Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (47 page)

“It was an Indian cabdriver from San Jose!”

I felt a disturbing quiver at the base of my scrotum. “Uh, Mom. What did he say?”

“Oh, he denied it, of course. But there was my TV and VCR, right in his apartment.”

“Is, is he in jail?”

“Oh, no. They deported him immediately.”

“They deported him?” I asked, fighting panic.

“Yep. Sent his entire family back, in fact. Serves them right too. They were all in this country on expired tourist visas. Can you imagine the gall?
Fortunately, the DMV had his fingerprints on file from his chauffeur’s license.”

“Then I guess the case is closed, huh?” I said, trying to look on the positive side.

“Oh no,” she replied, “Lance is still checking some other suspicious prints. He thinks there was more than one crook in the gang. Nickie, how’s everything up there? Is your father still miserable?”

“I think so. Probably. Mom, I meant to ask you. Are you paying Dad child support for me?”

“Of course, Nickie. Four hundred dollars a month. It’s all I can afford right now with Lance Junior on the way.”

Four hundred dollars a month! Dad must be netting at least three hundred dollars of pure profit on me. That’s nearly four grand a year.

“Mom,” I said affectionately, “could you possibly make the check payable to me instead of to Dad?”

“Nickie, don’t be silly. I can’t do that. Why? Is your father being his usual miserly self?”

“Boy, is he ever,” I said.

“Nickie, the arson inspectors haven’t come snooping around for a while. It’s probably safe for you to come back home now. How about it? Don’t you want to be here when your baby brother is born?”

“I’d love to, Mom,” I lied. “But I can’t leave my classes. I’m studying hard, you know.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “And what sports teams are you going out for?”

“None, Mom,” I replied. “I’ve decided to go straight from the sandlot into the American League.”

“Watch your smart mouth,” she replied.

I’ve heard that line before.

After hanging up the phone, I penned this brief note and handed it silently to D——e:

With much head scratching and lip mumbling, D——e struggled through the note, then said simply, “No way.”

Furious, I scribbled another note and thrust it at him.

The illiterate lump plodded through this missive and announced, “I don’t care what you say, Nick. I ain’t goin’ out there an’ freeze my balls off. You wanta be a stuck-up snob, you go out an’ live in the camper!”

Seething with volcanic rage, I turned to go, then paused as Dad shuffled out of his bedroom. His hair was uncombed, his beard unshaven, and his left eye unopened. All the colors of the rainbow (but with the more ghastly purple hues predominating), it was swollen completely shut.

“Dad,” I said, “is it OK if I go live in the Crampton’s trailer?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you do,” he replied.

This I interpreted as an assent. “Dad,” I continued, “what happened to your eye?”

“None of your fucking goddam business,” he answered.

Dad’s not talking. Probably he learned the hard way that the bimbettes in the boonies can play rough. Good thing for him she wasn’t packing a firearm.

4:30
P.M
. I am writing this within a tiny birch-walled cocoon—my new bedroom on wheels. To my surprise, Mrs. Crampton offered not the slightest objection when I proposed moving into her trailer. Perhaps she was still disturbed by the nasty bedroom nudity she observed this morning. She gave her consent eagerly and even found an old electric heater to stave off frostbite. We have plugged the trailer cord into an outlet by the back door. I can turn on the heater and my computer, but the addition of a lamp on the line trips the circuit breaker. Thus, I have a choice: I can write in the warm darkness or the frigid light. Perhaps I’ll experiment to see which has the most salubrious effect on my prose.

Trailer life is not as bad as I expected. I have set up my computer on the dinette in the front. I have a little propane stove for preparing tea, a tiny sink for brushing my teeth, a fair-sized closet for my modest wardrobe, two musty drawers for my underwear, a double bed across the aft in case Sheeni should happen to drop by, and—best of all—a stout lock on the door. No toilet,
though. I have procured a large glass bottle as a substitute. The label says “apple cider,” so I can leave it out in public view without embarrassment.

Fuzzy dropped by with some hot gossip as I was putting away the last of my things.

“Hey, this is kinda cool,” he observed, ducking his head to come through the Hobbit-sized door.

