said Vijay, “I have not been in your country very long. But one thing I am certain of: they do not award varsity letter jackets to the assistant manager of football teams.”

“At least not on his first day,” I agreed. “OK, Fuzzy. Spill it.”

Slowly, Fuzzy opened his right lapel. Vijay read the name inscribed above the breast pocket. “Bruno Modjaleski. I might have known.”

Bruno arrested for car theft! More than I ever dared hope for!

“Where did you get that jacket?” demanded Vijay.

“Bruno left it on the bus after Friday’s game,” sniffed Fuzzy indignantly. “I guess he was bummed we got creamed again. So I picked it up to bring to him on Monday. That’s part of my job as assistant manager.”

“I see,” replied Vijay. “And I suppose it is also your job to wear it all weekend for purposes of wooing impressionable young women.”

“Well, that’s what letter jackets are for!” retorted Fuzzy.

He had a point there. Vijay was unpersuaded. “I’m sorry, Fuzzy, but you’ll have to leave behind your emblem of athletic glory. We must employ it to divert the suspicions of the police.”

“Vijay, you just want me to take off my jacket so I can freeze in the rain like you,” protested Fuzzy.

“Don’t complain,” Vijay replied. “At least you’ve got shoes!”

Five minutes later, rubberneckers slowed, but no Good Samaritans stopped, as three half-naked youths, wrapped in one wet sleeping bag, trooped up the freeway off-ramp into soggy, gray San Jose.

11:45 A.M. Too cold, wet, and hungry to write much. No luck hitchhiking. Vijay is afraid we look too much like the homeless.

Fuzzy and I are all for swiping another car, but Vijay is adamantly opposed.

“Too dangerous,” he objected. “That’s a felony, you know. With an automobile theft conviction on my record, I’d never win admission to Stanford University. Besides, you boys are citizens. The authorities might deport me. I dare not risk that disgrace to my family. And think what such an ignominy would do to my marriage prospects.”

“But we already stole one car,” I pointed out. “What is your future bride going to say about that?”

“She is going to remain entirely ignorant of all my misdeeds, both criminal and carnal,” he replied. “That is the duty of a good Indian husband.”

“Couldn’t we call some of your big-shot Republican buddies or the Indian Consulate?” suggested Fuzzy.

“I don’t think so,” replied Vijay. “But you just gave me an idea.”

1:15 P.M. (on the road to Oakland). We’re taking a taxi. We dredged up 35 cents and Vijay called the Khalja Cab Company. Our driver is a big Sikh fellow wearing a real turban. Vijay told him in Hindi that we were waylaid by bandits and promised, if he drove us to Oakland, that my wealthy parents would give him a big reward. The driver was suspicious, but Vijay’s affluent accent and condescending manner finally persuaded him there could be some tall rupees waiting in Oakland. I just hope Mom left some money in the house.
The meter has already clicked past $80 and I seem to remember from somewhere that these guys all carry knives.

2:30
P.M
. Home in Oakland. I never imagined its dreary walls could ever look so welcome. An exhaustive search failed to turn up any money, so I had to offer the driver Mom’s TV. He said it was old and insisted on taking the VCR too. Looks like Lance will have another burglary to investigate when he returns from his honeymoon. Fortunately, Mom lives in one of the crime capitals of America, so her dim new hubby-cop is unlikely to suspect an inside job. I have also taken the precaution of breaking a window on the back porch.

After everyone took prolonged hot showers to warm up, we scrounged up some clothes, then raided the kitchen. The pickings were meager all around. My companions were reduced to borrowing assorted parts of Lance’s police uniforms. Since Lance’s shoes were too big, Vijay borrowed a pair of my mother’s. To his consternation, the only pair that fit were her most elevated red spike heels. His walk is precarious, but he appreciates the extra stature. “Look, fellows!” he called, tottering out of her bedroom. “I’m six feet tall!”

5:15
P.M
. (on the road to Ukiah). Mom’s left-wing, pinko, Fidel-loving neighbor, Mr. Ferguson, couldn’t loan us the bus fare (his Social Security check was delayed by Republican red tape), but he offered to drive us in his old Toyota (hand-painted May Day red).

I explained that Fuzzy and I were smuggling a young illegal immigrant, fleeing political oppression on the subcontinent, to a sanctuary in Mendocino County. Ever compassionate toward the downtrodden, Mr. Ferguson agreed to help, and also promised not to divulge to anyone our presence in the neighborhood today—not even to Mom or persons purporting to be her husband.

8:10
P.M
. Back in Ukiah at last. We dropped Vijay off first.

“What explanation shall I offer my parents concerning my clothes?” he whispered.

