Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (42 page)

“Did Sheeni hear about it?” I asked.

“She did, unless she’s deaf. Is it true, Nick?”

“It’s more strategy, Bernice. We’re conducting this campaign on two fronts. How did Trent look?”

“Like he wanted to strangle his grapefruit. So, Nick, you don’t really like that girl?”

“Of course not, Bernice. You know who I like.” “Do you really, Nick honey?”

“You know it, baby,” said François, stifling a shudder.

As I was leaving for work, Paul—looking somewhat drained—shuffled into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Paul. I enjoyed your trumpet playing.”

“Was it acrobatic enough for you?” he asked.

I reddened. What exactly did he mean by that?

Mr. Ferguson must be jealous too. He didn’t even offer to shake hands when Paul introduced himself. Perhaps he just didn’t want to get out of his chair. He’s been moving rather slowly lately. Someone snipped the elastic in his truss.

When I arrived home from work, Paul was giving Lacey a foot massage on the couch. Mr. Ferguson was prone on the floor, studying patterns in the shag.

“We saved you some mushrooms,” said Lacey dreamily. “Don’t tell your father.”

“They’re powerful,” said Paul, handing me a small plastic bag. “Only take two.”

I swallowed two of the dry brown pellets and then the reckless François gobbled two more. We both shuddered from the vile bitterness. I waited five minutes. Nothing. Waited ten more minutes. Reality clutched defiantly at my mind. Just my luck, I’m immune to psychedelics. I suppose I shall have to experience mind-expanding hallucinations the old-fashioned way—by abusing strong liquor.

I went into my bedroom and noticed for the first time how much my chenille bedspread resembled a medieval tapestry. Every shimmering thread stood out for singular contemplation. Yet, at the same time, I could admire the totality of the weave—while noting every gradation of hue and texture. In a matter of minutes, my aesthetic had accelerated light-years beyond even Mr. Rogavere’s. I sat on my bed and examined the hairs on my arm. They formed calligraphic patterns more exquisite than any Chinese brush painting. Aldous Huxley was right. Beyond the narrow doors of perception lies a realm of wide-screen, big-budget Technicolor spectacles. All that was lacking was Victor Mature in a toga lashed to a marble column.

Hours went by yet the sun refused to set. I strolled into the living room and greeted my precious friends. Kind Lacey generously permitted me to massage her other foot. I rolled her soft pink toes through my fingers like round warm grapes. Each nail was a transparent window on a fascinating three-dimensional universe. A profound revelation came to me: cavemen had no need for television. They must have sat around their primeval campfires and watched the programming in their toes.

I jumped when a carillon rang nearby.

“Nick, get the phone,” said Lacey sweetly.

I picked up the sinuously organic sculpture we debase by calling a telephone. “Hello,” I whispered.

“Nick, is that you?” spoke a familiar voice.

“I am Nick Twisp,” I said. “I am alive. I am a breathing organism.”

“Quit fooling around, Nick. This is your dad. Is everything OK there?”

I heard deep pangs of fear in the voice. “Don’t be afraid, Dad,” I said. “Everything will be all right. You deserve to be loved.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is Lacey there?”

“Lacey is here. Paul is caressing her toes.”

“Paul! Who the hell is Paul?”

“Paul is our friend. He makes beautiful music for the acrobats. They’re naked.”

“Who’s naked? Is Lacey naked?”

I didn’t want to talk to this voice about the acrobats. “Don’t be afraid, Dad. Goodbye.” I hung up and pulled out the cord.

“Dad is afraid,” I said.

“He is on the wrong path,” said Mr. Ferguson from the floor. “I have felt that for some time.”

I want to talk to Sheeni, I thought. I want to touch her. I want to enter her mind and body and find her living soul. I knew with absolute certainly I had never wanted anything so strongly in my life.

SUNDAY, October 28
— A car pulled into the driveway at 3:27 A.M. by the clock. I woke with the mother of all headaches and listened as heavy footsteps approached. No, I could not state with absolute certainty that the front door was locked. Nor did I feel like getting up to secure the bolt. Shoot me in my bed if you must, I thought, at least it will put a merciless end to the hammering in my head.

I heard a key turn in the lock and the door swing open.

“Lacey!” bellowed a voice. It was Dad, returning prematurely from his hegira to the north.

“Nick!” he yodeled into the black night. “What the fuck is going on?”

Three identically pitched dog howls rose from the crawl space below.

I must say Sheeni’s brother conducted himself with admirable nonchalance during the ensuing chaos. Paul did not throw on his pants and try to flee out the bedroom window. He got out of bed, slipped on his underwear, and sauntered into the living room to keep Dad at bay while Lacey packed.

As Dad foamed and ranted, Paul suggested in soothing monotones that he think about calming down before the neighbors called the sheriff. He only had to hit my father once, when Dad made a misguided lunge for Lacey as she was retrieving her aerobics tape from the VCR. Paul landed a crisp right to the jaw, dropping Dad like a stone. When he came to, Dad had lost most of his fighting spirit. He let Mr. Ferguson pour him a brandy and pretended to regain his reason.

“Of course you realize you are in serious trouble,” said Dad, rubbing his jaw. “Mr. Ferguson is my witness that you assaulted me. And I know for a fact that you two were having naked orgies here involving my son. That child is only 12 years old!”

“I’m 14, Dad,” I pointed out.

“Shut up,” he replied. “That boy is an underaged minor. I am going to have you arrested and charged with child molesting.”

“Don’t be an idiot, George,” said Lacey, carrying her suitcase out of the bedroom. “No one was naked and no one was molesting anyone. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ferguson?”

“That’s right, George,” he replied. “I’m surprised you could think such a thing of Lacey.”

“When you get out of prison you will both have to register as sex offenders,” Dad continued, undeterred by the facts. “You will never be able to get decent jobs again.”

“I’ve never had a decent job,” remarked Paul. “I don’t think I’d want one.”

“Let’s go, Paul,” said Lacey, pulling on her coat. “George, I’ll pick up the rest of my things tomorrow.”

“Not until you pay me all the rent money you owe,” retorted Dad.

Lacey looked like her headache was approaching the same acute pain stage as mine. “I paid you all your money!” she screamed.

“Not the extra charges,” replied Dad.

Lacey bent forward until her beautiful face was one inch from Dad’s bloated one. “Fuck …your… stinking …extra … charges,” she hissed.

“Using bad language in front of a minor,” said Dad happily. “The judge will hear about that too.”

“Dad, shouldn’t you be up in Oregon?” I asked.

“Shut your goddam fucking face,” he bellowed.

Probably sage counsel under the circumstances. I took four aspirin and went back to bed.

10:30
A.M
. When I dragged my post-hallucinogenic carcass out of bed about an hour ago, my headache was better, but the doors of perception had swung firmly closed. Time ticked by at its normal pace, my bedspread had lost its aesthetic fascination, and unalloyed reality was loitering about in its dingiest housedress.

Dad was snoring noisily in his reclaimed bedroom; Mr. Ferguson had left for early-morning picketing duty. I made a cup of coffee and plugged in the phone. It rang immediately.

“Nickie, is that you?”

It was my future twice-divorced mother.

“Yes, Mom. Don’t you recognize my voice after 14 years?”

“No, I don’t. You’re beginning to sound just like your father. Nick, why haven’t your fingerprints arrived? Lance is livid.”

“You know the Postal Service, Mom. I mailed them nearly a week ago,” I lied.

“You should have sent them airmail special delivery. Lance thinks you’re being deliberately disobedient. And how are things up there with you?”

“OK,” I replied. “Dad broke up with his girlfriend.”

“He did!” exclaimed Mom. “That’s marvelous. Is he taking it badly?”

“Oh, I guess so.”

“That’s wonderful! Did she ditch him for another guy?”

“You might say that.”

“Fantastic! So he’s getting a taste of his own medicine. It’s about time. I hope he suffers, the heel. Nickie, you’ve made my day.”

“Glad to oblige, Mom.”

“Nickie, guess what? I’m beginning to show!”

“Show what?” I asked. Mom had always favored shockingly low necklines and appallingly high hemlines. What was left to bare?

“The baby is beginning to show,” she explained. “I’ll be in maternity clothes soon.”

“That’s nice, Mom,” I said. “I guess.” I tried not to imagine her in a low-cut, miniskirted maternity frock.

“You’re going to have a little brother,” she bubbled. “Did I tell you I had amniocentesis? We found out it’s a boy and everything’s fine. Isn’t that exciting?”

“I’m excited, Mom.”

“Guess what we’re going to name him?”

“John Wilkes Booth,” I suggested.

“No, silly. We’re going to call him Lance Junior!”

“Great, Mom. You’ve made my day too.”

When I finally hung up, the phone rang promptly again.

“Nick honey, it’s Bernice. I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Someone unplugged our phone,” I replied. “What’s up, Bernice?”

“Plenty. Sheeni and Ed were arrested at a fried clams stand on Cannery Row. The cops made both of them call their parents!”

“That’s great! Where are they now? In jail?”

“No, Dean Wilson had to get out of bed last night and drive down to Monterey to pick them up. Boy, was he furious. I got some bad news, though, Nick. Dean Wilson recognized Taggarty’s Impulse. He made the cops drop the car-theft charges.”

“What about driving without a license?” I asked indignantly.

“Oh, Ed’s still in big trouble for that,” she replied.

“I should hope so. Is he going to be expelled?”

“Maybe. Dean Wilson was totally pissed. He was even yelling in English.”

“What about Sheeni?” I asked. “Her parents must have been shocked. Are they going to make her leave school?”

“I don’t know, Nick honey. I’m trying to find out, but I have to be, you know, subtle about it.”

“I understand,” I assured her. “What facts have you discovered?”

“Well, Taggarty was on the phone a long time this morning with her parents.”

“Taggarty! She’s supposed to be in dreamland!”

“I know, Nick. But you said to skip a pill if I saw her taking some herbs. So I did.”

More interference from Taggarty. Maybe Bernice is right. Maybe we should just snuff her.

“OK, Bernice. You’re doing fine. Could you leave a message in Sheeni’s box? Tell her Nick Twisp phoned and wants her to call him collect.”

“OK, Nick honey. I’m sorry about Taggarty. I’ll put her back to sleep tonight at dinner.”

“Thanks, Bernice. I know I can trust you.”

“We’re a team, Nick honey.”

1:30 P.M. No call from Sheeni. Dad got out of bed at noon and has been stumbling around slamming doors ever since. He’s not speaking to me. I don’t know if it’s because he is acutely embarrassed by his behavior last night or blames me somehow for Lacey’s defection. I suppose it’s too much to hope for rational conduct from a balding, middle-aged failure who may be facing years of gnawing celibacy.

Dwayne just dropped by in a fat fit of excitement. His mother has yielded to unceasing supplication and agreed to let him keep Kamu the Wonder Dog. But she obstinately refuses to release any hoarded college funds. Unfortunately, even Dwayne could see I was not negotiating from a position of strength.

“I’m doin’ you a favor takin’ that dog,” he pointed out. “Your dad don’t want three dogs around. My mom said so.”

“Yes, but I can keep one dog and Kamu happens to be my particular favorite. If you can’t pay, you’ll just have to take Albert.”

Dwayne’s chin began to quiver. “I don’t want Albert. I want Kamu.”

“Well I suppose I could arrange an installment purchase plan. How much can you afford every week?”

“Only 15 cents. I got ’spenses. I got to buy dog food. Mom said so.”

“Fifteen cents!” I wondered if the young Howard Hughes would have turned his back on this deal. Well, I suppose it was better than nothing. “OK, Dwayne. Fifteen cents it is. But you better pay promptly. And you have to come over and walk the other two dogs too.”

“But, Nick, I can’t ’fford it!” he complained.

“OK, I’ll let you walk them for free.”

“Gee, Nick. You’re a great pal. Can I take Kamu now? Huh? Huh?”

“Take him,” I said generously. “Be my guest!”

3:30
P.M
. Still no call from Sheeni. Paul and I just tied the last of Lacey’s belongings to the roof of her Toyota. Dad saw the happy lovers pull into the driveway and ducked into the bathroom, pretending to take a bath. Jealousy, avarice, and cowardice must have battled for supremacy over his emotions. Not surprisingly, cowardice won.

Lacey gave me a big hug before she left. “Let’s not be strangers, Nick. Stop by and see me at the salon.”

“I will,” I said. I wanted another double-breasted hug, but she had already squeezed into her overladen car.

Miraculously, Paul managed to insert himself beside her. “You’re fishing for trouble, Nick,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I inquired innocently.

“Fried clams,” was his only reply.

5:15
P.M
. Apurva just went home crying.

There has been a nasty dog mix-up. This was revealed when Apurva stopped by unexpectedly with some vegetarian biscuits for her pet. “But where is Jean-Paul?” she asked, alarmed.

I pointed to the two canines autographing the left and right front tires of her father’s Reliant. “Take your pick,” I said.

“But these are not Jean-Paul!” she exclaimed, starting to panic. “What have you done with my dog!”