“Yes, I’ve decided to think of it as my first efficiency apartment,” I replied. “I’m pretending it’s an artist’s garret in North Beach. Have a seat, Frank.”

“Say, how does your dad look?” asked Fuzzy.

“Like he forgot to duck,” I replied. “How did you know?”

“I heard all about it,” said Fuzzy. “From Uncle Polly. He was there.”

“Where?”

“The Burl Pit—that’s a bar out on Old Redwood Highway. Your dad got decked by one of the musicians.”

“Paul?” I asked excitedly.

“Sounds like it,” confirmed Fuzzy. “Some chick was biting on his ear too. It might have been Lacey. Uncle Polly said she was built like a brick Space Shuttle.”

“That’s Lacey all right,” I agreed. So that’s why Dad’s been walking around with his hand over his ear. I thought he was thinking about going into radio announcing.

I told Fuzzy about the news from Oakland this morning.

“Wow, they deported him,” he said. “That’s bad. I hear those guys keep grudges for a long time. Do you think he’ll try to sneak back across the border to find us?”

“Maybe. But he doesn’t have much to go on. That’s not what’s worrying me. Frank, have you ever been fingerprinted?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “They took some prints of my baby toes in the hospital when I was born, though.”

“That’s OK,” I said. “As I recall, you weren’t opening my mom’s refrigerator with your feet. Has Vijay ever been fingerprinted?”

“I don’t know,” said Fuzzy. “Let’s go call him.”

Dad and Mr. Ferguson, looking like recent hospice admittees, were watching a football game in the living room. I led Fuzzy past them into Dad’s bedroom and dialed Vijay’s number. After a half dozen rings, Mr. Joshi answered, sounding annoyed.

“Hi, Mr. Joshi,” I said. “Is Vijay there?”

“Young man, what is this I hear about your making advances towards my daughter in the public library?”

“Uh, beg your pardon?”

“You were seen kissing Apurva most licentiously. Is that not so?”

“Apurva?”

“Yes, my daughter. Don’t try to deny it. After I received you into my home too. But I am not surprised. Boys like you have no respect. Well, you will never associate with my children again.”

“I won’t?”

“I have instructed them not to talk to you. Ever again. Now, I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye!”

“Wait, Mr. Joshi. Can I ask one thing?”

“Well, what is it?” he demanded.

“Has Vijay ever been fingerprinted?”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “Except, of course, for his green card application. Now goodbye!”
Click
.

“Bad news?” asked Fuzzy.

“The pits,” I replied wearily. “Apurva’s now officially off-limits and Vijay may have to apply for a parole before he can enroll at Stanford.”

“Should we tell him?” asked Fuzzy.

“Better not,” I replied. “We don’t want him to panic and do something stupid like confess.”

10:30
P.M
. As I was preparing for bed, I was startled to hear a rustling noise outside the trailer. Quickly switching off the lamp, I peered out through the tiny porthole over the bed. Peering in through the same round window was a hideous, moonlit apparition—Dwayne.

Yanking the tattered curtains closed, I screamed “Peeping Tom!” at the top of my lungs.

This brought a muffled curse, followed by rapidly retreating footsteps.

I must borrow a tactic from the Vietcong and booby-trap my perimeter. I wonder where one obtains stalks of razor-sharp bamboo?

MONDAY, November 5
— Another restless night. The trailer mattress turned out to be profoundly lumpy and smelled heavily of Eau de Dwayne. I must measure to see if the mattress in my bedroom will fit. All the windows sweat from the damp night air, and—even with the anemic heater going full blast—the floor is as chilly as a grave in the morning. I also have reason to believe I am not entirely alone. When I opened my underwear drawer this morning, I found two fresh mouse turds and a newly chewed hole in my best argyles.

But all of this, diary, is just beating around the bush. Yes, disaster has struck again. My eye-blackened, ear-gnawed, mind-addled father has suffered another career setback.

HE’S BEEN CANNED!

Miss Pliny, while fact-checking Dad’s Oregon article, came across a listing for a similar report in an obscure Canadian forestry journal. Miraculously retrieving the office copy from the files, she discovered that the pages in question had been mysteriously excised. Smelling a rat, she called the editors in Vancouver and had a duplicate copy faxed immediately. Evidence to sustain a judgment of plagiarism was overwhelming. Except for the misspellings in Dad’s version, the two articles coincided word for word.

By the time I got to work after school, Dad was gone—already history. His messy desk had been cleaned out, his framed portrait of Ernest Hemingway had been taken away, his neatly stenciled name on the assistant editor’s parking space had been spray-painted over. All that remained was a heavy atmosphere of lingering outrage and ill-concealed censure.

Quickly I developed a serious case of guilt by association. This must be what is meant by the saying the sins of the fathers are visited upon the sons.

“Shall I resign too?” I meekly asked Mr. Preston.

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied coldly. “But why did you mislead us by saying your father was in Oregon?”

“He told me to,” I answered.

“The plagiarism was bad enough,” my employer continued reproachfully, “but the phony expense report was larceny, pure and simple.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, studying my shoes.

I spent the rest of the afternoon lying low in the deepest thicket of filing cabinets. Mr. Preston is right—the files are a mess.

All of this followed a more than usually stressful day at Redwood High. Vijay, being nobody’s fool, demanded at once to know what “this fingerprinting business” was about.

“Why do you fellows care if I’ve ever been fingerprinted?” he asked Fuzzy suspiciously.

“Yes, Nick. Why do we care?” said Fuzzy, handing the ball off to me.

“Well, er, I just thought maybe we should start wearing rubber gloves when we mark up the rest rooms. You know—in case the cops try to take some prints off the walls.”

“Nick, that is pure paranoia,” replied Vijay. “The authorities are not likely to call in master detectives on a case of misdemeanor rest-room vandalism. Besides, there must be 10,000 sets of fingerprints on those walls.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “Say, who snitched on Apurva and me to your dad?”

“Who knows?” replied Vijay. “I told you that was high-risk strategy. My sister was crying for hours last night.”

How flattering!

“Vijay, you can tell Apurva that I’ll miss her too,” I said.

He looked at me quizzically. “She wasn’t lamenting a separation from you, Nick. She was crying over that dog you keep for her. Father says she can’t visit it either.”

“Oh,” I replied. “That’s … too bad.”

“Yes,” continued Vijay, “and, of course, I dare not be seen with you. We must be discreet until such time as Father calms down or Apurva is married off. Fuzzy, you’ll have to serve as our go-between outside of school.”

“Right,” said Fuzzy

9:40
P.M
. Damn, wouldn’t you know it? My bedroom mattress is four inches too long to fit in Little Caesar. For the foreseeable future, I shall know only lumpy, malodorous rest. I suppose I should be grateful. In a few months I may be sleeping on a urine-stained cot in a homeless shelter.

When I arrived home, my jobless father was deep into his second zin bottle.

“Where were you?” he demanded.

“At work,” I replied. “Some of us have jobs.”

“I don’t want you going back there,” he slurred. “You tell those bastards you quit.”

“But, Dad, what’ll I do for money?”

“There are other jobs in this town. I’ll show them. They can’t push us Twisps around. Anyway, I’m suing that asshole.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For costing me the use of my hand!” he replied, deftly employing his injured limb to pour another tall tumbler of zin. Dad better pray Mr. Preston’s attorneys never plant a video camera in his wine cabinet.

In the kitchen, Mr. Ferguson and D——e were shelling nuts for Mrs. Crampton’s famous Bliss Despite Unemployment Pecan Pie.

“Sorry about your dad,” croaked Mr. Ferguson wanly.

“He sure can booze it up,” commented D——e.

“At least he’s not in jail for attempted homicide,” François said, addressing the refrigerator. “Something I hope no one at school finds out.”

D——e swallowed nervously. “If they do, I got some secrets to blab too.”

I have counted my wad: $28.12 in cash and $13.63 in the bank. One more measly paycheck and then I am tossed, overeducated and underskilled, onto the rusty barbed wire of the teen job market. I wish now I had not been quite so precipitous in sending that generous check to Sheeni. Damn, too late to stop payment on it. She’s probably already converted my hard-earned dollars
into cosmetics to make herself even more compellingly attractive to other men.