“Say you’ve been invited to join a fraternity at school,” I replied. “Tell them the clothes are part of an initiation ritual. They won’t mind. Parents love to think their kids are at the center of the social vortex.”

We drove on to Fuzzy’s house, and as he got out of the car, I said, “Oh, Fuzzy, I meant to ask you. What was that scream we heard last night from your room?”

“That was Heather. She was helping me off with my shirt and I guess something scared her.”

“Maybe it was your muscles.”

“Probably so,” he replied. “I’ve been working out a lot lately.”

10:45 P.M. Since Mr. Ferguson looked tired from the long drive, I invited
him to spend the night. It was the least I could do. And I figured it would give Dad a chance to reciprocate for all the nights he spent on Mr. Ferguson’s couch before he and Mom finally tossed in the towel.

“Hi, Dad,” I said. “Guess what? I ran into Mr. Ferguson downtown. Is it OK if he spends the night?”

“Hello, George,” beamed Mr. Ferguson, holding out his hand. “Long time no see.”

Dad, looking dazed, did not shake hands. His right hand, I noticed, was bandaged in gauze. “Oh, hello, Judd. This is a surprise. Well, uh, let’s see… I suppose we might be able to put you up.”

“What happened to your paw, George?” asked Mr. Ferguson.

“Ran my thumb through a band saw, Judd,” Dad declared proudly. “Almost sliced it clear off. The wound required 38 stitches to close.”

“That so,” Mr. Ferguson exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were interested in carpentry, George.”

“I’m not,” Dad replied. “And if I didn’t work for the son of a bitch responsible, I’d sue the bastard for my injuries.”

Uh-oh, sounds like
Progressive Plywood’s
new filing cabinet may be slightly delayed.

Famished, I raided the refrigerator while they worked out the accommodations. By shifting the reluctant Lacey back into Dad’s bed, they were able to free up the living-room sofa for our guest.

11:30 P.M. With everyone snoring peacefully, I sneaked into the kitchen and dialed Sheeni long-distance. It was answered in French, but I recognized the shrill, overcultured voice.

“Taggarty, this is Nick. Is Sheeni there?”

“Nickie, darling. How nice to hear from you. Sorry about that unpleasant scene last night. Bernice can be so tiresome. No one likes her, you know. Did you get home OK? How’s Vijay? When you see him, can you ask him to send me a wallet-size photo? Now, it must be wallet-size, I’m firm on that. Could you do that, Nickie, please?”

“Yes, Taggarty. I will. Now, can I speak to Sheeni?”

“Certainly, Nickie. She’s right here.”

“Hello, darling,” Sheeni whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, darling. We had a bit of car trouble on the way. But we made it back finally. Have you all been expelled?” I asked hopefully.

“Of course not, darling. The matron likes to bluster, but that’s just her character. She’s so delightfully French. We told her it was all very innocent, so she’s agreed not to inform the dean.”

“But Vijay was naked. And so was Fuzzy.”

“Were they, darling? Oh, it was dark. I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“Are you kidding? The matron had her flashlight trained on Vijay’s condom-equipped boner. I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Well, perhaps she doesn’t see quite as well as you do, Nickie. Anyway, I think she’s rather given up defending Taggarty’s virtue. The last time she called Taggarty’s parents about a similar incident, they laughed at her.”

“You mean she didn’t call your parents?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, thank God. I’m sure they’d be hysterical. It’s a good thing we weren’t doing anything but sleeping when the matron broke in.”

“I’ve been meaning to complain about that, Sheeni. I go to all the trouble of stealing a car and driving 200 miles, just to have a totally celibate night while everyone else is going at it like crazed rabbits. Is that fair?”

“Well, you should have given me some notice, Nickie. We could have found another room for Taggarty and been alone together. Remember, darling, I’m just as frustrated as you are.”

I doubt that.

Sheeni continued, “And you shouldn’t have stolen that car. Or blabbed so much to Bernice.”

“How was I to know she was the Mata Hari of the third floor? Why does she hate you so much?”

“I really have no idea, Nickie. I’ve made an effort to be nice to her. She thinks there’s a conspiracy to exclude her from our activities. But it’s just her rude unpleasantness that puts everyone off.”

“What’s her last name?” I asked.

“A rather grim one: Lynch. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just curious. Well, darling, it was great seeing you.”

“Oh, Nickie, I’m so happy you came down. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

Bernice Lynch, hmm. Yes, I think she will do nicely.

MONDAY, October 15 — 2:15
P.M
. I decided to stay home and finish transcribing my journal into the computer. What a lot of tedious typing. I’ll be glad when I’m a prominent author and can hire Miss Pliny to do all my irksome secretarial tasks.

I also wrote this letter to my new friend in Santa Cruz: